pairing: bradley bradshaw x fem!reader
summary: you’ve always been the anywhere-but-here girl, so nobody expects you to move back home to north island. what you’re not ready for is your childhood friend bradley, who slips back into your life so easily it makes you wonder why you ever left.
tags: mitchell/maverick’s daughter!reader, opposites attract, free spirit x straight-laced, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining
warning(s): avoidant attachment style (ish?), reader tucks hair behind ear, wears a bikini, drinks alcohol, and is four years younger than bradley, suggestive content
word count: 11.9k
note: did i write this instead of doing my mountain of grad school readings? why yes i did. anyway, this has been such a long time coming and i’m so excited to get my first rooster fic out!! also there are no mentions of your mother/you being maverick’s biological child for inclusivity xx
masterlist
You reached the coast just before sunset, the kind of golden hour that made everything look idyllic. The air blowing through the open window tasted faintly of salt and home.
You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.
The car wasn’t new. You couldn’t afford new. But she had personality—a red 1970s convertible you’d found through a guy in Venice who insisted she “ran like a dream,” which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.
Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat.
You’d spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. You’d written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.
Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.
Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory.
You didn’t mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.
Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.
It always made you think of Bradley.
You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that he’d stayed while you’d run.
You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved.
By the time you pulled into The Hard Deck’s parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.
Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentional—messy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair.
You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city you’d called home.
Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way you’d missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.
The Hard Deck hadn’t changed since you’d visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls.
Penny’s touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.
Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.
Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.
You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but he’d been completely lost in the song. You’d tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.
Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.
“See?” he’d said, still grinning. “You’re getting it.”
You hadn’t been. You’d been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.
Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.
“Well, look who it is!”
You turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Penny!”
Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.
“Pete wasn’t kidding,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “He told me you were moving back for real this time. I didn’t believe him. He’s been saying that for, what, two summers now?”
You laughed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. But I think I’m ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.”
Penny’s smile softened. “Music to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.”
You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Only if you’re not too good for us locals now,” she teased. “Pete says you’ve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. You’ve got some serious skills.”
You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “I could start once I’ve unpacked, assuming you’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. “On the house. For my favourite Mitchell.”
You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that.”
“Oh, please,” she said, smirking. “He already knows.”
You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you weren’t just passing through.
You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.
He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.
This man wasn’t just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, you’d bet good money this was the infamous Hangman you’d heard about from your dad.
“Well, hello there,” he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You visiting?”
You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. “Something like that.”
Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. “Let me guess. You’re a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?”
You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. “Planes? You mean the Navy ones?”
Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hangman said, grinning wider. “The Navy ones. You ever been on base before?”
You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.”
He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. “That’s one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.”
You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. “The full experience?”
“Strictly professional,” Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. “Though, fair warning—once you’ve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.”
You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far he’d go when a familiar voice cut in.
“Hangman, step away from my daughter.”
You’d never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. “Sir?”
You spun on your stool, already smiling. “Dad!” You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know he’d seen the whole thing. “You two know each other?”
“Not officially,” Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like he’d just remembered how to stand at attention. “I was just, uh, welcoming her to town.”
“Sure you were,” Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. “Very hospitable of you, Hangman.”
You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. “Such a gentleman. It’s generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think I’ll manage just fine.”
A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. “Hangman, you hitting on the boss’s daughter?”
The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer.
Fanboy muttered something that sounded like “Oh, dead man walking.”
Hangman went very still. “I don’t know that I would call it ‘hitting on’ her,” he said faintly, but the damage was done.
You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. “Nice to meet you all,” you said sweetly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Bet you have,” Phoenix said, still giggling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagman’s face, but damn, I owe you a drink.”
Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. “It’s nice to meet you,” he offered.
“Same here,” you said warmly. “You must be Bob. Dad’s mentioned you. All of you, actually,” you added, motioning to the group. “I’m really excited to finally meet you.”
“Damn, Hangman,” Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. “At least you went down swinging.”
“Yeah, straight into the ground,” Payback said, grinning. “Classic Bagman.”
Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You all done, or should I start digging my own grave?”
“Don’t worry,” Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.”
That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldn’t help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. “I miss you.”
No matter how far you’d run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.
“Missed you too, kid,” Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.
When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her.
“So,” Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, “you’re Maverick’s daughter. Explains the confidence.”
You smiled. “Confidence or trouble?”
“Both,” Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.
Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. “So what brings you back? Visiting, or…?”
“Actually,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m moving back home. Figured it was time. I’m crashing with Dad until I find my own place.”
“That’s brave,” Payback said. “Living with your old man again? You must really love him.”
Maverick just smirked. “She’s always had excellent taste.”
That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. “He’s already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.”
“Don’t tempt him,” Phoenix said, grinning. “You’d probably be better than half the guys in this room.”
You laughed, then nodded toward her. “I’ve been dying to meet you! How’s life in an elite squadron treating you?”
Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Aside from putting up with these idiots, it’s been great.” She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. “Bradshaw!” Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. “About time.”
Your pulse stumbled.
Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The bar’s hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.
Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. “You two must know each other, right?”
You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. “Yeah. We know each other.”
When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on you—warm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.
You’d kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and you’d convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.
Now, standing here, it didn’t feel so natural at all.
Bradley’s mouth curved, soft with disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you said softly.
The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldn’t read.
Phoenix glanced between you again, realising she’d just stumbled into something layered. “Okay,” she stretched the word out, raising her hands.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.
“Come here,” he said, and you were already stepping forward.
Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks.
His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasn’t.
“I didn’t believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,” Bradley murmured.
You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. “Surprise again.”
When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like he’d only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice.
You both pretended a lot of things.
“Still playing?” Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.
“Guitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?”
He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. “Only the ones labeled ‘for when you’re feeling emotionally constipated.’”
You tilted your head. “So, all of them.”
That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked good—too good.
“You look…” Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. “Different.”
You raised a brow. “Good different, or ‘emotional crisis’ different?”
“Definitely good.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “You were always beautiful, but you’re glowing now.”
And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.
The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.
“So,” you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. “How’ve you been, Rooster?”
He smirked, eyes glinting. “It’s so weird to hear you say my call sign.”
You gasped theatrically. “Rude!”
“You can call me whatever you want,” Bradley said, quieter now. “But you’re the only one who still calls me by my name.” Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. “I guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.”
Before either of you could say something you couldn’t take back, a voice cut through the moment.
“Hey, nerds!” Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. “Come join us! We know you’re childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverick’s daughter.”
You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. “What do you say, Bradley?”
Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your adoring fans,” he teased.
When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.
When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman.
The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.
Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. “Come on, you’ve got to see this circus up close. Hangman’s in peak insufferable form.”
You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip.
He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.
Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you weren’t ready for. You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.
“Careful,” he called, jogging closer. “Wouldn’t want you spraining anything important.”
“Does my pride count?” you shot back.
“Absolutely,” Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. “I’m very thorough.”
Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.
You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger I’m watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.
Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like it’s life or death, and never—under any circumstances—let Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.
The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.
Every accidental touch made your heart skip.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. “You think you can take me down?”
“Cute,” you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. “I may not be in the Navy, but don’t forget who raised me. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t lose.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’re scary. I’ll admire you from a safe distance.”
Phoenix groaned. “Emphasis on ‘distance,’ Bagman. She’s busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.”
“Well said,” you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.
“It’s nice to have you around,” she said earnestly. “Everyone’s already decided you’re one of us. Rooster’s obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.”
Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you weren’t constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.
Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.
Eventually, Penny called out, “Snack and water break. You’ve earned it!”
Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.
“Thanks,” you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Your compliment is noted.”
You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone.
He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.
“Bradley?”
He looked up, eyebrows lifting like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah?”
You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. “The tie on my bikini came undone, and I can’t quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?”
Bradley’s eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together.
He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully.
You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back.
“Okay,” Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.
He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension.
You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.
His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine.
“There,” Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.
You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you weren’t thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradley’s hands; how careful they were, how he couldn’t quite seem to stop touching you.
You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.
You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldn’t make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, “Thanks,” which was neither clever nor steady.
Bradley didn’t move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.
You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you weren’t ready to face that reality yet.
Bradley started to say something, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the air. “Who wants chips?”
You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. “Me,” you said, pretending your voice didn’t wobble.
You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Penny’s generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.
The new apartment wasn’t much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the world’s most dramatic plumbing—but it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.
You wanted sage green; something calm that didn’t make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.
The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. You’d stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had “a thing.” Phoenix’s “errand” mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant “no chance in hell.”
So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you weren’t surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.
He raised the beers. “Looks like it’s just us.”
You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. “Lucky you.”
Bradley’s eyes flicked past you into the apartment. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of wall.”
You stepped aside to let him in. “Well, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. I’m filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.”
“Getting Mav involved,” Bradley said, brushing past you. “Bold choice.”
“Desperate times,” you muttered.
You’d already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene.
Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. “You started without supervision.”
“I’m an independent woman,” you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. “I don’t need supervision.”
“You’re holding the can upside down.”
You looked down. “…That feels like an opinion.”
Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. “Come on, Picasso. Let’s paint ourselves a masterpiece.”
He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.
The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.
Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.
That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the “anywhere but here” girl.
“Yours looks better,” you admitted eventually.
Bradley didn’t look over. “Years of repainting Navy housing.”
“Of course,” you said. “All those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.”
He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. “Yes, I’m very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.”
You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. “Oh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?”
Bradley rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Keep your pants on, Grace Kelly.”
You fought a grin and lost. “Actually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!”
It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since you’d really laughed like this.
You both reached for the paint tray. Bradley’s fingers brushed yours, touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heat—anything but what it actually was.
“You missed a spot,” you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.
Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “No, I didn’t,” he said, squinting at the wall.
“You did. There.” You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.
Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”
“And yet you love that about me.”
That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”
You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. “You’re getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.”
He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. “Don’t tell Hangman. He’ll make it weird.”
“He already makes everything weird. What’s one more?”
Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you.
The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.
Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. “I love this song,” he said, smiling faintly. “You really went for the classics.”
He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradley’s voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.
“Still showing off, I see,” you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips.
Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “Occupational hazard.”
“Yeah, right. I think you just like reminding people you’ve got range.”
He laughed, the sound soft and deep. “Well, I did say I was well-rounded. I’m just living up to expectations.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradley’s singing was doing something to your insides that you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging.
Bradley must’ve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldn’t help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.
You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. “Okay, rockstar, you’re ruining my productivity.”
Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. “You weren’t very productive to begin with.”
“Excuse me,” you said, gesturing to your wall. “I did this one all by myself!”
“Uh-huh,” Bradley said, mimicking your tone. “Meanwhile, I did the other three.”
By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing.
“Not bad,” Bradley declared. “Could almost pass for professional work.”
You pretended to inspect your section. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’m too broke to pay you.”
“I’ll settle for the pizza that’s definitely cold by now.”
You huffed a laugh. “Big spender.”
He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “It’s the company I’m here for, anyway.”
You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar.
Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years.
After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco he’d driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, he’d reached out to fix the dial.
At the time, you hadn’t seen him in eight years.
Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasn’t until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, he’d been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping you’d call.
There’d been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards you’d sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.
Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differently—steady, restrained.
You’d tried to hide how much that unsettled you.
“Still got the same car,” you’d said, nodding at the dashboard.
Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. “She’s reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldn’t do it.”
“Too sentimental?”
“Too broke,” he’d corrected, grinning.
You’d laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.
He’d finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadn’t hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. You’d told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.
“How’s Mav?” Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.
You’d inhaled sharply.
You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but you’d never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his father’s footsteps, and you’d devoted yours to getting as far away from your father’s career as possible.
The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadn’t spoken since.
You’d shrugged. “Still flying. Still impossible to live with.”
Bradley had nodded. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Guess not,” you’d said. “I’m just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I don’t have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever I’m home.”
The silence that had followed hadn’t been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.
When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. You’d forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.
Bradley’d cut the engine and turned to you.
“Thanks for the ride,” you’d said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.
He’d nodded. “Anytime.”
You’d unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t move. Bradley hadn’t either.
“So,” you’d said, “Top Gun.”
Bradley had smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I finally made it.”
“You always were the overachiever,” you’d teased.
“One of us had to be,” he’d teased you right back.
You’d rolled your eyes. “Hey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.”
Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, you’d seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.
The memory had tugged at something in your chest. You’d cleared your throat. “You look good, Bradley.”
“Thanks,” Bradley had said quietly. “You too.”
You’d meant to leave it at that, but the way he’d said it had made your pulse jump.
He’d leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. “You ever think about those summers? The ones before—everything?”
“All the time,” you’d said before you could stop yourself.
Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. “I missed you,” he’d said simply.
The words had hit like a wave. You’d imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadn’t known where to put the feeling.
“You didn’t have to disappear, you know,” you’d said. “When Dad pulled your papers, he didn’t mean for you to disappear from our lives.”
Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “I know. But I couldn’t call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didn’t want you caught in the middle.”
“You didn’t even give me a choice.”
His jaw had tightened. “You were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
You’d laughed softly, without humour. “You always think you’re doing the right thing.”
Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, you’d seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t the naive eighteen-year-old he’d been ten years ago.
“Let me walk you to the door,” Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.
He’d got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. You’d stepped out and headed for the porch together.
The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as you’d fished your keys out of your bag.
“Well,” you’d said, “this is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.”
Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile you’d heard through the phone every few days. “Something like that.”
He’d taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.
When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent.
Bradley’s voice had dropped, rough at the edges. “For what it’s worth, you are the most amazing person I know.”
You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. You’d only tilted your chin up, and he’d leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.
The kiss had been slow, too careful, like you’d both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradley’s hands had found your waist—tentative at first, then sure—and you’d sunk into the warmth of him.
When you’d finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.
Bradley had looked a little dazed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
“Two years?” you’d said.
That had been when you’d noticed a shift in your phone calls. You’d been travelling the world, Bradley’d been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didn’t feel so platonic anymore.
He’d grinned, soft and knowing. “Two years.”
You’d smiled back. “Go before I talk you into staying.”
“I’ll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,” Bradley had promised, still grinning.
Then he’d walked down the path to his truck. You’d watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. He’d waved once through the open window before pulling away.
The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.
And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spot—a year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.
You’d watched him go then, too. But that time, he didn’t look back.
You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person who’d known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.
“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “You okay?”
You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
Bradley smiled a little. “Dangerous habit.”
“Tell me about it.”
You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.
You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladies’ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration.
So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight o’clock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.
Halo sat cross-legged on your rug, her hair in a messy bun and her phone halfway across the room because she kept getting work calls. Phoenix had claimed the end of your couch and was already halfway through her second glass of rosé, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under her.
Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. You’d lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.
“So,” Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, “how’s it feel being back? You’ve been here what, five months?”
“Six,” you said. “And surprisingly not miserable.”
“‘Surprisingly’?” Halo echoed, grinning.
You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. “I’ve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.”
Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Not bad,” you said quickly. “Just… limiting. My dad’s great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone else’s orders, and I swore I’d never do that.”
Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. “So you ran.”
You smiled. “Constantly. I was the ‘anywhere but here’ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didn’t care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, I’d eventually land somewhere that felt right.”
“And now?” Phoenix asked.
You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. “Now I don’t want to run. For the first time ever. Which is… weird.”
Halo tilted her head. “Weird how?”
You thought about it for a moment. “It’s kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But it’s also a little scary. If I’m not running, what am I doing?”
Phoenix gave you a look that said she’d already guessed the answer. “Maybe you’re staying for a reason.”
You caught her smirk and groaned. “Oh, don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Phoenix said, all mock innocence. “Certain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.”
“‘Certain people’ who go by chicken-related callsigns?” Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.
You groaned. “Not this again.”
Phoenix grinned into her glass. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.”
“Everyone?” you asked.
“Everyone,” Halo confirmed. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.”
You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. “You’re both reading too much into it. We’re friends.”
Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. “Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.”
You smiled, a little sadly. “Not so much. We, uh, used to date, though.”
For a second, both women blinked at you like you’d spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Halo’s eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenix’s arm like she needed something to hold onto.
“I’m sorry, what?” Phoenix said once she recovered.
Halo’s jaw dropped. “You dated Rooster?” Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenix’s forearm for emphasis.
“Back when he first got sent to Top Gun,” you said. “I moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and… yeah. We dated. I must’ve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.”
Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. “Hold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.”
You shrugged. “We weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”
Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each other’s arms out of excitement.
“Oh my god,” Halo exclaimed. “That’s why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.”
Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. “You’re telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?”
You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “He’d drive out to see me after training. We’d grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes he’d stay the night if he didn’t have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.”
Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenix’s arm. “Why not?”
Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenix’s gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.
“My dad was still a taboo subject back then,” you confessed. “And I’m not a local celebrity, but being Maverick’s daughter means I’m a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found out—or at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.”
Phoenix snorted. “Sounds simple,” she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.
You smiled. “Yeah, we really nailed that part.”
The humour in your voice faded a little. “It was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. He’d make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. He’d tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. But…”
You sighed. “But he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.”
Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. “Did he know you were going to?”
You nodded. “We both did. We just didn’t say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we weren’t both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.”
For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song.
Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. “Hey,” she said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”
You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. “It was a long time ago. Now we’re friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartment—thank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,” you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “We still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. It’s easier than I thought it would be.”
“Except you still look at him like you used to,” Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.
You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But we’ve both changed. Things are different now.”
Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still completely in love with you.”
You laughed softly. “You think everyone’s in love with everyone.”
“Maybe,” Phoenix said, grinning. “But I’m right about this one.”
The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.
You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after they’d gone home, and the apartment was quiet.
You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. You’d spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you weren’t so sure.
Your dad’s house still smelled the same. You’d expected it to feel different now that it wasn’t yours, but it didn’t. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadn’t been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Penny’s things scattered across the counter.
You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldn’t quite catch.
You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.
When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didn’t have to fill any silences or think too hard.
Then there was a knock at the door.
“Can you grab that?” Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.
“Hey,” he said, his voice even.
“Hey,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because that’s what you’d always done around Bradley. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. “Mav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.”
“Right.” You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. “Come on, they’re in the kitchen.”
He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didn’t slow as you followed him inside.
Dinner didn’t go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less.
He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.
After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down.
“Absolutely not. You’re guests,” she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.
So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.
You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasn’t quite comfortable.
“So,” he said eventually, his tone careful. “You told Phoenix.”
You turned your head toward him. “Told her what?”
Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “About us.”
You blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”
He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?”
You frowned, sitting up. “It wasn’t gossip. It was just a conversation.”
“About something between you and me,” Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.
You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. “Bradley, it’s been eight years. It’s not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; we’re friends.”
Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. “You think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldn’t hold on to Maverick’s daughter?”
You stared at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about? What other people think?”
His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.” Bradley’s tone was clipped, defensive.
You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.”
“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. “But it still did.”
That stopped you for a second. “Why?” you asked quietly.
Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Because you didn’t just leave town back then. You left me too.”
You felt your throat tighten. “You were never really here, Bradley.”
His mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. “You were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldn’t even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.”
Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. “I was trying to build something—to have a plan. That’s what people do when they care.”
You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You cared more about the plan than me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t know what you wanted.”
“I was twenty-four,” you said, your voice rising. “I was still figuring it out.”
“And you decided you couldn’t do that with me around!”
“That’s not true!” You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. “I loved you, but I couldn’t keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.”
Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. “You could’ve told me that.”
“I did,” you shot back. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”
Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. “You think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I weren’t talking, and you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t walk away.”
You stared at him, your chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”
He frowned. “What?”
“You think it was easy for me?” you said, your voice shaking. “Lying to my dad? Pretending I didn’t still talk to you, didn’t still—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t put it all on me.”
“I’m not putting it on you, I’m telling you how it was!” Bradley’s voice cracked with something raw. “You had a home here. You had Maverick—wherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.”
“Yeah, I ‘had Maverick,’” you echoed. “Some relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.”
Bradley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell him.”
“He’s my dad,” you said, voice rising. “The only parent I’ve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if I’d heard from you wasn’t something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didn’t want anyone to know.”
“I was protecting you,” he said quickly, taking a step closer.
You gave a short, incredulous laugh. “No, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you weren’t just Goose’s son dating Maverick’s daughter.”
Bradley’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” you said, your voice shaking. “But it’s true.”
He groaned, frustration sparking again. “You think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dad—someone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.”
Your throat burned. “You had me!”
“Until I didn’t,” Bradley shot back. “Until you decided you couldn’t handle it anymore and ran.”
That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. “You make it sound like I didn’t even try.”
Bradley’s voice rose. “You didn’t stay.”
You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. “And you didn’t even notice I was falling apart!”
He froze, chest rising and falling fast.
“I couldn’t breathe, Bradley,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Do you know what that felt like?”
His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. “You were always the ‘anywhere but here’ girl,” Bradley said. “I should’ve seen it coming. You’ve been running your whole life.”
You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. “And you’ve been chasing ghosts,” you said, voice low. “Your father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasn’t going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing up—living life according to someone else’s orders.”
The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.
Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “That you ran. That’s not fair.”
You didn’t answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“I was the one running,” Bradley said finally, quieter now. “From everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new posting—whatever kept me busy enough not to think.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “I thought if I just kept working, I’d never end up like my dad.” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.”
You turned toward him, your voice softening. “Bradley…”
“I didn’t want you to go through what my mom did,” he went on, voice rough. “The waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were still—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t live with that.”
You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. “I knew all that,” you said quietly. “I knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.”
Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.
You gave a small, sad smile. “You weren’t the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasn’t lying to my dad every day… it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.”
You shook your head, the motion small. “Growing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didn’t know how to sit still.”
Bradley’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “You thought if you kept moving, you wouldn’t need anyone.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice low. “And then you ruined that theory completely.”
That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. “You think I meant to?”
You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. “Pretty sure you didn’t. You just existed, and that was enough.”
Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with it,” he said. “I told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.”
You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. “Tell me about it.”
Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. “You really didn’t mean to tell Phoenix?”
You shook your head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring it up to you.”
“She told me we were being dramatic,” Bradley admitted, chuckling.
“She’s not wrong,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
That earned you a smile back—tired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didn’t fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. “You look different.”
“So do you,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. “In a good way.”
His brow lifted just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you.
You took a slow breath. “You know, I’m proud of you.”
Bradley blinked, caught off guard. “Of me?”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “You worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and that’s—” you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, “that’s brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.”
His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.
“I know your parents are proud of you,” you went on. “You did all the things you used to talk about when we’d sneak onto the tarmac and you’d point at the sky like it already belonged to you.” You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “You made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place that’s ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.”
Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. “You always did know exactly what to say.”
“That’s not true,” you argued softly.
He smiled at that, small and rueful. “You know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week you’d have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.”
You laughed under your breath. “It was survival.”
“Maybe,” Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. “But it’s also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that there’s more to the world than checklists and orders.” He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. “You never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think that’s what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, I’d be a much happier man.”
You smiled, small but real. “You do look happier. I’m glad I got to be a tiny part of that.”
Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most amazing person I know,” he said quietly. “You were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.”
You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. “You’re the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.”
He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, “I missed you.”
You froze, every nerve in your body alert. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.
“Because it’s not fair,” you said, breath unsteady. “You can’t just say that now.”
Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “You think I planned this?”
“I think you always have a plan,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. “Maybe this time I don’t. Maybe I’ve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isn’t about checklists and timelines.”
You blinked at him. “You really mean that?”
“I do,” Bradley said, voice softening. “Being with you showed me I could let go a little. So, I’m taking the chance to tell you I still love you.”
The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradley’s brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he should.
“Bradley,” you said quietly.
He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradley’s restraint shattered.
His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the world—the ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porch—faded out.
He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric.
You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.
Bradley’s hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything you’d wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bradley whispered between kisses.
You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting—”
“For far too long,” he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, gorgeous. But we’re here now.”
Bradley’s mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.
His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once.
“You’ve been mine all along,” Bradley murmured, voice urgent. “Even when we weren’t together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.”
“I love you,” you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. “I always loved you.”
When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradley’s hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.
“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, voice ragged.
“I’ve missed you too,” you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.
Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window.
“Are they—” she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. “Are they kissing?”
Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face.
“Did you—?”
“Of course I knew,” he said smugly. “Ice and I had a long-running bet about when they’d get back together.”
Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
Maverick shook his head, smile softening, voice low and fond. “Can’t believe he got the exact month right.”
summary: You've grown used to an unusual life. But when a chance encounter at a hotel sparks into something bigger than you expected, you gain an unexpected passenger on your road, and the journey you take together might finally lead you home.
contains: angst (so much), hurt/comfort, mentions of drugs, war, trauma, and the El Royale sucking, Miles crying (a lot), and a HAPPY. ENDING. because LORD.
word count: 33.9k (hi... also fought with Tumblr formatting so sorry about the long paragraphs in like half of the fic :( here's the AO3 link if you want something better looking!!)
A/N: HELLO! I want to ramble so there'll be another note at the bottom but man... this fic has been in the works since late July and getting it done and out there genuinely feel so unreal. I need Miles Miller to heal and be happy. And he did, of course. Enjoy!!
The first full breath you took after one of the worst hours of your life was in the middle of a fire.
Your wrists were still a little chafed from where you’d rubbed against the rope restraints. The not-a-priest man that you could only call Flynn had freed you, but things still didn’t seem finished. Especially because the El Royale was on fire.
You were unsteady on your feet, blinking as you staggered up and swept your eyes over the scene. The fire was spreading. It was still raining outside.
The hotel clerk, Miles, was still holding a gun.
He wasn’t looking at the three of you. Darlene, the singer, was staggering to her feet, looking unsteady and exhausted in a way that went beyond physicality, but you paid her little mind. You were more concerned about the man with his head half-bloody as he slowly approached the sobbing girl on the floor.
The girl with plenty of names, who all this revolved around. Rose. Rosie. Boots. She was sobbing over the man who’d called her the latter name, a sound all wild and complicated. She hadn’t cried like that over her sister, who was laying dead somewhere to your right. Something cold curled softly in your chest. You’d dealt with plenty of men like that fucknut before. You gathered your wits and approached her behind Miles, your feet soundless against the floor.
Miles had set his gun down, crouching unsteadily just behind her. He was so shaky, but he was still reaching for her, his hand resting on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” You heard him whisper softly.
The girl paused, her tears stopping as she slowly straightened. You saw it before Miles had any chance to—the flash of silver clutched in her hand. You had little idea how the girl had hidden a knife like that in her dress, but her intent was clear.
“I’m so sorry—” Miles started to say again just as you stepped forward and grabbed the girl’s wrist, stopping the knife a breath from Miles’ stomach.
Thunder boomed outside, like something had shifted in the air. Your hand curled decisively around the girl’s wrist, wrenching her hand back as the knife begged to dip into the man’s abdomen.
“Easy now,” You said lowly. “Easy, easy, easy—”
The girl screamed, struggling in your grip. Rage lit her eyes up bright. She didn’t even look at you—instead, she was still glaring at Miles like she wanted to tear him limb from limb. She struggled, but you pulled her back. She was a strong thing, but she was emotional, and you weren’t ready to let more people die today.
“Darlene,” you called, wrenching the knife away from the girl and kicking it aside somewhere. “The knife.”
The singer was quick to respond, shuffling somewhere behind you. Flynn was standing with a gun in his hands, but he lowered it as you held the girl’s arms to her side and let her scream and shake in your hands. Miles had moved a few steps back. He had tears in his eyes again, blinking at the girl and then at you as you made eye contact with him.
You nodded slightly. “It’s okay,” you said, not sure if you were talking to him or the girl you were restraining. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. The hotel was on fire and everything was wrong.
The girl’s screaming turned back into crying. She cried and struggled until it stopped and she just leaned her head back into you and cried, shaking for breath. You weren’t sure what to think of her aside from her just being exhausted and brainwashed and traumatized, but you supposed everybody here was going through similar feelings.
“Miles,” you addressed him quietly, stroking the girl’s hair with one hand as she shook against you. “You got things here that you wanna save? Any belongings?”
He blinked at you, like he wasn’t sure he was really being spoken to. He reminded you of a rabbit. Big, wet eyes and a flinching face that had seen way too much. Miles nodded slowly after a moment. You nodded back.
“Go and get anything you want to keep. Fast. Now.”
That seemed to snap him out of whatever dazed state he’d been in. He stumbled over his feet, swerved through the burning lobby, and disappeared somewhere behind the front desk, a door slamming open in the distance. Darlene and Flynn were just standing there, staring.
“Get your damn money.” You spoke to them now. “And burn that fuckin’ ledger.”
Everyone snapped into motion. There was a haze that settled over situations like this, and the fire didn’t exactly help. You stood there, letting the girl cry into your arms as people moved around you. Everyone seemed to share the same grim understanding that there was only one route right now that didn’t involve death.
You spoke to the girl after a moment, watching Flynn and Darlene shove bills into a bag. “Your name is Rose, right?”
The girl managed a nod. That cemented it, then. She was still shaking. Didn’t seem entirely there, though you knew nobody would be in that situation.
“Alright. Rose. Listen to me.” You kept your voice low and soft and gentle as you possibly could. You decided Rose wasn’t exactly a rabbit. Maybe a cat. Still had claws, still hissed at you if you moved too fast, but you could picture her in a happier time, lounged somewhere in the sun with a smile on her face. “This hotel is going to burn and there’s nothing we can do about it.” You started. “I do not want to hurt you. Nobody here does. But if you try to kill or hurt any of us, we’re gonna have to restrain you. And I don’t wanna do that. Now, you can come with some of us, or you can stay here. It’s your choice. And I know it’s a big one. But we can’t save anyone here who’s on the ground right now.”
“... I hate you.” Rose whispered against your chest.
“I know.”
“Let me go.”
“Okay.”
You pulled back. Rose didn’t try to hit you like you expected. Instead, she stood there with balled fists, furiously staring at the ground until she sat right there on the floor next to the body of the man she knew. Billy Lee, you thought.
“I’ll come back." You promised her as you walked by, scooping up the gun leaning on a piece of furniture next to her. She didn’t acknowledge hearing you.
You walked past Darlene and Flynn and pointed in Rose’s direction. “Watch her. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Flynn asked.
“I said I’ll be right back.”
You walked out the main doors of the lobby to the sound of rain. It had lightened just slightly, but there was still a significant downpour. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the dreary parking lot for one heartbeat of a moment. You sighed, raising a hand to shield your face as you jogged through the rain to your room. You’d been lucky enough to know not to unpack. A single duffel bag and a backpack were all you had as you grabbed your things and headed back out into the rain. Thunder rumbled ominously above you as you yanked your car trunk open, shoving your luggage into the trunk before slamming it closed and returning to the lobby.
The fire was still spreading as you pushed the door open, fighting to wipe water from your damp face. Everybody but Rose turned as you re-entered, including Miles, who stood with a small bag at his feet, his hands shaking as Darlene inspected his face.
“You all packed?” You asked him. He just nodded again, blinking at you.
“The cars don’t work,” You addressed everyone as you descended the steps of the entryway. “Anyone know anything about that?”
“That man, the… cop, or something. He sabotaged the cars.” Darlene explained. She patted her dress, searching for something. “There were some kind of tubes he had on his body. I grabbed them all. They- they should be in my car.”
“Okay.” You nodded, slowly. “Did your car work when you put it in?”
“... kind of.” She said. “Didn’t really get a chance to—”
“Go and check it. We need to finish up in here.” You said. “When you find the other parts, put one in my car. Miles?”
“Yeah?” His voice cracked slightly as he looked at you.
“You come with me. You’re gonna put your things in my trunk.”
“Okay.” He whispered hoarsely.
You were vaguely aware of Flynn and Darlene exiting the building as you made your way to Rose. You crouched next to her, tilting your head to try and catch her gaze.
“Have you been thinking?” You asked, softening your voice again.
She nodded.
“You comin’ with?”
She nodded again.
“Okay. Come on.”
You stood and turned, gesturing Miles along with you. The rain was still loud outside, but you didn’t make as much of an effort to jog through it, instead grimacing and wiping at your face as you made yet another trip to your car. You popped the trunk, and Miles put his bag in, similarly blinking the rain from his eyes. You glanced through the rain. Rose was hugging herself as she trudged through the rain towards you. You went to Darlene’s car and opened a door, gesturing for her to get in. She obeyed wordlessly. There was an empty look in her eyes. You couldn’t decide if it was good that she was listening.
“Alright,” You told Miles. “Here, come with me.” You closed the trunk and returned to a hotel room. You didn’t bother to close the door, but Miles didn’t fully come in with you. Just stood in the doorway, shaking like a leaf, clothes damp and bloodstained.
Some people were very much like rabbits.
You found what you were looking for. Towels. You shoved them under an arm, ripped a pillowcase off a pillow, and gestured Miles inside. “Come here.”
Miles obeyed blankly, stepping inside. You nodded your head towards the bed in the room, and he sank down blankly, looking over at you as you got one towel wet.
“Can’t say this won’t hurt.” You said quietly as you walked back over to him. “But we need to look after your head.”
He swallowed up at you. “You sure?”
“At the very least, that blood needs to come off.” You said as you looked down at him. “Would you let me?”
Miles stared at you for a moment. Clearly debating. You didn’t blame him for how he was reacting. He’d had a hell of a night, and clearly a hell of a career from what Flynn had said to Billy Lee earlier. You found yourself unable to hate him for that in any way. Tonight had been one of the most insane experiences of your life. Trusting the shaking man sitting in front of you didn’t seem like the worst idea you’d had lately.
“Yeah.” Miles spoke finally, voice cracking slightly. “Yeah, okay.”
You nodded wordlessly, reaching forward to touch his chin. You tilted his head to the side, holding him still and dabbing experimentally at a bloody patch. He winced, squirming. You held firm and kept going.
“Ow,” Miles said, voice a soft whine, squirming slightly in your touch. You hated it, hated the pain that was always in people’s voice when you tended to them, but you kept going, dabbing away the blood on his face.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” You whispered softly. “You’re doing good, just breathe…”
It was a painful sort of rhythm. The rain continued outside. Miles squirmed and choked on half-sobs on the bed. You kept cleaning. When the blood was clear from his face, you took a closer look. Small impacts.
“It was a shotgun, right?” You murmured. Miles nodded, though you more felt the motion than saw it from how closely you were leaned in.
“Is it bad?” He stammered out. “She- she didn’t exactly say—”
“It might scar.” You said softly. “You’re lucky, these look like buckshot pellets, but it's not as extreme as it could've been.”
“What… what’s the difference?”
You looked down at him as you pulled back, working on tearing the pillowcase the way you wanted. “You just shot five guys and you don’t know the difference between shotgun shells?”
He flinched a bit, glancing down at his hands as he shrugged helplessly. “Shotguns… they aren’t really my thing.”
“Okay.” You softened your voice slightly. “Okay. That’s fine. Uh, buckshots, they’re… real lethal, usually. Bigger pellets. Then there are birdshot ones. Smaller. Considering you also didn’t get the entire blast, it’s better for you.”
He made a noise, almost bitterly amused. “It’s a lot to call this situation better.”
“Oh, a sense of humor. That’s good too.” You approached him again, starting to wrap his head. “Anyways–it’s a bit too early to tell. You might need some stitches, but I don’t have the supplies for that right now. We’re gonna wrap the wound, and you’re gonna tell me if you start feeling worse.”
“Worse?” Miles stared at you, flinching as you tied the pillowcase strips firmly around his head, his hair sticking in an odd direction.
“Whether that means pain or you start getting confused. I don’t want you havin’ a concussion. Or brain bleed.” You said quietly, studying your makeshift wrappings as you wiped a bit of blood off his neck.
“Oh.” Miles blinked. His gaze shifted to the doorway, and you turned just as knuckles hesitantly rapped on the doorframe.
Darlene and Flynn stood there, looking as wet and defeated as you felt. Flynn ran a hand through his hair, wincing. “Don’t suppose you can do a check-over on me?”
“If you're able enough to ask, you should be fine, but sure.” You gestured him to the other bed, and the not-priest sat down with a heavy sigh.
“You doing alright?” Darlene questioned Miles softly. He shrugged, then nodded, then shook his head, not meeting her gaze.
“I put the car part back in,” Darlene explained to you as you studied Flynn’s head. “We just gotta pray it runs.”
“Did your car run?” You questioned. Flynn grunted as you pressed at a spot on his head.
Darlene sighed, wringing her hands. “Finally, yeah.”
“That’s good. Mine will too, then.” You said. There was no room to be doubtful right now.
“How can you be so sure?” Miles asked hoarsely as he stared at you.
You shifted, shrugging as you avoided the pairs of eyes on you. “Nothing left but being sure.”
You glanced over at Darlene. “Where y’all headed?”
“Reno.” She shifted, holding her head high for a moment. “I’ve got a performance there tomorrow night.” She hesitated. “Tonight, I guess. It’s past midnight.”
“Damn.” You whistled. “Well, it’s reachable. Not too much of a drive, just a few hours north."
“Yeah.” She smiled a little, but it was still rather sad. “It’s odd how distant that feels now.”
“It’s not distant. It’s your future.” You made eye contact with Flynn as you pulled back from him. “You’re gonna be sore, but you’ll be okay. You heading off with her?”
He nodded. “Gotta look out for the singer.” He said, cracking a tired smile. "And… that poor cultist girl, I guess. We'll see where that goes."
You sighed, nodding as you looked over at Darlene. “Well, you’d better head the hell outta here.” You glanced outside. Still raining, but it was a little gentler. “Drive carefully, though. Rain’s still pretty serious.”
“And what about you?” Darlene shot a glance between you and Miles, who was still sitting on the bed and looking like he didn’t want to exist. “Where will you go?”
“Medical attention, first.” You said, turning your gaze to Miles. “After that… we’ll have to see.”
Darlene’s expression broke. She opened her arms and pulled you into a hug. You blinked. It surprised you, the tenderness behind such an action from someone you’d met just a few hours earlier. Trauma made bonds of everybody, you supposed. Still, you hugged her just as tight, forcing down the emotion swelling in your chest.
Darlene pulled back, hands on your shoulders. “You stay safe.” She whispered, blinking a few times in a way that was clearly disguising tears.
You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Okay.” A small smile cracked over your face. “I’ll be sure to keep an ear out for the voice of Darlene Sweet on the radio, alright?”
She smiled, wet-eyed, squeezing your shoulders. “I’ll see you later.”
It felt better like that. Not a goodbye, just a possibility. Darlene left you, putting a hand on Miles’ shoulder. “You gonna be alright?” She asked softly. Miles paused, then dragged his gaze from her to you. His lip quivered slightly, wet eyes gazing at you like there was an answer inside you he was specifically looking for.
“I think so.” He said finally, looking back at Darlene.
Your chest felt tight.
“I’m sorry,” Flynn said to Miles as he stood, groaning slightly. Miles flinched at the movement, staring at him with wild eyes. There was a flicker of betrayal there, hurt that went deeper than you understood.
“I told you—” Miles started to choke out.
“I know. I know.” Flynn reached out, then hesitated, retracting his hand. “I’m sorry, Miles. I won’t tell anybody.”
The hotel worker just clenched his jaw, hands shaking in his lap, and looked away. “You’re not a priest,” he mumbled under his breath. “And I- and I told you everything, and you just let me do it—”
Flynn just looked weary. Guilty. He blinked a few times, like there was something he was remembering, and then he looked away too. “We ready, Darlene?” he asked.
“Mhm.” Darlene spared a worried glance to Miles, but she gave his shoulder a little squeeze before stepping away. “Let’s get going. It’s a ways to Reno.”
“Drive safe, y’all.” You said, raising your hand in a small wave.
The last sight you saw of the singer, the con man, and the cultist was the two of them getting into Darlene’s car, their forms plastered by the rain. Flynn raised an arm in a farewell, ducked his head in, and their car drove out through the rain.
You exhaled a breath, turning to Miles. “You ready to go?” You asked softly.
“I think I have to be.” He said, shuffling to his feet, all damp and sad.
Wet rabbit. You thought, but you didn’t say that. Instead, you nodded and tucked a bunch of spare towels under your arm. Nobody was getting hypothermia on your watch. “Then let’s go.”
You could’ve stolen more from the hotel.
But you weren’t greedy, and you weren’t stupid, and the hotel was on fire. So instead, you’d packed the gun in the trunk with everything else and you’d started driving.
Miles, occupying the passenger seat, stayed awake only a bit longer. For a time, he stared solemnly out the window, watching the rain and the dark with his unbandaged side. At one point, he’d clasped his hands and bowed his head and muttered to himself, praying, but it hadn’t lasted too long. He just seemed tired and wet and cold. You’d given him two towels. The two of you drove for hours—the direct opposite way from where the others had been headed. They went to Nevada. You went to California. It was silent, save for the road and the rain, and you weren’t going to start conversation right now, so you just kept driving, even if you had no idea where you were trying to go.
It was just past seven in the morning when you rolled into a town, which you only knew because you’d long ago stuck a watch in a part of your car. The town was small, tiny, had some name you didn’t remember. There was a diner, a pharmacist, and an inn, all along the little main road. It was everything you needed. You just hoped you could buy some clothes somewhere. You slowed the car to a stop in the back lot of the pharmacy. You took a moment to breathe in the silence. You’d been driving nonstop for hours after what was arguably one of the worst nights of your life, and you were just… exhausted. But too tense to back down now. Still, you rested your head carefully on the wheel, taking in slow breaths and making a mental list of priorities. You wondered if it was safe to leave Miles in the car like this. What if he was less okay than he seemed? What if he woke up and left you? What if—
“What’s goin’ on?”
Miles’ voice was a sleepy, hoarse sound to the side. You flinched, straightening in your seat as you carefully turned in your seat.
“Good morning. How you feelin’?” You questioned in a whisper.
“I… uh.” He shifted, swallowing noticeably. One hand reached up, patting lightly at the pillowcase bandages over the left of his face. He winced slightly, a whine in the back of his throat as he leaned back.
“Hurts.” Miles managed finally.
“I just parked behind a pharmacy,” You explained, chest tightening at the hazy look of pain on his face. “This town, it has an inn and a diner. Hopefully a store for some new clothes too.”
“Okay,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Can you stand?”
Miles sniffed, shuffling. “Um.” He blinked a few times, looking at you, then nodded his head as his visible eye watered. “I can manage.”
“Okay.” You reached for the handle of the driver’s seat, grabbing your key and your money. "Let's get going."
You gave Miles your jacket. He took it without argument, pulling it on and zipping it up to cover the dried blood on his shirt. He looked incredibly pathetic like this in the early morning, blinking around at the area there like something could hurt him. His hair was flat on the right from where he'd pressed it against the window, and you had to fight off the urge to gently run your fingers through it and fix the mess. The pharmacy was manned by a man with the biggest glasses you'd ever seen. He blinked at the two of you like you were ghosts, and maybe you were. You didn’t have much noticeable blood on you, had rolled your sleeves so the blood on there wouldn’t be visible, but you knew what you looked like. It didn’t help that Miles looked like he had been crying.
“Hi.” You forced a smile on your lips as you approached the counter. “We’re looking for some pain relief medication.”
“Uh… yeah.” The man looked at Miles, who was nervously huddling in the doorway, shoulders hunched like he could look any smaller. “That all?”
“You got any bandages?” You fished out your wallet, being sure to flash your money. It wasn’t anything incredible, but it was enough for a small town.
It worked. The guy’s eyes gleamed. “We’ve got some genuine medical supplies, yeah. I’m… not the town doctor, but we supply nonetheless.”
“Well.” You flashed a grin, blinking your eyes firmly at him. “We’d be ever so grateful to see what you have.”
You left the pharmacy with medication and medical supplies. You’d bought a lot of it, not sure how much would be needed. You figured bulking up was the best option right now.
“Here, take this.” You passed back some medication to Miles as the two of you walked to the diner. He took it and nodded wordlessly. You firmly told yourself you were not going to lose it.
The diner was alright. Filled with locals who were trying not to watch you. Miles’ hands shook as he took the menu and glanced at his options. You were trying your best to socialize with the waitress without seeming like the psycho who had fucked up the man next to you.
“So, where are y’all from?” The waitress asked. Minnie. Short lady in her mid-thirties with way too much makeup on for the morning.
“Further west. Near Los Angeles.” You answered, even though you were sure absolutely neither of you really were. Miles definitely wasn't even from California. Minnie nodded like it made sense.
You ordered bacon, eggs, and hash for the two of you. Miles’ voice shook when he murmured it to you. The rest of breakfast was silent. Both of you seemed lost in your own thoughts, and frankly, you were starting to wear thin. As the sun rose, the diner was cast in a warm light as you huddled over your individual plates of breakfast. At least your companion had a bit of an appetite. Miles nearly gagged with every couple of bites, but it was progress. You just prayed the peace would last. Minnie started asking too many questions at some point. You answered her with a hefty tip and a tight smile. She shut up fast.
“Anywhere to go clothes shopping in town?” You asked her as you started to stand.
“We’ve got a general store about two blocks down,” Minnie said with a nod. “They’ll likely have some things, though if you want my two cents, the quality isn’t the best regarding shoes.”
You stared at her for a moment, blinking. “Ah. Uh. That’ll be fine. We have fine shoes.”
“My shoes are still damp,” Miles murmured behind you as the two of you exited the diner.
“Worry about that at the clothing store, Miles.”
The clothing store was staffed by two people, two old men who were brothers with the thickest heads of hair you’d seen on people who were at the very least eighty. They murmured behind the counter, already smoking, heads swiveling in unison as a bell on the door announced your arrival.
“Hi,” you called. “You guys got clothes?”
One man took a long drag of his cigarette. “You guys got money?” He rumbled back, clearly mocking as his eyes swept over you judgmentally. You stared back at him, nearly twitching. You wanted to slap the guy. You’d barely slept in the last thirty-eight hours and this man had no idea what you’d been through and—
“We have money, sir.”
Miles’ voice was soft as he appeared at your elbow, staring down the men with that same nervous, customer-serving look he’d had on the first time you saw him. The men let you buy clothes. You didn’t get anything for yourself. Instead, you watched as Miles checked through clothing, holding things up to himself and feeling fabric. He kept glancing at you, as if unsure he was allowed anything he was holding. You made a point to shoot him a nod whenever his gaze found its way to you, and he'd always glance away like he'd been caught red-handed in a criminal act. Miles eventually decided on some outfit you didn’t fully see. You fished money from your wallet, paid for what he'd bought, and ushered the man out like you were guarding a lost puppy. The smell of smoke and the image of sullen, old faces followed you.
You didn’t remember checking into the inn, but you did. A room with two beds, a shower, a bathroom. It didn’t remind you of the El Royale. There was peeling wallpaper in a far-off corner. The radio barely worked. “If you want to, uh, take a shower or anything, feel free to. They’ve got towels and shit in there.” You plopped onto a bed, running a hand down your face. “I just… I need a few hours outta the car, to think ‘n whatever…”
“You okay?”
You blinked, raising your gaze. Miles had moved in front of you, sitting on the bed opposite of you. His clothes were to his side, hands patiently folded in his lap, his single visible eye focused on you.
“I don’t…” You laughed weakly. “I don’t even know how to answer that right now.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been going as long as you have.” He blinked at you, gaze soft. “I mean, you drove us for… hours. Even after everything. And you bought me clothes and you bought me drugs and I-” He rubbed at his eye. “I just… thank you for, you know. Everything. You didn’t have to bring me with.”
“And you didn’t have to come.” You returned quietly.
"There wasn't anything left for me." He swallowed, gaze ducking down. You watched him quietly, waiting for anything more. "Just… fire. And a lot of regrets. Better if they thought I went up with the place, I guess."
You studied him for a moment longer. "I'm glad you're here with me." You said softly.
Miles looked back up at you. He smiled a little. "I… yeah, I am too. But also, I’m… I’m tired.” He blew out a heavy breath, then chuckled a bit. “I, uh, think we both are, though.” He fixed his gaze on yours. “You should sleep.”
“Miles—"
“I’ll watch.” His response was clear and firm, the most firm thing you’d heard from him so far, but his voice softened slightly as he gripped at his pants. “... I’ll watch. We’re safe.”
"The walls are, like, thin enough to punch through."
“And I am very aware of that." He said quickly, nodding. "I just… you look like hell. And I don’t want you hurting when you’ve been helping so much.”
Oh, he was sweet. Sweet, helpful boy. You wondered who’d made him doubt himself so much in the past. You just nodded, blinking as you tried to shove down the emotion in your chest. “Thank you.” You whispered. “Don’t let me sleep past five.”
“... okay,” he whispered in return, like this was a secret held between the two of you. Then he pointed to the bed. “Sleep.”
You found it in you to laugh- the first real laugh since… you didn’t know how long. You nodded as you pulled aside the covers and nestled in, tarnished clothes and all. It had been a long time since you’d fallen asleep that fast, but there was something about having someone watch over you for once. Maybe you weren’t so alone.
One day ago. Parking lot of the El Royale.
You’d been driving almost nonstop for hours until you found the hotel.
You weren’t really sure when you’d exhausted all other options. The space between California and Nevada wasn’t somewhere you thought you’d end up. You hadn’t even known there was a hotel on the border of California and Nevada. You stared down at the line straight down the middle of the parking lot. California marked one side, Nevada the other. You didn’t see much of a difference from where you stood.
You lugged your bags through the parking lot, backpack slung over your shoulder, duffel bag on your arm. As you pushed through the door, you blinked as you took in the sprawling lobby. It was decked in two different color schemes, the red line still running all the way through like it had a destination to reach. Three sets of eyes turned to you, which looked like the start of a joke. “A priest, a lady, and some guy in an ugly jacket walk into a hotel…”
“Uh. Hello.” You greeted, halting your movement as you stood there awkwardly. Your gaze shifted behind them–an empty reception desk, a clear story emerging.
“... no receptionist?” You assumed as your gaze moved back to the strangers.
The man with the terrible jacket sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, yes.” He pointed to a group of luggage on the ground. “Those are mine. I have first pick- honeymoon suite.” He said it proudly, puffing up his chest. You just nodded slowly.
“... oooookay.”
"You want coffee? We've been helpin' ourselves considering this bastion of influence has no influence to be seen." The man raised a small cup he held. Your eyes flicked from the priest to the woman, both of whom looked vaguely awkward. You pitied them for enduring this man longer than you had.
"Erm, no thank you." You shook your head as your eyes swept over the lobby. "You're familiar with this place?"
"Familiar with what it once was, rather." The man scoffed, but he kept talking as you walked around, scanning over old photos on the wall. He started spouting some story about influential figures and the life of extravagant gambling that used to live in the walls of this place. Your eyes fell on a few pictures on the wall. JFK. Marilyn Monroe. Big names indeed. "And so in the end, it's become quite the the place. However, I will say their rooms can still be kept to service, hence my wishing for the honeymoon suite despite not being on my own personal honeymoon—"
The woman moved past the man, walking behind the receptionist desk and putting her coffee cup aside. You stood there, blinking, watching as she slammed a firm palm several times on the door behind the desk. As you stepped closer, you distantly heard something thud and the distinct sound of someone groaning. You winced slightly. That sounded solid.
Annoying loud jacket man let out a chuckle. "The lady's got a harder hand than we do, Father." He said to the priest.
"It sounds like somebody just fell." You said slowly.
"Well, let's hope that kicked some sense into whoever it is." The man grumbled, just as the door behind the desk opened and the four of you swiveled your hands.
Your first impression of the hotel worker was a soft face and hair purposefully pressed into a short, nice hairstyle. The second impression was that he had on the wrinkliest nice shirt you'd ever seen. His eyes swept over all of you in an instant—bleary but big—and he exhaled a breath, shaking his head as he tugged on a nice employee's jacket. "Oh, I am… very sorry to keep you waiting." He cleared his throat, fumbling with his shirt and his jacket in a clear attempt to get himself ordered.
"Damn, boy, where you been?" Jacket man said, clearly scrutinizing the younger man. "Waitin' in this lobby so long, I could use a shave. What's wrong with you?"
"I am very sorry," the man mumbled again, shaking his head and avoiding the man's gaze. He cleared his throat yet again, raising his gaze, only to land on the priest who was wandering around the lobby. His mouth parted, a look of something that you almost dared to call terror flickering over his expression.
"… what are you doing here, Father?" He asked, his voice tightening slightly.
The priest stared at him, squinting slightly. "Do I know you, son?"
"N-noo." The hotel worker shook his head slightly, swallowing. "But I mean, this is not a place for a priest, Father. You shouldn't be here."
What did that mean, exactly, you wondered? Were the floors cursed? The walls? The picture of JFK accusingly stared eyes into your back, grumbling something like Well how do you think I turned out this way, huh? I came here. You glanced to your side, where the woman had a look on your face similar to what you probably did. She leveled a gaze at you, something quietly, like What is up with these people? You shrugged. Her lips twitched.
"We might need to work on your sales pitch, son." Jacket man said, chuckling as he spread out a hand. "'The El Royale, no place for a priest.'"
"There are other hotels, Father." The receptionist was saying, gaze still fixed on the priest. "Maybe closer to Tahoe. I could help you find one. I'm sure you would be…. happier, there."
The priest, who'd approached the desk again where the rest of you stood, squinted at the man's name tag. "Er, Miles, is it?"
"Mmm-hmm." Miles affirmed softly. You wondered if Miles ever didn't look nervous.
"If this is not a place for a priest, Miles, then this is exactly where the Lord wants me." The priest put his palms on the desk. You and the woman exchanged another gaze and you resisted the urge swelling in your chest to just ask if you could camp out in the parking lot for the night if you paid a little money. You weren't sure how worth it this was. People. Fascinating people, at that.
"Well, the Lord don't want you in the honeymoon suite. I can promise you that." Jacket man leaned forward, catching the clerk's gaze. "Miles, those are my accoutrement there and I stake my claim as such. But you can go ahead and check them in first, I don't mind."
Miles looked extremely nervous at all the attention. His gaze ran over the priest again, and he swallowed thickly. The priest shot him what he'd probably hoped was a reassuring smile. "It's all right, son."
The clerk had just about looked ready to relax when the other man spoke up again. "C'mon, boy!" He rolled his hand in a get on with it gesture. "Give 'em the whole spiel. The El Royale. And blah blah blah."
Miles cleared his throat. You watched with no small amount of pity as he moved out from behind the receptionist desk, standing to face the four of you. His posture straightened slightly, eyes scanning over all of you as he cleared his throat and took in a breath. "The El Royale is a bi-state establishment," He started, voice cracking slightly as he clasped his hands in front of him. "You have the option to stay in either the great state of California—" He gestured with one arm to the yellow side of the room. "—or the great state of Nevada." He gestured to the other side, all cool blues and purples, before folding his arms behind him. "Warmth and sunshine to the west, or hope and opportunity to the east." Miles nodded, gaze focusing in slightly on the priest. "Which would you prefer?"
The priest was standing there like he was vaguely regretting his life choices. "What's the difference?" He asked, old voice nearly sounding amused.
Miles' confidence faded with the end of his speech. He started fidgeting with his hands again. "… between California and Nevada?"
"Between the rooms."
Miles blinked. "Well for starters, rooms in California cost a dollar more."
Jacket man whistled. "Really? When did that happen? What makes 'em a dollar better?"
Miles shifted. "They're in… California."
"And that's worth a dollar?"
He raised his shoulders in a half-shrug. "Some people think so."
"You got a phone number for any of those people? Because I'd sure love to sell 'em one of these vacuums." Jacket man kicked one of his items and chuckled, awkwardly. You and the woman next to you looked at each other again. You were very genuinely starting to eye the door. "Hey, speaking of which, who handles your hospitality here at the hotel?" The man was asking Miles, who was looking nervous again.
"Currently… that is also me."
"Oh. Well… shit." The man said with a sigh. "We'll have to worry about that later."
"May I see a map of the hotel, please?" The priest asked. You were grateful for the distraction opportunity.
Miles passed a map across the counter. As the priest leaned over it, you leaned over too, getting as close as you dared to a stranger to glance down at the map. Miles was explaining something, rambling on about California and Nevada amenities, but you were more focused in on the map. The hotel was decently large, even if it was only the main lodge available. You wondered how gloriously busy it used to be. It was a thought that tugged at your heartstrings. Ghosted, once-loved places of glory got you weirdly emotional.
"So if we wanna drink," Jacket man was saying, "we gotta do it on that side of the room?" He gestured to California, which, while expensive, was apparently more accepting of alcohol.
"That is correct, sir." said Miles, who you were marveling at the tailored patience of. The clerk's eyes flicked down to the coffee cup in the man's hands, and he tilted his head slightly. "Also, coffee is twenty-five cents a cup."
The man was chuckling as he fished money from his pocket. "Let me guess, you're also the bartender?"
"That is correct, sir." Miles said softly.
"Alright. Well." He slapped a quarter on the table next to the priest. "Feel free to flip that if you need to make a decision, Father." He clapped the priest's back (who offered a small chuckle) and paced away, grumbling about how it was costing him money waiting around the hotel.
Your attention was pulled away from the urge to sock the guy in the face with the sound of a car ripping through the parking lot. All of you simultaneously leaned, trying to peer at whoever was making a racket. You only caught a glance of a blue car before you gave up on your attempt. The priest was still deciding on a room. He flipped the coin, smacked his hand on it, and smiled calmly at Miles. "Four. I'll take room four."
"I'll need one night in advance. Eight dollars." Miles was working at something behind the desk, and his gaze flicked to the cups of coffee. "And it's twenty-five cents for the coffee."
You wondered how hard his bosses were on him. What kind of bosses existed here, anyways? It was just him, as far as you'd seen, handling absolutely everything one could think of. The woman in yellow had sat down on a nearby bench, but you stood, leaned against the counter, watching as Miles pulled out a ledger for the priest to sign. He shot a small smile at the priest as he moved to grab a key, and something about it made your chest flip. You watched the priest sign the ledger—Father Daniel Flynn—and watched Miles pass the key over. His gaze swept over you, the woman, and the man remaining in the lobby.
"Who's next?"
Jacket man gestured for one of you to go. You nodded to the woman. "You were here first."
"Thank you," she murmured appreciatively before she stood. "May I have a room in Nevada please, Miles?"
You watched him retrieve a key, passing it over. "Room five."
"Uh…" The woman hesitated. "… is there another room available? Possibly further away?"
Miles was already apologetically shaking his head. "Um, those rooms have not been serviced and are unsuitable."
"He also does the housekeeping, remember?" Jacket man called unsuccessfully from where he was peering out at the parking lot, likely surveying whatever situation was unfolding outside.
"There are rooms in California available, ma'am." Miles said quietly to the women.
"Miles! She don't wanna be near the priest." The man exclaimed. Father Flynn awkwardly shifted on his feet as he turned to the man, pulling on his coat. "I mean, it's not like we didn't see her walkin' in here with her own bed rolls under her arms. No judgment on ya there, darlin'." Jacket man continued to ramble, chuckling at his own annoying ass. "Maybe you can talk to the Father here about, uh, Mary Magdalene and forgiveness and whatnot."
An awkward silence lingered for a moment. Miles and the woman were staring at each other with a sort of commiserative energy. The woman sighed slightly, shoulders shifting. "Room five will be fine." She declared softly.
The door opened rather loudly, bell above it dinging. You swung your head, watching a woman barge in looking all the part of a hippie. Sunglasses, outfit, general attitude as she stared at all of you, and then around the hotel lobby, surveying. You were still watching her as the woman gathered her money, only shifting aside when Father Flynn passed a quarter to the counter to pay for the woman's coffee. "Can I give you a hand to your room?" Father Flynn asked the woman as she finalized her payment, signed the ledger, and spun around with her key firmly clutched in her hand.
"No." She said quickly, then paused, taking a breath and slowly turning to face the man. "… sorry, Father, uh… that's very kind of you. But I can manage from here." She was quick to leave. The jacket man held the door for her and the priest, and as it swung shut, Miles shot a small smile at the three of you that remained. "Who's next?"
You glanced at the others, but considering you were closest to the desk and incredibly eager to no longer occupy the same room as the man with the jacket, so you stepped up to the reception desk. "Hi," You greeted with a small smile.
Miles' lips pulled into a small smile. "Hi."
"You are admirable for how well you've been handling everybody." You rifled through your bag. "I'd like a room in California, please. Closest one to the hotel."
"It's just… part of the job." He murmured, but you caught the smallest hint of a pleased look slip over his expression as he turned to grab a key. As you counted out the money—nine dollars, considering you were on the California side—Miles tapped at the ledger, voice softening.
"Please sign the ledger." He said quietly. You nodded, passed him the ledger, and picked up the pen.
Two names already marked the space of the page. Father Daniel Flynn, And Darlene Sweet, which firmly cemented the name of the woman in your head. You ducked your head down, clearing your throat slightly as you scribbled down your name. When you set the pen down and raised your head, you re-caught Miles' gaze, whose eyes flicked from your name to your face before he shot you another small smile and handed you the key. "Room 2A." He said softly. "Enjoy your stay."
"Thank you kindly, Miles." You said, nodding to him, before you turned, picked up your things, and started walking to the door. Jacket man held it open for you and you nodded. "Sir."
He nodded back at you. You spared a glance to the hippie lady one last time before you left. You couldn't see her eyes beneath the glasses. She seemed… off. Tense. Still, you shook it off. You were sure you were overthinking things.
You didn't have a destination in mind, but you drove north.
California was always California. Warmth and sunshine. You'd been in Nevada before the El Royale, surrounded by the jazzy life of Vegas for who knew how long, and the feeling of this was different. Gone were the slots, the applause, the alcohol. Instead, your car radio hummed The Beatles and you watched the world pass around you.
Miles was… Miles. He napped a lot, stared at the meds you’d bought him, looked out the window. You changed his bandages every morning with real bandages. You bought a cream that was supposed to help, something with aloe in it. He shivered when you applied it, avoided your gaze, but you could tell it helped, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He never really asked for anything, but you didn’t either. You’d burned the old clothes from the El Royale. The backseat was a nap spot when someone was exhausted. You didn't ask questions, and neither did Miles. But you didn't exactly talk, either.
One day, you found yourself parked on the side of the road, looking out over some landscape. You always seemed to be driving near national parks, but that was apparently what northern California had a lot of. You laid a spare blanket on the hood of your car, and you and Miles sat there, watching the sun creep towards the horizon as you studied his wounds.
"How's the stiffness?" You asked, blowing a light but purposeful breath against his face. Miles blinked, leaning back slightly as his gaze shifted from the landscape to you.
"Not as bad as yesterday," he mumbled. "It doesn't hurt too much when I grimace either."
"Well, that's good." You reached for the cream, humming as you dabbed some on your pointer finger and raised it to his face. "It's looking mighty fine."
"Really?" There was a mix of hope and skepticism in his voice. A raised eyebrow in your direction made your lips pull a little upwards.
To tell the truth? Of course it was different. But the damage hadn't been as bad as you'd initially feared. Miles' face was looking better. There was a bit of bruising now, but greater damages were starting to knit back together. His face still looked young, that same sweetness preserved. Nothing hindered his soft gaze, his lips parted slightly as he looked at you like you were holding everything up. You liked the way he looked. And the way he looked at you. But you didn't say that. You just nodded as you started to spread the cream over his face. "Yeah, really."
It was silent for a moment. You were so focused on your work that you didn't notice when Miles reached up and took your wrist in his hand. You paused, gaze shifting from his fingers to his eyes. "Sorry, did I hurt you?"
"No." He looked at you for a moment, possibly gauging your reaction to what he'd done, before he swallowed, cleared his throat, and scooted a little closer. "I wanted to talk about what we're doing."
"Oh. You mean…" You gestured loosely around you. Stupid car. Setting sun. Birdsong in the distance.
"Yeah." Miles released your wrist, and you let your hand fall in your lap as he blinked at you.
"What are we doing?" He said after another moment of silence.
You found you didn't have an answer for that. Your gaze drifted out over the landscape. It really was pretty. You hadn't had too much experience with California scenery like this—no, you were all about the beaches, before. Most of everybody liked beaches, they were easy to do. Push and pull of the California waves. Sticky ice cream and popsicles. That sort of thing. But you didn't know this. Any of this. At all. You didn't know what you were doing here, or anywhere, or where to go or what to do. You didn't know what you wanted. You didn't know why Miles had stuck around like this, or why you'd stuck with him. Were you both that much in the dark?
"… I don't know," you said finally, defeatedly, like you were confessing a sin. "I don't know what we're doing." The confession made you emotional for some reason, frustration bubbling in your chest. You sniffed, blinking rapidly. "I don't know." You said again, scrubbing at your face.
Silence for a moment.
"I don't know either."
You blinked over at Miles, feeling foolish for your tears, only to feel your shoulders easing when you found him looking at you with a small, almost sheepish smile.
"Isn't that good, though?" He said tentatively. "We can figure it out together."
You were too baffled to respond for a moment. You just stared at him. "And you want that?" You clarified finally, almost afraid to ask. "Doing… this together?"
He nodded very fast. Then paused, a pinkness spreading over his pretty cheeks. "I think it's worth it if you do. I don't have anything else to lose."
Well, that was a pleasant thought. For some reason, it made you smile, the fact that both of you had absolutely nothing anymore. You have him. A voice in your head said. You slapped it firmly and shot your smile at Miles. "I do think it's worth it." He smiled back, all shy and sweet, and that feeling in your chest shot you a raised eyebrow. You looked out at the scenery before it could deepen.
The two of you crossed the Oregon border and stopped in a small town. It was a nice town. Small, but established. You just needed a few days out of the car, walking around somewhere, feeling like you could live a somewhat normal life. You booked a room to stay in, actually unloaded your things from the car trunk, and let yourselves breathe for a bit. Miles slept for twelve hours straight. You let him. He deserved it. Nobody asked too many questions here, which you appreciated. You bought some new supplies, loaded up on gas, and came back just two minutes before Miles started stirring under the covers of his bed.
You turned your head from where you were organizing new supplies on the other bed. "Good afternoon."
"I'm very sorry to…" He yawned. "… keep you waiting, I didn't realize-"
"Miles." You interrupted him softly, lips pulling into a small smile. "We're not at the El Royale."
"Oh." He paused, raising his head slightly to blink around the room. "… right." He was groggy, sitting upright in bed and watching as you sorted through your newly purchased items. A new outfit for Miles, a shirt and pants, was tossed at him, and he caught it mindlessly, blinking down at the fabric. "How do you have so much money?"
You'd been expecting the question for a week now—you were surprised he hadn't asked you sooner. It was an honest question. You had a lot of money. The kind that wasn't rich, but comfortable. Miles didn't snoop, but he'd probably seen glimpses of you retrieving bills from your duffel bag.
"I… came from Vegas." You admitted. Your back was to him as you folded a new outfit you'd bought, fingers running over the fabric to soothe yourself. "I'd worked at a casino there for a few years. Learned all the ins and outs. But I got tired of the life there, and the people I'd meet."
You exhaled a slow breath, shifting uncomfortably. You'd entertained the idea of leaving for months previously, but it had never seemed probable. There was always something or someone in your way. The weekend rush, a special event, something for you to fix, an angry higher-up. You'd always been nobody, sneaking by on a decent wage that let you live in the most glamorous, hopeful place in America. Which was, of course, entirely bullshit. You cleared your throat, blinking away the memories, and continued. "So one night, I was off of work. I went to another casino nearby, another rich one, where nobody knew me. Thought I could maybe have a drink without someone trying to gossip about our bosses with me. But then I'm there, and this lady comes over to me and asks if I was any kind of lucky."
"Are you?" Miles asked quietly behind you.
You turned your head. He wasn't looking at you judgmentally, just quietly, a sort of light in his eyes. You realized this was the most you'd ever said to him at one time.
Lips twitching, you shrugged as you sat on your bed, hands in your lap as you faced him. "Well, I'll let you decide. I tell this lady 'sorta', and she takes my arm, drags me to this table with a bunch of rich people. This guy, either her husband or her lover, asks me if I know how to play poker. I say yes, because I do. Poker's everywhere, not just in Vegas. But it's always different in Vegas." You took in a breath, gripping at your pants. "The guy makes me stand next to him, and the lady's practically humping his back. But he's got a good hand. A great hand. Clearly doesn't think it's good, though. He asks me what I think. Everyone around the table's not paying any attention, because everybody's drunk. But I just nod and say 'do it'. And he does do it. And he wins."
"… a lot of money?" Miles asked quietly. You nodded. His eyes got a little bigger. "And you got some of it?"
"They gave me a quarter of the winnings. I barely even did anything and those rich folks just gave me some." You laugh a little. "Scared the shit out of me. I'd never had so much money just belong to me. I quit and left town as fast as possible before some coworker heard and tried to jump me."
His eyes widened even more. "People would do that to you?"
"People would do a lot for money." You said, falling a little quiet. Darlene. Father fucking Flynn. Even Billy Lee and his group. Everyone always searched for money, were desperate for it.
You cleared your throat slightly, turning your gaze back to the things you bought. "I'm trying to be smart about it." You said eventually.
"You're using it for me." Miles said it like he was coming to a realization, glancing down with that wide gaze at the clothes in his hands. He shook his head slowly, licking his lips. "You- you don't need to do this. Don't need to worry about me like this."
"Miles." You stopped him firmly, reaching over to touch his leg. He froze at the contact, staring at you. Rabbit eyes, you thought, that look he got when he was surprised and debating his level of reaction. "I don't want to spend this any way but for the two of us." You said firmly as you met his gaze. You were surprised by how fully you meant it, how the regret didn't wash over you immediately.
Miles stared at you like you'd announced your dreams to be a circus traveler. Which, hey, maybe that would be the best option for the two of you. However, before you could get that joke out, his hand reached out, closing over your own. Fingers curled slightly around your hand as he took it, squeezed it, and nodded. "… thank you." Miles whispered hoarsely. "That's all I can say."
"That's all you need to." You responded with a nod. "I'll keep saying that kinda stuff until you believe it." He squeezed your hand one last time, then let it go. The warmth stayed. And you let yourself believe it could last this time.
Two weeks ago. Room 2A of the El Royale. California side.
You were bored out of your fucking mind. You'd never been good at willing yourself to sleep. Nor were you staying long enough to unpack your belongings. Instead, you'd dragged everything inside, locked the door, and laid sprawled out on a bed while you stared at the ceiling. You tried to remember why you'd paid for such a damn expensive room. The others weren't serviced. What does that guy do all day behind that desk? There can't be that much to do, nobody else was even staying here.
You pressed your face into the sheets, where the faint smell of some detergent pressed at your senses. They really were nice beds. You couldn't remember the last time you'd slept on a bed this nice. Maybe a shower or a bath would be nice. Something to kill the time before you found something to eat. Now that you thought of that, though, had there even been anything to eat in that lobby? An image conjured in your mind. Miles the all-around hotel worker, nervous-faced, squinting over a pan while he poked at a chicken breast like it would hurt him. The El Royale's featured gourmet, anxious pretty boys and all.
You sat up and checked the bathroom. There was a shower and a bath. Sink. It was well-furnished… aside from the fact there were no towels. You restrained a groan as you shoved your key in your pocket. A journey it was, then.
The lobby was eerily empty when you came in. The door swung open and closed with a slight creak, and you cast an apprehensive gaze over the area. The late afternoon light still came in from outside as you descended the steps, glancing around. You located some kind of food machines in one section, beneath something titled Refreshments. The thought amused you—what kind of ex-famous hotel had food machines like that?—but you'd ask about it if you could get ahold of the man overlooking the place. You stood awkwardly at the desk for a moment before you tentatively tapped on the bell. It barely dinged, but the sound bounced off the walls. You dinged it a little firmer. There was another scuffling noise behind the door. A head poked out before a body did, Miles blinking over at you like he was deciding if you were real or not.
You offered a small smile, folding your hands in front of you. "Hello."
"… hello." His voice was hoarse. He cleared it and tried again. "Hi. Sorry if I took—"
"Don't worry, I just rang it." You said reassuringly. The man nodded, stepping out from behind the door and starting to struggle with his jacket. "You don't have to do that," you said, watching him. "It's just me."
"Company policy, I insist." He pulled it on, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "What, uh, can I do for you, uh…?" He trailed off, blinking down behind the desk. He murmured your name as he glanced up at you, and something about it made you smile a little wider.
"Oh. I, um, I wanted to take a shower or a bath but I didn't have any towels."
You could've told Miles the world was ending and he probably would've made the same expression of horror. His mouth dropped open, a small gasp leaving him. "I am very sorry, so sorry, that is a very big problem and I'm sorry you had to walk all the way over to tell me—"
"Woah, hey, no, it's alright." You blinked, almost laughing but ending it in more of an exhale. "Really, that's okay. You're handling this whole place alone, it must be rough."
"I should've remembered." Miles had ducked under the reception desk. You resisted the urge to lean over and look at him as he rustled around beneath. "I am so sorry, we have towels right here, they're cleanly washed and—" He raised up with a giant stack of towels in his head. You never thought you'd meet such a hotel worker who nervously overcompensated with insane amounts of towels.
"Oh. My." You blinked as Miles set the towels down and leaned to the side, looking at you nervously. "Thank you. This is more than enough, and really, it's no trouble. Again, you're the only person here, it seems a lot to take care of."
"It's… my job." He smoothed down his shirt, shooting a nervous smile in your direction.
"Well, thank you for the towels, Miles." You turned your head and nodded towards the food machines. "Are those the food options?"
"Yes, they are."
"Are they any good?" You swiveled your head back to Miles, whose eyebrows started raising so high you thought they'd leave his face and float into the ceiling. He paused, licking his lips, eyes darting from the distant food items to you. Then to the ground.
He shifted. "Um."
"Will I not get food poisoning, at the very least?" You said, lips twitching.
Miles caught the almost-smile. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, which you were relieved about, because he had almost looked ready to cry and you weren't sure if you could deal with that right now. He nodded after a moment, his own lips almost quirking. "I haven't yet." He said softly.
"You eat from those?" You said incredulously, gesturing to the machines with no small amount of alarm.
Miles fidgeted with his hands as they rested on the reception desk. "That… would be correct, yes."
"Well, gosh. What's your favorite? Got a recommendation?"
His eyes moved from you. To the food. To you again. A minute later, both of you were standing in front of the Refreshments section, awkwardly surveying the selection of dodgily preserved food. You decided this was the most fascinating hotel you'd ever been to. Miles cleared his throat, shifting as he pointed to the sandwiches. "Those are very bad. But they taste better in the morning, so I would… suggest that for a breakfast if you didn't want pie."
"Noted." You turned your head to him, more watching him now than the pie display spinning in an endless circle. "So pie's the best choice, then? No Fruit-o-Matic?"
"The Fruit-O-Matic is… operational," Miles said slowly. "Though the El Royale's pies are still revered as a staple of the resort."
"You don't have to sales pitch me." You said softly, tilting your head with a smile. You stepped past him, shaking some change into your palm to insert into the pie machine. "You want anything?"
"Oh, no, thank you. You're the guest, anyways." Miles said from behind you, sounding a little awkward at the question.
"Suit yourself."
The pie did look like the most promising item available, and it was appetizing. You shoveled it down quickly for an early dinner—you'd eat an early breakfast when you got up tomorrow—before you thanked Miles again for the towels, reaching for the pile. "Would you like some help?" Miles stood at the corner of your vision, hands clasped in front of him.
"You've done plenty already, Miles, don't worry about me." You shot him what you hoped was a reassuring smile as you juggled the towels in your arms. "I'd appreciate you holding the door on the way out, though."
"Oh. Yes, of course." He nodded, following you as you navigated your way back to the door, peering around the pile of towels and feeling half-blind. As Miles pulled the heavy lobby door open, you took in a breath, the smell of distant rain on your tongue.
"Hm. Smells like a storm's comin'." You murmured, peering up at the sky as you stepped out. You turned to Miles, smiling again, who was looking at the sky with the most sweetly befuddled expression you'd ever seen. "I hope you keep warm tonight. Thank you for the towels, I'm the most well-furnished in the hotel now."
He opened his mouth, lips forming a 'O'. "The El Royale tries to make sure all of its guests have equal accommodations—"
You shot him a look. "Miles."
His lips pulled up, just a little bit, which was a victory you hadn't expected to gain today. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Have a nice night, alright? I mean it when I say stay warm."
"Thank you," he murmured, gaze flicking away from you. "You have a good evening as well."
You nodded before you stepped away fully. The door closed behind you, and you watched the sky, eyes scanning over the distant clouds that would soon roll in. You just sighed and hefted the towels higher. It was bath time.
You woke to Johnny Cash on the radio and the familiar rumble-rumble of the road under your car.
For a moment, you didn't move, sleep still hazing the edges of your mind. It was late, so dark you couldn't see out the windows in the back. But you weren't scared. You were nestled comfortably in the backseat of your car, a warm blanket pulled over your body, and Miles was driving. He'd insisted on it more often lately. He said you drove too much, that you deserved your rest as much as he did. You hadn't been sure how to acknowledge it, much less how to thank him, so you'd just nodded, asked if he was sure, and let him take the wheel. Even with one eye compromised, he was a good driver. A safe driver. You couldn't remember the last time you'd truly felt safe with someone. You sat up slightly, exhaling as you rubbed at your eyes. A yawn stretched from your lips as you glanced at Miles.
"Hi." He greeted before you could say anything, voice quiet. He didn't turn his head, but you saw him glance in the rear view mirror at you.
"Hey." You cleared your throat, shifting in your spot. "How you doing?"
"I'm alright."
"How's the gas? What time is it?"
"We'll need to pull over and use the can soon. We're almost out." Miles shifted slightly, glancing down where your watch was resting on the console. "It's almost four in the morning."
Even though he couldn't see you, you nodded, rubbing at your eyes. "Well, just pull over whenever we need to refill." You murmured, leaning against one side of the car and gazing out at the window. Forest rushed by around you, mostly blanketed by the night. The two of you had been tracing through Oregon blindly, heading northeast. At the time, you were seeing where the wind blew you. Unfortunately, the wind didn't seem to want you to settle down yet.
It was silent for a bit. You couldn't find yourself falling back asleep, so you just… watched. Watched Miles drive without fear, his hands neatly at ten and two, the radio rumbling with the reassuring buzz of static. He seemed tired tonight. Weighted. You knew how long drives felt, how in silence your thoughts had plenty of time to catch up to you. You shifted forward slightly, elbows on your knees as you spoke lowly, brave after your recent awakening. "Can I ask you something? About the El Royale?"
There was a slight tightening of his posture. Miles cleared his throat before speaking. "I, uh. Why are you curious about that?"
"I guess I've just been thinking a lot about that place. Everything that happened there." You watched him as best you could, softening your voice. "I won't ask more if you don't want me to."
Miles shook his head quickly. "No, no, it's… it's fine." He was definitely lying, but his voice was convincing enough that you nearly believed him. "… what do you want to know?"
You took in a soft inhale, moving closer. The radio was mumbling something familiar—That Makes Two of Us—and it filled the silence as you took a second to organize your thoughts. "When did you start working there?" You asked finally. Maybe it was easier to start at the beginning.
Miles hummed, rubbing his thumb gently along the steering wheel. "I was freshly back stateside. When I got discharged… I didn't…" He trailed off, taking in a shaky breath. "I didn't want to go home. And, I couldn't, really, there was nothin' there. So, I worked service jobs. Nobody was nice to me. Nobody was ever nice to me. And one night, I meet this man." His thumb tapped anxiously against the steering wheel. You caught his lip trembling as he took in a breath. "Said there was a hotel that needed staff. And I was desperate. So I applied. Was, uh… was the only thing I had goin' for me. And the more I did things, the deeper I dug the hole, and I just… I couldn't leave. Because I had nothin'."
"You really don't have anyone out there anymore?" You couldn't keep the shock from your voice. The words of Flynn echoed in your head. Recordings and tapes and secret passageways. How long had he done that? How long had he been forced to? Thinking how it was his only option, the only way he could live.
Miles shifted, cagey, in the driver's seat. "… yeah." He mumbled weakly.
"What that man said a while ago," you started slowly. "about you recording people and sending it. Is that all true?"
"Yes." Miles' voice trembled, and for a moment, you almost apologized. But he took in a shaky breath, sniffing, and continued. "I… I didn't have anything, and I needed money so I could buy things to keep me feeling good, I just- I needed to, even though I didn't want to, but I didn't have anything—"
"Hey. Hey. Shh." You leaned forward before you could stop yourself, touching at his shoulder. Miles flinched slightly at the touch, but he didn't move away as your hand curled over his shoulder.
"Pull over." You instructed softly.
Miles pulled over. You refilled the gas wordlessly. Left the backseat of the car and stood in the middle of the night, ringed by woods and the most lonely road you'd ever seen. Strangely enough, though, it didn't feel lonely. Miles had cracked the window open, you realized. Soft notes of music drifted through the air from the crack. The car was alive and warm beneath your palm as you fought with the gas can. When you'd refilled the gas, you slid into the passenger seat, turning slightly to look at Miles. There was a tear tracing down his face, his head bowed as he looked down at his hands in his lap.
You leaned over, thumb gently smoothing away the tear. You let your touch linger, finding it moving to his chin as you turned his face your way. He let you, surprisingly enough. Miles Miller, you thought, almost surprised by how fiercely you liked even the notion of his name. You'd both shared things as you journeyed. You knew his name. You knew he was from Indiana. You knew he had nothing. You knew he liked music and cardigans. And you'd wondered, but never pushed, about the way he gazed at the different medicines you'd bought for him like they were a cliff he was toeing the line of.
So I could buy things to keep me feeling good.
"Do you think I'm terrible?"
It surprised you to hear him speak first. He hadn't moved from your touch—instead, his face lingered in your palm, pressing slightly into it. His one watery eye gazed at you, and you could picture his face without the bandages a mere few weeks ago, a teary and sobbing boy in the middle of a hotel. "No." You answered softly, swallowing down the lump in your throat. "I think you're quite wonderful, actually."
"I've done so much." Miles whispered, voice thickening. "You don't even know. The hotel, it was… it was barely anything. I've done so much bad."
"I know." You nodded, gaze searching over his face. You brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, watching it tremble beneath your touch, and wondering if you were toeing your own cliff. "You might think you're terrible. Or a sinner." You murmured. You'd seen him praying plenty since you'd started traveling together. You knew he was religious. He had bought a rosary a few weeks ago after leaving his old one in the hotel. "But do you want to know what I see? I see you lighting up when certain songs come on the radio."
"I've killed so many people." Miles choked out, shoulders shaking. Yet his eyes didn't leave yours. "I've watched men get blown up. I never flinched when I looked down the sights and took a shot."
"I see you in the early mornings, breathing in every sunrise." You countered gently. "I see you when you talk to people in restaurants and diners or read the paper in the morning with some coffee."
"I-I've watched women get beaten and I've done nothin' about it. I've cleaned up so many terrible things and never said a word." Miles continued, though his voice was a little weaker.
"And you helped that lady in that town a few days ago water her flowers," You said gently. "You help me unpack and repack the car every time we're going to a hotel, and you always ask me how I am the first thing in the morning."
"I'm terrible." Miles said quietly. "I killed five people in that hotel lobby."
"And you saved five." You said firmly.
He blinked, frowning slightly. "There were only four people."
You shook your head. "No." Your free hand reached over, settling on his chest. "You saved yourself too, Miles. And you have been trying every single day since then to be better. And you are good."
He stared at you for a moment like he couldn't quite believe everything he was hearing. For a moment, you thought he'd finally explode and slip and yell. You hadn't heard him yell before, and you couldn't help but wonder if he ever really had. Then one shaky hand covered your own on his chest, fingers curling around your hand as he squeezed softly. "Do you really believe that?" Miles asked, searching your gaze.
You held eye contact and nodded, letting your thumb brush over his chin. "With every piece of my soul." Miles exhaled slowly, like something trapped inside of him was being let out. His gaze fell away, and he finally retracted from your touch. You let him.
"I'm tired." He said finally, voice hoarse.
You just nodded and opened the passenger seat. "Get in the back. I'll drive."
It was raining outside, and Miles wasn't back.
You'd been trying to restrain your anxiety for the better part of a hour—and, of course, you had entirely failed. The hotel room had become ten times smaller. You'd paced the room more times than you could count. You'd anxiously reorganized your supplies twice. You had nothing left to do but worry. Three days since you'd talked with Miles. The two of you were still in Oregon, though you had no idea where. You'd been tired the last few days. Awkward and overthinking everything you'd said. Miles had felt different. Stiff and quiet and still, like he was afraid to move. The two of you had barely spoken. You felt like you'd messed everything up by pushing too deep, trying to gouge open old wounds and act like you knew anything about a man you'd traveled with for only a month. You'd told yourself repeatedly not to panic, but the facts were laid clear and plain. Miles had left two hours ago to take a walk and clear his head. It had started raining. And he wasn't back. You felt like you were losing your mind.
The wind rattled at the window, and you flinched from where you sat on one of the beds. You put your head in your hands, trying both to fight back your panic and block out the sounds of the steady downpour outside. In any other situation, you might've found it soothing, but this only increased your spiral. Had Miles left? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Had somebody seen his bandaged head and decided to mug him? Or had he just grown tired of you? Had he grown tired of your questions? Had he thought you were mocking him or a liar? You didn't want to hurt him. He was sweet. You'd been so sincere when you said all you did the other day. He was good. So, so good, and you wished he would see that, but maybe it was too damn late—
A hand rapped at the door.
You sat straight up, breath catching in your throat. Jumping off the bed, you didn't even check through the peephole to see who it was before you were unlocking the hotel door and throwing it open. Miles Miller stood in the hallway, soaked to the bone, your borrowed coat tugged close to his form as his nose dripped with raindrops. His gaze tracked from the floor to your face, and he started to open his mouth.
You didn't even think before you flung your arms around him. "Oh, thank God."
Miles froze, standing there for a second. Then, an arm snaked around your back, resting above your waist. You felt him exhale as he leaned his head down, nuzzling slightly against the top of your head, and relief flooded through you so surely at the motion that it made you light-headed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled against your head. "I was trying to find a way back quicker."
"Shh." You squeezed him, firmly. "I'm just glad you're alright."
Miles released a noise that sounded like a laugh—which was absolutely impossible, because Miles Miller didn't laugh, right?—when you suddenly felt something shift under the coat which was unmistakably not one of his arms. You paused. "Miles."
"Please don't be mad." He murmured, still holding you against him like he was trying to drink the warmth from your body. You slowly pulled back from the hug and lowered your gaze to the middle of his coat. With an expression so guilty you nearly thought he was smuggling drugs, Miles pulled the coat aside to reveal…
… a kitten. A shivering, soaked-to-the-bone, grey-furred kitten who blinked up at you and mewled like it was saying hello. "Oh." You said lamely.
"Please don't be mad." Miles repeated pathetically, blinking at you.
You bit down on your lip, but it didn't stop the smile from forming on your face. "Come in, you lovely man, and close that door behind you."
Miles blinked again, and then smiled a little, stepping inside. "Who is this?" You asked, gesturing to the cat as you ducked inside the bathroom. You rummaged around and grabbed a towel before returning. Miles slowly set the cat down on his bed, where the kitten curled up in a ball and blinked up at the two of you with a baffled expression.
"I… found them." He shed the coat, hanging it up near the door as he slipped off his shoes. "It had already started to rain when I started back, but I heard this little sound underneath the steps of the church—"
"You went to a church?" You cut him off, raising your head from where you were gently patting off the kitten with a towel. Miles paused, fidgeting with his hands in that way you'd grown irresponsibly fond of.
"There's… a church a ways away. I saw it when we pulled into town. I thought-" Miles paused, readjusting. "I wanted to go."
Your head pinged the date sluggishly, as if clicking a piece into place. How long had he wanted to go to a church for? How had you not asked yet? How had you been so stupid? "… shit, Miles, I'm sorry. I didn't realize." You softened your voice as you rubbed at the kitten, who had unsteadily started to rumble in your hands. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I… don't know." Miles admitted. He couldn't seem to decide whether to look at you or the kitten. "I just… I wanted to go. Needed to. I didn't want you to worry about me. I needed to… get some things off my chest."
"They had confession?" You asked, raising your head to him.
He nodded, slowly. He definitely wasn't looking at you this time. You scanned over him. Dripping, soaked-through form and a sort of mixture in body language. Heaviness and confusion. "… you didn't go." You realized slowly.
Miles flinched, like you realizing was another sin upon itself. "I-I couldn't." He said finally, all shaky and soft. "I just- I couldn't. The time wasn't right. I just sat there and prayed and it didn't work, I couldn't will myself to go in like everyone else." His gaze dropped to the kitten. "So I left. And I heard them beneath the church and I just… couldn't leave that. So I grabbed them and came back."
"Oh, Miles." You said softly. Your heart very often felt like it was ripping in half lately, but this was especially one of those cases. Sweet, tortured boy. You flashed back to the conversation a few days ago. How could someone be so scared for themselves that they even avoided something they thought could save them?
"I'm sorry." Miles mumbled.
"Don't apologize, please. You don't have anything to apologize for." You said firmly, blinking a few times so he didn't see you start to tear up. "I just want you safe. Will you go shower for me? I'll look after our new friend. Just… breathe for a moment in there. Take your time."
Miles locked eyes with you for a moment, as if checking you were sure, but he nodded eventually, disappearing behind weathered hotel doors. You only released a full breath when you heard the water turn on. The kitten in your arms was young, but not a baby. Nine weeks old, maybe. Still small and shaky, but with open eyes and a strong little body. The fur was matted, and they were underfed, but otherwise, miraculously healthy. No ticks or fleas. No injuries. No hurt limbs. Just a cold little kitten. You flipped them over. They were—she was—a resilient little thing. "No wonder the two of you found each other," you murmured to the kitten as she nuzzled into one of the pillows on Miles' bed, blinking at you quietly. "Kindred spirits, huh?"
You sat on Miles' bed, hands folded in your lap, for some unknown amount of time. Your thoughts wandered as you stared out the window, watching the rain hit the glass. The storm had intensified slightly, distant thunder now rumbling, but inside it was safe and warm. Warm lights and soft sheets. The kitten had wandered to your lap at some point and was curled up. You still felt guilty. Overwhelmingly so. Not even the soft fur of a little being could help you. Were you an asshole? Were you ignorant? You should have thought of Miles. Over a month of traveling together, of seeing him praying and staring at nothing at all sometimes. You should've been better. You'd been cowardly these last few weeks, you'd come to realize. You'd been too scared to toe at more than you absolutely needed to. Never pushing, never digging, never asking what he needed. You were experienced, you weren't an idiot to what people might need when they were going through things. You should've been more observant, more ready to try and help him. It was foolish to think that just words could soothe anything, especially from you. What the hell were you thinking-
A soft murmur of your name caught at your ears. You blinked once, then again, hard, and raised your head from where you'd been staring blankly at the floor. You were immediately met with the sight of Miles standing in a towel—and only a towel—with mussed hair and eased shoulders and the prettiest quirk to his lip and- holy shit, Miles was mostly naked.
You nearly snapped your neck with how fast you turned your head away. "Oh, Miles—"
"Sorry! Sorry." He shifted back, half hiding behind the bathroom door. "Sorry, I just… I didn't grab clothes and I was checking on the cat—"
"Right, right, no, it's fine." You were rambling over him as quick as you could. "It's… it's all okay. You grab your clothes."
Miles nodded slowly and re-entered the room. He leaned over on the other side of the bed, rifling through his recently purchased duffel bag. All you could see was his back, bare and still a little damp, and that was… entirely more than you deserved. Your neck was hurting from how hard it was turned around without disturbing the kitten on your lap, but you found you couldn't tear your gaze away from him. Miles' back was all pale and smooth, a few moles, muscles subtly flexing under his skin. You hadn't expected him to have any muscles, especially after everything he'd been through recently, but he did. Subtle yet certain. You took in a slow breath, fingers sinking deeper into the furry ball in your lap. Your fingers itched to reach out—trace lines between the moles, feel him breathing beneath your palm. You wanted to touch him. You wanted him—Miles leaned back up, and you tore your eyes away so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.
"How are they?" He asked softly. It took you a moment to realize he was asking about the kitten.
"Oh. She's- she's good. And she's a she." You looked down at the kitten, who was blinking up at Miles as he approached to glance down at her. "She's a bit malnourished, but no broken bones, fleas, ticks. It's honestly remarkable that she isn't more hurt."
Miles hummed softly, extending a finger. The kitten stretched out her neck, sniffing at him, then bumping her cheek against his finger. "Thank you, Lord," you heard Miles murmur. That tenseness in your chest eased slightly.
A few minutes later, Miles re-emerged with fresh clothes on. You had him sit on his bed, taking the time to reassess his facial situation. Over a month of constant care, with medication, creams, bandages, and constant cleaning, and his face was looking much better. More an issue now of muscle and skin tissue binding itself back together now. You'd honestly never seen wounds recover so well before. "They're looking really good." You murmured, leaning over Miles to study his face. You held your breath as you gently touched at his face, watching for his reaction. "You can start going without bandages, too. Looks like everything's closed up for the most part. Your skin tissue is mostly what's recovering."
"And that's good?" Miles asked. His gaze was focused on you, and for a moment, you lost your train of thought. Soft blue eyes and mussed hair gazed up at you. He looked so soft tonight—clothed comfortably, a dozing kitten in his lap. You were surprised by the sudden vision in your head of seeing him like this for the rest of your life. Your name being spoken pulled you from your thoughts, and you blinked. Miles' hand was touching at your wrist, his head slightly tilted. "Are you okay?" He asked slowly.
You swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Sorry, I'm fine, I'm just…" Preoccupied. Worried. Tired. Losing my mind. Questioning how I really feel about you. "… I was just focused. Yes, it's good. You'll scar, likely, but… you're healing really well, Miles."
"A miracle." His lips pulled into a small smile, the kind of expression you'd grown used to. His eyes ran over your face. "You're… you're a miracle. How are you so experienced with medicine? You seem… very knowledgeable in the areas of first aid."
You hesitated slightly, fingers lingering where his jaw met his neck. You pulled back, taking in a slow breath as you reached to grab some medicinal cream. The scent of medicine hit your nose as you opened the jar, smearing a small amount on your thumb. "… so you know how you were in Vietnam?" You questioned quietly. Miles nodded as your gaze returned to him, those intent eyes searching your expression. "Well… I was too." You murmured, leaning forward. Your thumb swiped cream over his wounded side, and you pretended not to see how Miles' eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts forming beneath his gaze as he stared at you.
"You're- you were a nurse?" He stammered out.
"Mhm." You hummed, tongue poking out slightly as you concentrated to see where you had and hadn't applied the cream. "Served in three different stations. Twelve month tour."
"… wow." Miles' lips parted slightly, and he took in a shaky breath. "That… musta been hard."
"You were a soldier." You shot him a vaguely amused look, raising an eyebrow. "You know as well as I do."
"Some would argue it's worse to see someone die when it's your job to save 'em." He responded quietly.
"Who argues that?"
"… some people."
"Hmm." You smiled a little as you stepped back, screwing the lid back on the jar of cream and studying the face before you. "I dunno. I try… try not to think about it." As opposed to Miles, who had clearly thought about what he'd done so much it was trying to destroy him.
Miles' jaw wavered as he watched you grab more bandages. "How can you do it?" He whispered hoarsely. "Live with everything you saw? Everything that happened around or because of you?"
You hesitated, picking at the edge of a bandage. "I don't know, I guess I just..." You said. You made a downward pushing motion with one hand. "Not that it's healthy, but they never really taught us about mental health in wartime matters."
Miles smiled a little, which took you by surprise. His shoulders eased slightly as he looked up at you, a certain light in his eyes you hadn't seen before. "I guess… that makes two of us?" He said quietly. Almost hopeful, really. And how could you deny somebody their hope when you hadn't seen it in them before?
"Yeah." You took in a slow breath and leaned forward, starting to wrap his head carefully. "That's reassuring, I guess." You nodded down at the cat in his lap. "Three of us, I suppose."
"We're keeping her?" The hope in his voice bolted through you again. You nodded a little, looking at Miles.
"Would you like to?"
He stared at you. Maybe surprised that it mattered to you, what he wanted. You just held his gaze firmly as you finished wrapping his head. When you started to pull back, his hand caught at your wrist again. A thumb gently smoothed along the skin of your hand, those blue eyes locked on your own. Miles leaned in slightly, like he wanted to pierce your bubble and live in your space. "Thank you." He said softly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." Your heart jumped in your chest. You prayed he couldn't feel your pulse under his fingers. His statement was so wholehearted. So honest. Forcing down the lump in your throat, you nodded and leaned closer to him, smiling a little in a way that felt anything but the casual expression you were going for. "You're welcome, Miles Miller. I think you're pretty wonderful too."
One and a half months ago. The El Royale.
It had been raining for some time now. You had only started to be bothered by it because there was a leak in your roof. The El Royale was a run-down hotel by now, an old kind of luxury that had been worn and sanded down. Failing reputation had left it as a bastion manned by one incredibly endearing worker, and you doubted anybody else checked in a lot. It seemed like way too much for one person to handle, so you didn't hold it against Miles for not being an expert in roof integrity. Still, it was beginning to worry you how much your roof was leaking. What had started out as a drip so light and infrequent you thought your mind was playing tricks on you had escalated into a near constant drip of water directly onto one of the beds in your room. You'd laid down all the spare towels from your earlier bath, but as you watched with your hands on your hips, you realized that this may be something that needed more. Like a bucket. Or ten buckets.
You peered out one of your windows into the storm. Night had fallen, blanketing the El Royale in a wash of neon lights (from the hotel's sign) that were only as bright as they were because the rainfall made every surface shine. You could see your car from here, getting a firm beatdown in the rain. No other signs of life. You wondered if anybody else had been unlucky enough to get a leaky roof too. You sighed, straightening your shoulders and turning around to grab your key. Even though you were already feeling absolutely terrible at the thought of trying to find Miles late in the night, you would feel even worse if you left in the morning to a ruined roof and bed. You took in a breath and opened your door to face the rain.
The downfall wasn't as bad as you expected. You found a way to edge under a roof most of the way, listening to thunder and watching lightning occasionally flash in the sky above. It felt good, honestly—you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rain like this. Everywhere deserved a good storm from time to time. You could excuse getting a little damp considering your hotel room was going through the same thing. You wiped off your face and pushed the door open to the lobby, unable to stop the yawn pulled from your throat, when your eyes caught on the scene in front of you. There was a girl swinging from the chandelier in the middle of the room. The hippie woman from earlier was turning towards you. And Miles, sweet hotel worker Miles, was tied to a chair, the left side of his face bloody. You froze where you stood.
"What the fuck?" You exclaimed.
"Aw, shit—" The woman was reaching for something leaned against a chair opposite Miles. Pure instinct drove you, and you darted forward, ducking down behind some pillar in the room with your hands over your head.
"WAIT!" You shrieked.
"Get the fuck up right now!" The woman shouted.
"DON'T SHOOT ME, ARE YOU INSANE?!" You shouted back.
"I ain't never been more sure of somethin' in my life." The woman hissed out, her voice starkly cold. "I've got a gun aimed towards where you're hiding right now. Get. Up. Raise your hands. And move slowly."
There was still a girl swinging on the chandelier. It was creaking in the silence, thunder rumbling distantly. You blew out a slow breath and stood slowly, raising your hands above your head as you took small, careful steps out from behind the pillar. Indeed, there was a gun aimed right at your chest—shotgun, it seemed, though you supposed any gun would be bad and the make of it didn't matter. "There you go." The woman nodded, keeping a sharp-eyed gaze firmly on you. "Nice and slow. Come towards me."
You kept walking slowly, ever-constantly aware of the silence oppressively suspending the room. The only person who didn't seem to feel this tension was the girl swinging on the chandelier, who, although she was watching the interaction, seemed satisfied to continue having her own fun. As you stepped closer, Miles came into view, and your eyes found each other. He'd been crying, his shoulders shaking slightly as he choked back sobs. He bit at his lip, watery gaze looking at you with this mix of hopelessness and fear and pain.
"Miles," you called. "are you okay?"
"What kinda dumb question is that?" The woman scoffed.
You swung your head back to her. "The fuck happened to him? You shot him?"
"He was collateral."
Your blood went cold and your pace faltered. "You shot someone else?"
The woman stared at you for a moment. Her gaze was distant for a moment, almost remorseful, like she was looking down a long line of terrible, horrible things. "I did." She said finally.
"Who?"
"That's none of your damn business." She nodded her head to the chair opposite of Miles. "Sit down."
Your gaze went back to Miles, and you hesitated. "He's hurt," you addressed the woman. "Please, can I just check him—"
"He's alive." You didn't move as she stepped closer, but you did flinch when you felt metal press into your back. Her voice was lower, closer to your ear now when she spoke again. "And I have a very low thread of patience tonight, so I'd suggest doin' what I tell you."
You couldn't tear your gaze from Miles, who was just staring at the two of you. Color had drained further from his face when the gun had been pressed to your back. For his sake, at least, you decided to listen. You hoped your gaze apologized more than any words could as you slowly sank into the chair opposite of him. "You come alone?" The woman asked, then called over to the other girl. "Get down here. I need your help."
The girl didn't object, though she did huff as she stopped swinging. She dropped off the chandelier, boots thudding on the ground as she lightly skipped over. You met her eyes as she stood in front of you, tensing slightly. There was something else about these two. This girl—something sharp and hollow lingered in her eyes as she took a piece of rope from her sister's hands and wrapped it around you. The whole time, you kept your eyes locked on what part of Miles you could. He was teary, shaking, looking at you apologetically.
"It's going to be okay." were the first words out of your mouth. You'd never fancied yourself a liar, not before, but you couldn't stand the tortured way he was looking at you.
"Maybe." The girl chirped, sounding very cheerful for what this situation was. She scampered back over to her area, clambering up her setup of haphazard furniture to grab onto the chandelier again. Miles flinched at the noise, shoulders curving into himself, and you blinked as you watched her. What in the world was she—
"Why did you kill someone?" You found yourself asking, craning your head to lock eyes with the woman standing just behind you. "And why was he collateral?"
She looked down at you, jaw working, and you saw a flicker of something in her eyes. Remorse? Caution? "Do you know what's going on at this hotel?" She said finally.
Your gaze narrowed, nerves tensing your body. "What do you mean?"
"So that's a no." She took in a slow breath, shifting the gun in her hand and setting it aside. The woman's gaze flicked to Miles, and she raised an eyebrow—part pity, part sardonic. "You wanna say, or should I?" Miles swallowed thickly. He looked between the woman, and you, and suddenly hiccuped on another sob, shaking his head a little. Your chest tightened. "Hm. Alright." The woman rounded on you. "This is some kind of pervert hotel. They've got this hallway behind the mirrors in rooms." She jutted her chin towards him. "He told me he's seen things here. Bad things."
Your gaze moved back to Miles. He stared right back at you, shaking his head a little as tears spilled over his bloody cheeks. "I'm sorry." He whispered. You shook your head, opening your mouth, but a sudden crash interrupted the chaos. The three of you whipped your heads just in time to watch the chandelier crash from the ceiling, the girl giving a little yelp as she came down to the ground with it. Surprisingly, she stumbled up from it a moment after, wiping her hair from her face.
"Jesus, you alright?" The woman asked. The girl gave her a small nod, and the woman huffed, sagging slightly. You were guessing she had a lot going on in her life, but you weren't sure if you felt any sympathy considering the everything else that was happening right now.
"You gonna kill us?" You asked after a moment of tense silence, raising your gaze to the woman as you set your jaw.
She gazed back at you, her own jaw clenching. "Maybe I should." It was an attempt at being cold, but you could sort of tell she was just scared. "He might deserve it." She gave a flippant gesture of her gun to Miles, and you shifted in your chair, glaring harder.
"Don't fucking say that." You snapped. "You're gonna blame an employee instead of an employer? A victim?"
"He coulda done something-"
"And you 'coulda done something' about your situation instead of shooting two men, no?!" You exclaimed back, staring up at her. "Leave Miles out of this. Hell, leave me outta it. Nobody wants to pay for your damn mistakes. I don't care what kinda day you're having, but it shouldn't keep ending in death because you've got it rough." Everyone in the room was staring at you like your head was on fire. You kind of felt like it was. You took in a breath and sagged slightly back into your chair, but you didn't let your gaze leave the woman. Her eyes glistened for a moment, just a moment, and you wondered if something you said had maybe weaseled through whatever else was going on in her head. Instead of doing anything miraculous, though, she shifted away, walking to the front desk. You heard the sound of paper shifting, watched Miles' eyes follow her shakily. You craned your head to watch her take the ledger paper from earlier. Neat names signed in a row in different types of scripts, like targets on people's backs. She blew out a slow breath and gripped the paper tighter. "Where are the others?"
Miles named the kitten Sally. Sally was a very quiet kitten unless she was sitting on Miles' chest or face, in which case she purred so loudly she could mimic a car. She loved napping in the backseat and staring out the window, and she seemed firmly devoted to trying to lick away the wounds on Miles' face whenever you were trying to apply cream to them. In short, she was incredible, and both of you loved her.
You were still in Oregon. You liked Oregon, you'd decided. It was silent and foggy and forested and yet you never felt lonely, not lately. Because Miles was always with you. Always the two of you, sleeping in the car or in little motels and hotels. Yet still, there wasn't a full decision what next or when to stop. You couldn't decide if the two of you were still running or not. You also couldn't decide what you were doing. Regarding feelings, regarding personal things. It seemed like nothing one day and then the next it was the heaviest, thickest weight in your chest that followed you through every human interaction. Miles Miller. You liked Miles Miller.
It followed you through everything. Through the turmoil. Through him rarely falling asleep in the passenger seat instead of the back, head lolling, soft breaths leaving him. It followed you when he leaned into your touch on his face like he needed it, followed you when he looked at those with those soulful blue eyes. It followed you when he laughed, haunted you like a ghost in your dreams, made you want something that sat so close to you most days. It was eating you from the inside out. He was eating you from the inside out. He had no idea. And you couldn't find it in yourself to tell him.
"Seems like an alright place."You were shaken from your thoughts as Miles spoke. He was leaned slightly forward in the passenger's seat, eyes scanning over the town as you drove through. "It's… pretty."
"Pretty's one very simple way to put it." Small town. Ringed by woods and air and light. Small, but large enough. Something about it settled in your chest just right even looking at it. Maybe it was the flower decorations along Main Street, or the shop doors being propped open to let in the air. Either way, it was the kind of place that made you feel nice just by existing in it. "You seein' any sign of an inn with those peepers of yours?" You asked, keeping your gaze on the road. Miles had recently taken to having his bandages off from time to time. The air on the wounds would do him a little good. You were still monitoring, still giving medicine, still seeing if you needed to ever stitch him back together, but all signs were pointing towards something brighter. Recovery. Even despite the scarring, which Miles never talked about, he'd been surprisingly optimistic about his face.
He asked you what you thought of it every few days. Your answers were always the same. You look good. You wondered if he read into it as much as you did.
"There." His finger extended, pointing to the right, where a sign displayed about vacancies and open rooms and the nice, cheap price. Miracles did exist.
"Nice, Miles, thank you." You pulled into the parking lot and exited the car, leaning down to speak with him. "You wanna come in?"
"Sally's still napping," Miles murmured, glancing at the backseat. "So… sure, yes."
"We won't be long." You assured him as he stepped out. "Let's go see the situation." The small room and reception desk was unmanned when the two of you stepped in. A bell pleasantly jingled above you, which unpleasantly reminded you of the El Royale, but you pushed that thought away as you came to the front desk, glancing down at the bell there and then over your shoulder at Miles, who was studying the travel guides on the wall. "… hello?" You called after a moment, raising your voice softly so it would permeate all the way back to the half-open door behind the desk.
Movement from behind the desk caught at your ears. The voice of an older woman called out, voice frustrated. "Be right there!"
True to her word, moments later you were greeted with the bespectacled face of a woman in her late fifties, hair stuffed with two pencils and a pen, wearing the coziest (and most disorganized) outfit you'd ever seen. Her eyes moved from you to Miles, and she blinked a few times, the scowl on her face easing. You shot her a small smile. "Hi, good afternoon. We're looking for a room for the night?"
"Ah." The lady hummed, nodding. "Sorry for the hostility, I've been havin' these teens from town comin' by to book rooms and they always ding and ditch on me."
"Oh." You frowned. "Sounds frustrating."
"They always trash the rooms, too. Got no damn idea where they live either." The lady huffed, shrugging. "It is what it is. I got more to worry about than them."
"I used to work in a hotel," Miles offered quietly behind you. "I understand the experience of room servicing."
The woman softened slightly, her gaze moving to him. "Well, thank you, honey. Guess we've both been through our own experiences, huh?" She sighed, adjusting her glasses on her face. "Y'all said you needed a room?"
"Yeah." You nodded. "Just one night."
"Four dollars," the woman said, fishing for a key in a drawer. "Unless you'll be needing room services of any kind, in which case, it's six."
"Uh… no, we should be alright, thank you." You took out the money from your wallet. Money had been a little lighter lately. Consistent travel meant you were always spending, spending, spending, and it was beginning to worry you a bit, though you'd never say such a thing to Miles.
"Are all of these things really in this town?"
You glanced over your shoulder, finding Miles with a pamphlet opened as he read through. His eyes drew up, moving from you to the woman, and you couldn't help but soften at the curiosity in his gaze.
"Yup, that's all here." The woman affirmed. "Small enough town, but we've got lots goin' for us." She studied the two of you curiously. "Where y'all from?"
"… long story," you mumbled. "I came from Nevada."
She nodded to Miles. "And you?"
Miles lowered the pamphlet sheepishly, shrugging slightly. "… California and Nevada, I guess."
"You guess." The woman clicked her tongue, but it wasn't mean, more amused than anything. She gave you a look you couldn't quite read and passed the key over the counter to you. "Well. Room 1C. I'm Constance if y'all need anything. No askin' for shit after six pm."
"Thank you, ma'am." You said as you took the key. She just adjusted her glasses and took out a smoke as you left. Miles and you grabbed your bags from the car. Sally stirred as you did so, stretching and yawning in the backseat, and Miles offered her the crook of his shoulder. She jumped up, nestling and clinging to him with a satisfied noise, and you smiled at the sight.
"I still don't get how you inadvertently trained her to do that." You said as you both lugged your things to the room, watching Sally nudge against the scarred skin on the left side of his face.
Miles just gave you a small, sheepish smile. "She just likes being close to my face, I think."
Me too. You thought before you could stop yourself. You released your best attempt at a small chuckle and fidgeted with the key in your hand so you didn't have to keep watching him and feel that odd little jump in your chest any longer. "Well, that's good except for when she tries to smother you when you nap." You said as you inserted the key into the lock. "She doesn't exactly seem to grasp the idea of oxygen yet—"
You pushed the door open and paused at the sight in front of you. There was only one bed. "Ah, damn." You muttered.
"What?" Miles peeked over your shoulder. You couldn't stop him, considering he was taller than you, so you just stood there, half-frozen, as you felt his gaze lock onto the singular bed. Miles' pose shifted behind you, a small exhale leaving his lips and ghosting over you.
"Oh." He said quietly. "Guess… guess she thought we… were a couple?"
"Haha! Yeah. Probably." You awkwardly shuffled into the room, items in your arms, and Miles followed you. He immediately started rambling.
"If you're uncomfortable, I'm sure we could go back in there and… and ask for another room," he said. "I mean, it's not our faults she thought that about us, you know? We can just explain…"
He trailed off as Sally hopped off his shoulder, making a small oomph of surprise and watching with those wide blue eyes as the gray kitten crossed the room and scrambled up the large bed. She wordlessly plopped down in the center of it, curling up, and blinking at the two of you languidly as if saying she'd staked her claim.
Despite the tight little ball in your chest, you couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "Seems like our little companion has decided our fate for us." You turned to Miles, giving him a small smile. His eyes flicked down to your smile—to your lips? No, you couldn't think like that—as you spoke. "It's a big bed, I think we can manage. As long as you're alright with it."
Miles nodded slowly, eyes slowly dragging back up to yours. The tips of his ears went pink as he swallowed. "… are you sure?" He questioned softly.
"Positive." You affirmed with a smile.
All was well after that. The two of you organized your items and took stock of your supplies. You'd grab some snacks on the way out of town, but for now, the two of you headed out for a quick dinner.
Miles was practically plastered to the window of the car as you took a slow drive through town, taking in everything around you. You couldn't help but shoot him an amused glance.
"You really seem to like it here."
"I'm just… looking." He murmured softly, head swiveling to look at a restaurant both of you passed by which was absolutely crammed with locals. "I haven't seen a town like… this before."
"This?" You echoed.
Miles shrugged, head turning to you for a moment. "I grew up somewhere small. Farm town. Just… fields and barns and a little main street. The church and our home were the only places that mattered. This place feels… less distant. Like everything's sewn together and it fits."
You nodded a little, glancing at him as you pulled into a parking space. "I get it. Feeling good somewhere. I'm glad you like it."
He just smiled at you. You wondered how miraculous it was, having such an incredible person at your side despite everything that had happened.
The diner you ate at was busy, stuffed with locals. You'd apparently come in right during the dinner rush, though neither of you minded. The two of you sat at the counter, where Miles was swept into conversation by a few people to his right who insisted his opinion on some long-standing argument they'd gotten into. You propped your head in your hand after placing your order with the pretty lady your age and just watched him, feeling that tightness in your chest loosen. Miles looked… looser lately. He still kept his hair neat, but it had gotten a little longer, which was forcing him to improvise his hairstyles more. Color had returned fully to his face. His scars were healing nicely. He was dressed comfortably and he actually talked now, though there was still the nerves and the way his eyes darted away before he could ever look too long.
You cared about him so much it scared you. What a difference a couple months could make of you.
You were just starting to fish out the cash to pay for your dinners when one of the cooks came out of the back, wiping sweat off his face with a rag. He was about the same age as the two of you, and you hesitated when he pulled the rag down from his face and you spotted a scar against the left of his face. Blast scar, it looked like. You had experience from those during the war. None of them pretty. Most of them lethal. The fact that this guy was walking around with two good eyes was one of the most miraculous things you'd seen.
The man locked eyes with you, then Miles, who drew up short at the sight of him, probably thinking the same thing as you.
"Huh." A smile stretched across the man's lips, tugging his scar a different way. "New to town, huh? I'd remember a face like yours." He nodded at Miles, then tapped at his own scar. "You from overseas too?"
Miles tensed slightly, shoulders drawing together. He took in a breath, and you watched as his pupils dilated slightly, gaze unfocusing. He stepped back, shakily, nearly tripping over his own feet. Instinctively, you put a hand to his back to steady him, hoping he didn't hurt himself in front of everyone.
"We both are, actually." You answered softly, drawing the attention away from Miles. "You recently discharged?"
"Eh, somewhat." The guy shrugged. He passed a look of mutual understanding between the two of you, gaze assessing.
"It's a nice town." He said after a moment of silence. "Makes you feel whole again."
"Oh, you're mistaken." You shook your head, trying to raise your voice over the noise of the diner. "We're not staying—"
"Hey, you paid me a little extra!" The peppy waitress popped back into the conversation, sliding you some money back. "I mean, I appreciate the tipping and all, but y'all keep all the money you need. Hard times and all."
"… thank you." You slowly took the money back, gaze flicking between the waitress and the cook. "Thanks for the food. Y'all have a nice night." You stepped away from the counter, but Miles didn't move. He stood, blinking emptily at the counter, chest rising and falling shakily.
You leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. "Miles?" You questioned softly.
He didn't respond.
You extended your arm, gently looping it through Miles' own. "Hey," you said softly. "you with me?"
He blinked a few times, startling like he'd violently come back to Earth, mindlessly leaning against you slightly like you were the only thing that was real. Which was… worrying. Very worrying.
"… um," he mumbled. "I—"
"Okay. You're okay." You waved at the waitress and the cook, who had been swept up in a conversation together but still spared you waves and smiles, and lead him out of the diner and into the car. "Are you gonna throw up?"
"No." He pressed pinched fingers to his nose, breathing shakily. "'m sorry."
"Miles, hey, no, don't- don't be. Stop that." Your hand was on his knee, reaching over the console to squeeze and tether. "Can you look at me?"
He did. Slowly. His eyes had the beginnings of tears in them, which made your heart ache for him. You reached up slowly, carefully rubbing under one eye, pressing ever so gently against his eyebags.
"Can you tell me what happened in there?" You asked gently.
Miles blew out a shaky breath. Though his gaze flicked away from you, he didn't move from your touch. Instead, his cheek nudged closer into the palm of your hand, skin of his cheek smushing slightly. You felt your chest give a little stutter, but you tried not to change your expression as you listened to him.
"It's strange," Miles started. "but even though I was a soldier, I jus'… is everyone just gonna think I got scarred from the war?"
You studied him, gaze softening. "You don't want people to keep bringing it up."
Miles nodded, and then sniffled, shoulders shaking. You frowned as a tear slipped from his eyes, bringing your hand up from his knee to cup the other side of his face and brush the tear away. His lip quivered, but he just pressed into your hands harder, shoulders starting to shake more.
"I just- it was so much easier to hide be-before, so much easier—" He choked on his breath, another wave of tears washing over his face. Before you could stop yourself, you pulled him closer, letting him rest his head on your shoulder as you held him. Miles responded instantly, hands curling into your shirt as he held you close, his body shaking as he cried.
"I could jus' go to work and work and film things and I had heroin—" Miles rambled into your shoulder, voice slightly muffled but still so, so legible with his voice close to your ear. "-but I don't have that now, I jus' sit and I think in the car about everything that happened and I can't, I can't do it no more, please."
"I know, baby, I know." You didn't pay any mind to the words slipping from your lips, just holding him close because he needed it. Needed you. You ran your hand up and down his back, keeping your voice low and soothing in the way you knew he liked. "I know it's hard. You've been so brave for so long. You don't have to hold it all in anymore."
"I can't do it." He repeated into your shoulder. "I can't. It's too much."
"It's not too much." You assured him softly. "You're still here, aren't you? Still existing with me, caring for Sally, driving all over the west with me. You're doing so good."
You turned your head slightly, making sure he could hear you. You needed him to hear you. You needed him to know.
"If you can't keep it in any longer," you murmured. "then start to tell me. Tell me everything you want to."
He went silent and still against you, trembling shoulders held back as he hiccuped on a breath. The car was so silent you could hear the world outside, the group of locals who were passing by all cheerful and loud.
"I can't- I can't burden you like that." Miles whispered into your shoulder, sounding horrified. "I seen things. I can't tell you everything, I can't- I won't do that to you."
"I've seen things too." You said firmly. You squeezed your eyes shut. It wasn't hard to recall everything you spent so much time burying. "Seen men's legs torn to shreds and bodies twisted at broken angles. I've had men start screaming themselves hoarse, tryin' to claw into my skin just so I'd stop treating them. I've seen dead kids and dead women and I've puked over the smell of dead bodies before."
Miles pulled back slowly, gazing at you with red and watery eyes. "You've—" He blew out a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry—"
"Stop." You cupped his face again, meeting his eyes firmly. "I just want you to know I'm here, okay? I'll listen. And I'll care. No matter what. I can promise you that."
Miles looked shaky. Like the world had been pulled out from under his feet again. You hadn't seen him this shaky in a bit and it worried you more than you could vocalize. But still, you stroked your thumbs over his face, praying to anything that might be listening that he would believe you this once.
"You don't have to answer me now." You said finally, when the silence had dragged long past comfortable and he had hardly moved an inch. Miles managed a nod at that, at least, and pulled away from your touch. The distance, too, worried you. You couldn't help but call yourself selfish for that.
Miles was silent for the rest of the night. The drive back to the hotel was doubly so—your radio kept fading in and out, products of a distant storm on the horizon, and there was some weird sound persisting in the car that wasn't exactly promising.
Still, there was little else to do but go on. Miles shuffled into the hotel room, and you pried open the hood of your car, frowning down at the arrangement of the machine beneath you like you understood anything about vehicles. After your thirty-second period of staring yielded no results, you decided there was nothing you could do. Rubbing your hand over your face, you shrugged and closed the hood of your car. Any good problem went away with time. You just looked up at the clouding skies and returned to the hotel room.
The bed was large enough for the two of you to fit comfortably. You arranged an extra blanket halfway down the bed, drawing a line for the two of you to follow. Miles sat in the chair in the corner of the room, Sally in his lap, a distant look in his eyes as he barely paid attention to anything. Which definitely, totally did not worry you.
Stuck in the shower, you let the warm water run over you, your forehead pressed against the cool tile. You felt like you were losing it lately, which wasn't saying much because you felt like that very often. But it felt different this time, like an ache, or a thorn in a metaphorical palm that you couldn't pull loose. You couldn't help but feel guilty about it too. It wasn't like life was easy right now, but it wasn't… bad. You actually couldn't remember the last time you'd liked your life as much as you did right now. You were safe, even if you didn't have a house or a bed to sleep every night. You spent your days with someone you cared about, who you were pretty sure cared about you as well.
And yet you had no home, no true safety, no stable job. You were running out of money, you had two other lives in your hands, and you were afraid to bring any of it up for fear of what it could spark.
The water was turning cold. You switched it off and got out, letting your thoughts spiral down the drain with the flow.
Getting into bed was an awkward ordeal. The two of you split the covers, with you giving Miles the thicker one despite the fact it was getting colder out and you'd probably regret it later. Sally chose her allegiance, settling by Miles' head and blinking at you as if saying Get your shit together. Which, yeah, thanks, cat.
"You're sure this is fine?" Miles mumbled in the dark. You could see the outline of his body if you turned your head slightly, though you were trying not to, because you were trying not to think about how close he was.
"I'm sure." You responded softly, feeling far too vulnerable even in the dark. "Sleep is what's important."
Of course, saying this meant you couldn't sleep afterward. Lying on your side, back to Miles, you stared firmly at the wallpaper across from you, thoughts running like a raging river. It was only after you'd gone down a line of thought following Miles leaving you that you told yourself you were being silly. There were rough patches. Such things were to be expected right now. A very small and a very great amount of time had passed all at once, and you needed to just… breathe. Just breathe. Both of you were safe and in one of the nicest towns you'd been to thus far.
So you breathed. You breathed and breathed and breathed until your mind unspooled into a dream where you were back in Vietnam and a doe-eyed soldier gazed at you from afar. You distracted him from drills and he always looked away too late, but you always smiled and waved. The other nurses teased you about your distant crush on Miles Miller, the sniper boy the soldiers called their savior. They argued killing machine and you argued kindness, seeing the remorse hidden behind his eyes when a mission went well and how his hands would often shake when he wasn't holding a rifle. You dreamt of speaking to him, how the two of you would share shy smiles and quiet glances and try to find each other in a room, even if the other definitely wouldn't be there.
And you dreamt of an attack, where the world was all fire and smoke and ashes in the night. Distant explosions, screams of the people you'd grown to know. Stumbling through the ruins of a camp, you screamed until your throat was raw, begging for help, for support. For someone, anyone to save you. You were blind and dirty, stumbling through the camp until you spotted a silhouette on a distant hill, illuminated by the explosion of a plane behind him.
Miles. Miles, your soldier boy, who stood on the hill, rifle raised unflinchingly. Shots rang out among the chaos as you stumbled closer, hoarsely screaming his name even as your voice squeaked out. Bodies fell nearby, the enemy indistinguishable from you, but all you could focus on was Miles on the hill. Miles, Miles, Miles, your Miles, your heart sang as you stumbled towards him. Yet you never seemed to get closer, no matter the bodies you stepped over or the tents you passed. There was just death, death, death, crawling up your throat and seeping into your nose.
And there was Miles up on the hill, shooting down countless people, never faltering, never freezing, until he reached to reload and a crack sounded through the air.
You watched his head jerk back. You'd seen so much death. Recognized a hit when you saw one. Yet it still didn't feel real as you watched his body rock back, limp, and fall to the ground.
All the air rushed back into your lungs. The world buzzed around you, sound slamming into you, and you screamed-
"Miles! MILES! MILES!—"
—and then you were surging up, gasping for air and clawing at the covers around you, breathlessly hiccuping on your sobs. You couldn't breathe, you were confused and scared and your last memories were of fire and smoke and death, death, death, the death of the only person left that you cared about—
"Hey. Hey, hey, hey."
Someone's hands cupped at your face. They were shaking. This was the first real detail you took in about the waking world.
Your name was murmured. Softly, insistently, shakily, but it was spoken nonetheless, dripping with worry. Your heart pounded in your chest, but the ringing in your ears was subsiding.
"It's okay," the person was saying. "I'm right here, don't worry, you're… you're okay. You're safe."
You blinked a few times. Every blink brought you back to the present, though you paid by it pressing out another wave of tears to slip down your face. Slowly, your gaze focused, and you blinked at the scene around you.
The room you were sleeping in. The bed, blankets disturbed and a pillow on the ground. You were sitting with your legs tangled, feeling the remnants of panic in your chest.
Miles was kneeling on the bed, hands cupping your face as his gaze shifted over you. His eyes were wide, slightly panicked, his hands shaking like he was unsure if he was even allowed to be doing what he was doing.
You took in a gulp of air, your chest burning still from the sobs that had been leaving you. "I'm so- I'm so sorry, did I wake you up?"
Miles blinked, like he hadn't expected that to be your first question. He shook his head softly. "N-no. No, you didn't. I was awake already."
"I'm so sorry." You repeated again, moving your hand to messily wipe tear tracks off your face as you sniffled. "I-I didn't—"
"Were you dreaming?" He interrupted. His voice was so soft and gentle and sweet. He was just so sweet. Your Miles Miller.
Your eyes scanned over his face. You got a flash of him on the hill, head jerking backwards as a bullet pierced his skull. You just nodded weakly, throat thickening.
"You were calling my name." Miles said quietly. "Jus'… shaking and sobbing and calling out for me."
You became very conscious of his shaking hands, his thumbs running along your cheeks.
"I… had a dream you were dead." You forced out eventually, scanning over the side of his face that was peppered with scars. "That you died in Vietnam, fighting. And I couldn't… do anything about it."
Miles' lips parted in a soft 'O' shape. "Oh." He whispered. "I-I'm sorry."
You laughed a little at that, though it was all watery and shaky. "Why on Earth are you apologizing?"
"You had a bad dream because of me." He was pouting slightly, that familiar look of guilt swimming in his eyes, and you shook your head firmly, raising your hands to rest over his own.
"I had a bad dream because of myself. Because I… care about you." Deeper words stuck in the back of your throat. Denial, denial, denial, you couldn't go down that path right now, couldn't say you felt that way.
Miles looked down slightly, taking in a sniffly breath. "I'm still sorry." He mumbled. "For… making you afraid I wasn't here anymore." A look of determination flitted over his features. "I am here. I am. Nothing in the world could make me leave you right now."
Not even a bullet?
That would probably ruin the moment if you said that.
Instead, some mixture of exhaustion and desperation and affection clouded your senses, and you nudged closer into Miles' touch, letting your eyes flutter shut as his words sank into you. I'm here. And he wasn't leaving.
Miles didn't move for a moment, though you heard him take in another small, slow breath.
"C'mere," he said finally. His voice was soft in the silence, like he was afraid to break it. When you pried your eyes open, he was pulling back from you, and you watched as he haphazardly picked up the small blanket barrier that had been separating the two of you and tossed it aside.
He laid back, patting your bed space. "Come here." He said again, voice so soft. Even in the dark, you could see him, his body outlined in every gentle nature it held.
Sweet boy. You were so exhausted and overwhelmed and relieved that you couldn't find it in you to ask what he was doing. You laid down.
Miles' arms encircled you slowly, and you released a breath as you turned to face him. Your own arms reaching out, you couldn't stop the sniffle that left you. You gripped his clothes, letting the two of you settle into a combined shape. Your head tucked under his chin. His breath fanned softly over your head as he held you and you held him.
"Is this… okay?" He whispered finally, into the silence.
"Yes." You answered, eyes slipping shut. Your mind stilled quicker than usual with the press of another body next to you.
"Okay." His voice had grown a little hoarser. You felt his breath pass over the top of your head again. "I'm here."
He's here.
The thought soothed you.
Two months ago. Lobby of the El Royale.
One could always be under the assumption that it couldn't get worse. And then it always did.
So it turned out there had been people searching for the two women. You didn't try to make much sense of it. There were people with guns and rope, and some creepy asshole with way too much chest showing, and there was so much going wrong all at once.
You should've stayed in your car. Or maybe kept driving, kept running. Instead, you sat, a hint dazed, as people moved around you.
Flynn and the woman, Darlene, had been retrieved from wherever they were. Their clothes were damp, a sign they'd been out in the rain that was still pouring constantly outside. Miles and you were ushered from one bound spot to another—Miles wide-eyed and shaking. You'd been trying to calm him down before this had happened, murmuring quiet words of encouragement and asking how his face felt, but now all of your work was unspooled and he was shaking as he took everything in. He seemed far more interested in pleading to the priest, Father Flynn, whose face was a mix of not right now and guilt and oh God oh fuck we might all die right now. Or maybe that was more like what you were thinking.
"Bless me Father for I have sinned," Miles rattled off next to you, teary eyes locked on Flynn. "Please, Father—"
"Hey, kid." The leader of this whole situation, the asshole with the open chest who'd been cradling the face of the girl in a way that made your skin crawl, annoyedly called out. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna tie your mouth shut."
This did not stop Miles. "Father, please, forgive me for the sins of my life. Please, Father, bless- mmph—"
You jerked in your bonds on instinct as a gag of fabric was wrapped around Miles' head. You glared holes into the person who'd done it, but you were utterly helpless.
The man sauntered over, humming cheerfully, a cigarette hung from his lips as he tossed money and a tape onto the table, eyes locked onto Darlene and Flynn. He plucked up the ledger and gestured lazily. "So I'm guessing you're Father Flynn… which makes the dead guy Laramie Seymour Sullivan."
He eyed between you and Darlene, who was seated to your left. You glared back at him and imagined him turning into dust before your very eyes. He smirked a little, like your gaze amused him, and he murmured your name, tapping where it was on the ledger.
"Yeah, that's you. Ain't nothin' sweet about that expression. Then you, miss, must be Darlene Sweet." His gaze swung to Darlene, who stared back at him unreadably. The man chuckled as he looked at the ledger. "Well, I suppose you could be 'Fuck You', but, uh, something tells me that's my Emily here." He gestured to the woman with a cheerful smile, which she did not return. Instead, she—Emily—looked hollowed out, like hope had left her system. The man just smiled, looking over all of you.
"Any other people left in the hotel?" He questioned. Miles shakily shook his head when the man's gaze found him. You wanted to claw out of your bonds and stand in front of him and maybe punch the guy in the face, but you couldn't do that and it made you fume.
"Wade, Annabel," the man addressed the members of his group. "stand behind these five and if they try to get out of their seats, you just…" He made a little bang motion. "… shoot 'em in the back of the head. 'N Flicker, Roman, c'mere. Go to room seven, get the dead guy, and put all of his stuff and the body in the trunk of the car. Then go room to room, see if you can find anybody else. If you can, bring 'em here."
One of the people sent out jerked their head towards all of you. "What about them?" He called lazily.
"Well, first I got some questions that need answering." The man said with a hum, gaze returning to the five of you. "But… leave some room in the trunk."
The statement sobered the five of you even further. You glanced to both sides to see everyone's faces lose a bit of color. You couldn't say you were much better off. There was someone standing directly behind you and you knew they had a gun and you were terrified, icy cold and shaky. You clenched your hands into fists, trying to breathe evenly. Stay calm. You have to stay calm.
The man was greeting Emily cheerfully off to the side. You caught the slip of his name—Billy Lee—as the two talked back and forth, something about taking and leaving and not being ready. Your eyes slowly slipped between them and the girl sitting in the nearby couch, a story untangling slowly in your head.
The two ladies. Sisters. The man, something outside the familial picture, but connected and dangerous nonetheless. And now you were all stuck in the mix.
"Did you tell them what she did?" Billy Lee was asking Emily.
"What'd I do?" Asked the girl, blinking. Gazes flicked to her as slow remembrance dawned on her face, eyes going distant for a moment. She took in a breath and nodded. She was eating shitty pie, seated on a couch near all of you. "Oh, right. Sorry 'bout all that."
"It's all right, Boots. We'll deal with that when we get back to California." He swung his body towards the rest of you, where you sat over the state border line. "We got us a Nevada problem now."
His gaze wandered over the hotel. "So, uh, Miles… what is this, some sort of pervert hotel?"
How many times did you have to hear that line? You glanced over at Miles, who was hanging his head, distantly listening to Father Flynn defending the man to your right. You instinctively leaned, trying to catch Miles' gaze with a concerned frown, but you didn't get even a glance from him. He was millions of miles away and you were, unfortunately, still here with ropes digging into your body.
"And what," Billy Lee was saying to Flynn, who apparently had about the same amount of information you did about the hotel. "He just offered this up to you, did he?"
Flynn looked… a hint guilty and resigned. Which you didn't like. "I think he was trying to confess." He rasped, which Miles nodded quickly in response to. "I think… it's been weighing on him. I think he's trying to confess right now… because he knows how this is gonna go, and he fears for his soul."
Miles was nodding shakily, and Billy Lee was laughing a little, like he was in on a joke you didn't understand. You glared holes into him the entire way as he walked over and ducked down to look at Miles.
"Hey, buddy. Uh…" He rested his hand on Miles' shoulder casually, and you winced slightly. "Listen, if you're so worried about your soul, maybe you shouldn't have been doing all this bad shit in the first place."
Miles was still so hurt, all bloodied and pained, and it tugged at your chest. Still, he nodded shakily, sniffles leaving him, and Billy Lee nodded as he stood and clapped Miles' shoulder.
You watched him even as the world passed around you. The storm was thundering overhead, there were little things of fire in the hotel catching the light of crystals, and everything was terrible down to it's core. Billy Lee was arguing with Darlene and Flynn about tapes and money and singing and priests. You felt like everything was ending, and maybe it was. You couldn't decide how much you cared about that.
You were only really tugged out of your thoughts by the sound of music playing, something that started with howling and rolled into rock. You blinked up at the ceiling, then over to the others, who looked just as unhappy about the sudden music as you.
"Who is this?" Flynn muttered to Darlene.
"Um… Deep Purple, I think." She said.
"Newer song." You murmured. "'Hush'. 1968."
"… it's, um… not for me." Flynn grumbled as he leaned back in his seat.
Unlike the rest of you, Billy Lee seemed to be having a very nice time. He was dancing and swaying, his hips moving too much for what the beat was giving him as he continued to eat the pie the girl had been working on. He inserted himself back in-between Darlene and Flynn. "Now, I want you two to pay real close attention to what happens next, alright? And keep it riight up there in the front of your minds when I'm askin' questions lookin' for truthful answers, okay?"
He didn't really seem to be listening. He nudged between you and Darlene, shooting you a grin as he plopped the pie in front of your spot along the table. You blinked up at him and raised a slow eyebrow, silently asking what his problem was, but he was already moving on from you as he dusted off his hands. "All right. Emily. Pick a color." He slapped his hands on the table, one after another, over the colors of the roulette table. "Red or black?"
Emily did not seem happy to play his game. "No." She slowly turned her gaze away, glancing at her sister.
"No?" Billy Lee echoed as he strolled over to her. "Well, that's just not hardly nice. I'm offering you a chance here, right?" He rester his hands on her shoulders, squeezing lightly. "On account of the fact that we're practically family, all right? And that's downright charitable of me, considering…"
He turned to the younger girl. "Boots, you hearing what your sister's doing?"
"Em," the girl said—Rosie, Rose, Boots, she was so young— "if Billy Lee is offering you a chance, I think you should take it."
The silence stretched for a very, very long moment. Sisters locked eyes. You glanced around furtively and found absolutely nowhere to go and nothing to fight back with except a slice of half-eaten pie.
"Did you think you could just take what's mine, and I wouldn't come a'huntin?" Billy Lee was murmuring to Emily, who jerked away from his touch like he was burning her, eyes never leaving her sister.
"She ain't yours." She whispered.
"Rosie, are you mine?" Billy Lee called, barely even looking behind him.
"Of course." Rosie murmured.
Billy Lee glanced down at Emily. Smirked, sharp and victorious. "Of course." He echoed, giving a pointed look at the older sister.
Emily just looked sad. Her voice was quiet as she spoke. "There was no violence 'till you."
"Yeah, maybe. Maybe not." Billy Lee leaned closer, nestling his head uncomfortably against her. You froze slightly, tearing your gaze from the discomfort of the interaction, but you still heard them speaking, heard Billy Lee whispering all smug and strange against Emily's head. "But it's there now, isn't it?"
You all watched in petrified, heavy silence as he wandered to one of his recruits. You didn't dare crane your head, but you saw where this was going clearly enough as Billy Lee wandered back into view with a gun tucked into the back of his pants. One hand spun the roulette wheel in front of him as he took out the gun, slamming it on the table. "Pick a color, Em. I ain't gonna ask again."
Everybody around the table stiffened. Miles took in shaky breaths, a fresh wave of tears running down his face. Darlene and Flynn were stiff, wide-eyed. You flexed slightly at your bonds, which was futile, because you had nothing to do even if you got free.
"Pick a color." Billy Lee whispered. "Pick a color."
"… red." Emily whispered.
Billy Lee's demeanor shifted in an instant. Back to something cheerful, showmanship on full display as he straightened. "Well, I guess that makes you black, altar boy." He spun the roulette wheel.
"What?" Miles' head jerked up, his voice muffled as his gaze swung to the group of you. "No, nono no—"
"Ah, come here," Billy Lee sighed as he reached for his gag. "If you got some prayers, you can say 'em now."
The gag was barely off Miles' mouth before he was talking, eyes locked on Flynn, his voice wobbly and desperate. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, I have done so much worse than you know—"
"Kid—" Flynn tried to start, pressing his lips together.
"Father Flynn, I have sinned and I repent!" Miles shouted. His voice was cracking, barley audible over the overstimulating spin of the roulette and music in the back. "Forgive me, Father! I-I-I-I have sinned and I- Father Flynn, please!"
"Do you want to tell him, or do you want me to do it?" Billy Lee said, smiling down at Flynn, and you hated him hated him hated him and you were fucking frozen as you stared at the scene before you-
"I have sinned and I repent!" Miles shouted hoarsely.
"Miles—" Flynn started again.
"Please!" You and Darlene exclaimed at the same time. Darlene was pleading for Flynn and you weren't sure what you were pleading to if anything but you were pretty sure it was Billy Lee—
"Forgive me, Father—"
"He's not a fucking priest, kid!" Billy Lee exclaimed sharply at Miles.
The wheel was slowing, the ball was hitting against something, and you watched as Miles stopped screaming, staring at Flynn with a trembling lip. His eyes flicked between Billy Lee and Flynn, and whatever he found there must have hurt, because he leaned back in his chair, too shell-shocked to even pay attention to the roulette wheel as the ball clack clack-ed its way into a spot.
You turned your gaze to the wheel and watched for the ball, finally finding it on a black spot. It was on black, that was his color, but did that mean he was safe or was he the one who—
"Well, looks like the Lord hasn't forsaken you yet." Billy Lee said with a hum.
He raised his gun and aimed it towards Emily. You had just enough time to register it before Flynn shouted, and the snap of a gunshot rang through the air.
The girl in the chair was knocked to the ground, hair astray as she faced her sister.
The song clicked off in the background.
The car was broken.
You got up early that morning. It had taken you a moment to gather your collected thoughts, because at first, you'd just woken up warm. Your chest had felt full, and you had felt so safe. And for a moment, you didn't remember anything from last night, until you'd really come to your senses and realized you were still cuddling with Miles Miller.
It had taken five minutes to convince yourself to move and another six to actually untangle yourself. Miles had barely stirred through the ordeal—his face angelic, breath evenly rising and falling, he'd had an arm tossed over your waist and his head still perfectly positioned over yours. He'd looked perfect. You tried to stop the influx of thoughts as you'd quietly cracked open some food to feed Sally (who was staring at the two of you from the room's chair as if to say get on with it, cowards) and left to check on your situation. Your attempts to shoo your thoughts away had been entirely unsuccessful until you got in the car and it firmly did not start.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." You stood, peering into the mess of the hood again, trying to see what looked wrong. Nothing did, though. You gave a quick peek under the car. Nothing was dripping or hanging or smoking. The car just wasn't starting and you didn't know why.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me." You groaned, grinding the heels of your palm into your eyes as you stood in the parking lot and attempted to not have your latest mental breakdown. Two in less than twelve hours would not do wonders for your reputation.
You took a deep breath, silently screamed, and walked back to your room.
Opening the door to the hotel room, you were greeted with Miles pulling his shirt on and Sally trying to eat one of his socks.
You blinked, watching a slip of his lower back disappear under a shirt as he turned to you. You raised your gaze in time to meet his, and he blinked at you.
An awkward silence lingered for a moment. Miles spoke first, his voice quiet.
"… what's wrong?"
"The car is broken." You said, shoving your hands into your pockets.
Miles' shoulders eased, and a look of… relief flashed over his face. "Oh, good."
Alarm filled his expression the second he said it, and he raised his hands. "I mean- not good that the car is broken—"
You giggled, despite yourself, the sound so unexpected that it surprised the both of you. "I- yeah, that part isn't good, you're right."
"What do we do?" Miles whispered, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
You sighed and shrugged. "Ask for help."
Constance was already smoking despite how early in the morning it was. You'd never understood people who did early morning smokes, though you would never say such a thing. Smoking was as natural as breathing in the world. Not for you, though. Being a nurse in the past had its advantages.
"G'morning," She greeted roughly as the two of you wandered in, blowing a puff of smoke into her room in the back instead of in your faces.
"Hi." You drummed your fingers on the counter. Miles was, once again, looking at the pamphlets on the wall. "Our car's broken. Do you guys have a mechanic in town?"
Constance sucked in a slow breath, lowering the cigarette from her lips. A look of sympathy crossed her face.
"Well… some bad news about that. Yes, we've got a guy. Ray's out of town, though. He takes a bi-annual trip across the country to visit family."
You stared at her. "… when will Ray be back?"
"You missed him by a few days." Constance looked very sympathetic. "He won't be back for a few months."
"Christ." You said exasperatedly. Miles mumbled something under his breath behind you, probably something about the Lord's name being used in vain, but you were a bit too despondent to respond to it. You rested your head in your hands, taking in a slow breath.
"Nobody else repairs cars in your town?" You mumbled.
"Most things in town are walking distance. Folks dig the exercise."
"Well, I don't dig what's happening right now." You said.
Constance's gaze moved from you to Miles. "You folks don't got anyone to get you?"
"No." You mumbled. "It's just us. And our cat."
Miles raised his head at the word us. Something in your chest warmed at that, and you took in a steadying breath as you looked back at Constance.
"I know this is probably way belong what you normally have to do for people, but I don't suppose anybody's looking for employees? Or renting a space?"
You didn't have the money for a new car. Lottery funds had slowly trickled into something normal over the last few months, whether you liked it or not. And now, being stranded in this sleepy little town, you were at a dead end that would bleed you dry if you didn't do something about it.
Constance hummed. She leaned back, studying the two of you.
"You two seem decent folks." She said softly. "I manage more than this hotel—I actually run realty for a few properties in town. We don't get many comin' through, so even if I do upkeep on homes, we don't get many buyers. I got a place you could stay in. Cheap rent as long as you keep it clean."
Your heart lifted from your ass back into your chest where it belonged. You gaped, blinking, words failing for once in your life.
Miles spoke first, stepping forward. "You really mean that?" His voice sounded how you felt. "You'd really let us do that? We… we hardly know you."
"I've lived a long time, honey." Constance put out her cigarette and started rifling around through her desk. "I try to trust when I get a good feeling about people."
She jerked her head towards the door. "Get yer things. I'll drive ya there and we'll talk jobs." She raised her gaze to the two of you. "Your cat like Yummies?"
"Um." Miles blinked. "She's never had them, but she'll eat just about anything you give to her."
"Good. Go."
You and Miles exchanged a glance, hope sparking between the two of you. You didn't need further encouragement. You went.
Sometimes there was nothing you could do in life but thank whatever unseen force was helping you out.
Maybe Miles was right. Maybe there was a God.
Or maybe people were just very, very good sometimes.
Constance explained the situation to the two of you as she drove. The diner you'd been to last night needed an employee, and so did the bookstore down the block. You glanced back at Miles, who'd taken to the backseat of Constance's smoke-smelling car with Sally in his lap, and nodded. "We'll take 'em."
Miles went for the bookstore job. You couldn't decide if he didn't want the social interaction or if he was afraid of working with the man from last night.
The house Constance drove you to was three minutes away from Main Street, a modest but comfortably-sized split level house. It was blue and it was beautiful and you had never been more relieved in your life.
"You gotta let me give my spiel." Constance struggled with the keys to the house, and you and Miles watched awkwardly as she struggled longer than any normal person should. When she finally managed to get the door open, you were greeted with the sweetest house you'd seen.
You supposed anything would look good to someone who was practically starving for a home. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been in a proper house—there had just been Vegas and hotels and businesses while on the road.
"Mild furnishings. Y'all are welcome to decorate and rearrange and toss as you please," Constance explained as you toured the house. "Three bedroom, two bath. Kitchen, dining room, living room, blah blah blah. Bit of a backyard. It used to have a garden, but… you know how gardens are when nobody's tendin' to them."
You peered into each room, eyes scanning over the furnishings inside. It was simple and sweet and insanely non-personal.
"Who… lived here before?" Miles echoed the question that had been on the tip of your tongue. He watched Sally curl up in a chair in the living room, and his lips twitched slightly.
"Old couple named Millicent and Bruce." Constance's voice took on a slightly wistful tone. "I grew up with 'em, actually. They were assholes, and they were my friends."
"These things often go together." You said with a nod.
"You get it." The woman ran a hand over the couch. "They're in a nursing home right now in Portland. Both of them got sick some time ago and their kids lived over there, so… naturally, that's where they went when they needed help."
You and Miles stood there for a moment. Miles' voice was soft. "You must miss them."
"Quite a bit." Constance agreed with a nod. "I get letters from them sometimes. It makes it a little easier."
She was silent for a moment, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the couch as her gaze drifted. You understood that. Nostalgia. The melancholy set to the shoulders of a woman you'd previously thought fairly unshakable made her seem very different now.
"Thank you." You said finally, into the silence. "You're a good friend for caring for their home like this."
Constance took in a breath and nodded, turning to you. She extended her hands, took yours, and dropped the keys to the house into it.
"Your home." She said firmly, then yanked out a folder of papers from seemingly nowhere. "Let's go over the paperwork."
Miles went out to grab your very minimal bags. Sally seemed satisfied to stay where she was, curled up in the chair that you made a silent note to absolutely keep.
"So…" Constance checked that Miles was gone, then raised her eyebrow at you. "How long have the two of you been together?"
"Oh." You paused, a flush creeping over your face as you paused in your paper-reading. "We're, uh, we're not—"
"Well, damn, why not?" Constance and Sally were both looking at you judgmentally now, which, great. Another addition to judging your cowardice. "He looks at you like you're perfect."
"Well, that's very far from the truth." You clicked at the pen you'd been provided, leaning down to sign the papers. "We just… found each other after a really rough time. We've been traveling together for a while now."
Constance was rolling her eyes as you looked back up. "Kids these days," she mumbled.
"We're adults."
"You're foolish, is what you are." She took the papers back, gave them a cursory glance, and sighed as she put them back in her folder. "I'll be happy to see when you two finally admit it to each other."
Sally mewed in response, something that sounded a lot like agreement. That damn cat. You loved her so much.
"Thank you for the house and the jobs." You said to Constance instead of taking her shoulders, shaking them, and exclaiming I am super in love with him and have no idea what to do, please help me!
Constance patted your shoulder as she moved for the exit. "Don't thank me yet. You and loverboy are stuck together for sure now."
You blinked. "How is that a bad thing?"
"I wouldn't say bad." She shot a grin at you, filled with the kind of mischief you didn't like. "Just… harder. You'll see."
It was surprising how quickly the two of you settled into a rhythm, considering so far your life had consisted of constant car rides and surviving off whatever random food you could find.
You left the house at 6:45 every morning. It was a ten-minute walk to the diner, where you'd pull on an apron, greet your coworkers, and take care of a few minor things before the diner opened at 7:00. Then you'd work until 3:00, running orders, cleaning tables, making conversation with the people of the town, until your shift was over. Another ten-minute walk back home, where you'd greet Sally and an empty home. You'd work on anything you could for the next two hours—sometimes it involved errands back to town, but it usually involved the house you lived in. The garden out back was a jungle of twisted, angry plants, and you were working to clean it up even though winter was closer than any growing season. You liked the work it gave your hands.
Miles came home at 5:00 every night after starting his own shift at 9:00 that morning. He came home smelling of paper and the faintest smell of coffee, his shoulders always slumping in relaxation as he took in a breath of the house and ran his fingers along Sally's back.
The two of you didn't have any set schedule to your nights. Sometimes you were alone. Sometimes you were quiet, but in each other's space. Many nights lately, you'd devote to a room of the house, deciding what should stay and what should go. You sold some things and kept others. The townsfolk were nice about it—usually you could trade one thing for something you liked better, as long as the cost was around the same.
It shook you, the normalcy in the town, the way people were so selflessly gentle. You weren't used to it, and neither was Miles. Your lives were full of rich people, customer service towards the uncaring and the rude and the broken, chipping away at the two of you until you felt broken too.
This town was so different. You didn't feel as broken anymore.
You would wake up in the mornings in one of the bedrooms, sunlight dappling over your face from a gap in the curtains, sleepy in the mornings. Some mornings, Miles would wake just to bid you farewell, his expression slow and sleepy and pulling at your chest.
"I wish you could sleep in." He muttered one day, watching you nurse a cup of coffee. His hair was mussed, a robe draped unevenly over his form that he'd bought the week before from a shop near the bookstore.
"I sleep in on weekends, M." You said softly, lips pulling into a small smile as you watched him waver on his feet. "You, on the other hand, should go back to bed, you look ready to topple over."
"I wish you could stay." Miles said, his voice groggy. He rubbed at one eye, shuffling forward, until suddenly he was pressing into your side, dropping his head to your shoulder. You froze slightly, but he didn't seem to notice as his hand curled into the back of your shirt.
"It's… weird waking up alone now." He whispered into your shoulder. "I keep thinking I'll be wakin' up in the car with you driving, or in a hotel where I can see your face."
You hesitated for a moment before you set the mug down, reaching up to press a hand to the back of his head, fingers curling slightly in his hair. His hair was growing, lately. More curls, a little less tamed to what you'd first seen him in. Miles still liked the order of his hair, still pressed it into neat shapes a lot of days, but it was getting harder the longer it got. And you liked it. You liked him, anyways.
"I'm here," you assured softly. "You know you can always come see me, I'm just down the block."
"I wish things were different sometimes." Miles mumbled into your neck.
You paused, fingers halting their strokes. "What do you mean?" You asked quietly.
Silence for a moment. Miles' breath fanned against your shoulder, warm and soft.
"Miles?" You pressed slowly.
He pulled back after a moment, rubbing at his eyes again. "… have a good shift. I'm tired." He mumbled, avoiding your gaze as he weaved back through the kitchen. You heard him ascending the stairs a moment later.
You just stood there in the kitchen, the memory of his warmth against your shoulder the only remainder of him.
Things changed. And they didn't.
Miles came into the diner on his breaks, took up a stool at the counter, sipped coffee and told you about his day so far. You always listened, always spoke back. The two of you discussed books, at home and at work and on walks you took on the weekends. Fall was digging its heels into the Oregon town. People were talking about Halloween and Thanksgiving and tradition in ways that tugged at your chest and reminded you that this town and its people loved being part of something.
Miles started talking to you. Sometimes the two of you would stay up late, and you would talk. He'd tell you stories—Kill #83, where the man choked on his own blood and died slowly under Miles' feet. Kill #27, who prayed to the same god that Miles did and made him sob his eyes out.
In return, you told him your own stories. The horrors you'd seen, the injuries you'd mended. You murmured about the man who'd cried the entire time you tried to save him, pleading for his mother and his father and his wife. You choked up as you talked about the man who had seemed in such good spirits, talking about how at home his wife had just birthed a baby girl. He'd died of his wounds. There was a girl out there whose father would never come home.
The two of you were stitched together at this point. Joined at the hip. On weekends that you took to town, the people there would tease the two of you sometimes. Your work shifts were filled with people, coworkers and customers alike, asking about Miles. The boyfriend. They knew he wasn't, yet they didn't stop asking, and sometimes you stopped trying to correct them.
Was that wrong? Or were you allowed to want that something deep in your chest, that feeling fueled by your late nights and the way Miles leaned into your touch.
Maybe you were selfish, seeing something that wasn't there. Or maybe you were right. Either way, you were too cowardly to take the next step.
Halloween was weeks away when the news came. Constance came rolling up to your home—and it some point it had become yours in the last few months, even though you were still working on furnishing it—with a cigarette in her hands and some strange expression on your face.
"Ray's back in town." She explained as she sat at your kitchen table. "He can swing by the inn and take a look at the car in a couple'a days."
Miles froze from where he'd been making coffee for Constance. He wasn't much of a coffee person himself—caffeine sometimes tugged him back to the days where he needed to drown his senses in something, so he'd taken to tea instead.
You observed him for a moment, then turned your gaze back to Constance, hands folded. "Well, that's… wonderful."
"I'll say." Constance huffed. "I'll finally get your damn car out of that parking lot. Your car's been takin' up some damn nice parking spaces."
"For what customers, exactly?" You replied, raising an eyebrow.
Constance scowled at you, though it was lighthearted. "You're lucky I like you two." She smiled up at Miles as he put a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. "Thank you, sweetheart."
Miles nodded, but he didn't sit down. Fidgeting with his hands, he stood at the table, looking between the two of you.
"So… he can fix the car." He said quietly. His gaze flicked to you. "Then what?"
You looked up at him and found that words failed you. Then what indeed? Pack up, keep driving, go forever? Keep running from the things that chased you?
You had settled here, no matter how quickly or strangely it had happened. Clothes filled your drawers now and you both had your routines, your people you liked in this town.
And that was the important thing, right? That you liked it here? You did. You had a cat and a bed and a job in the prettiest, nicest little town, where no war could touch or scar you, and that hotel and its sins were far, far away.
Yet something hadn't fully clicked yet.
Constance seemed to sense the turmoil. She cleared her throat to interrupt the awkward silence. "Sounds like a conversation the two of you need to have. There ain't no rush, though. The car'll get fixed up. You've still got the house. Just take it easy."
That last part seemed pointedly directed at you. You resisted a frown and nodded. "… yeah. Thanks, Constance."
She smiled, leaned back, and sipped at her coffee like she had all day.
Miles just looked ready to throw up.
Later, you found him sitting on the front porch of the house. The house—your house?—had a nice view ahead of it. Sprawling trees and the sunset casting golden shadows. The dry leaves rustled, some scattering across the street in front of you.
Sally was curled in Miles' lap and shot you an accusing look like you'd done something wrong. You stuck your tongue out at her and crossed your arms, leaning on the wall behind him.
"Do you wanna talk?" You asked quietly.
"You want to leave."
The coldness of his voice startled you slightly. You'd seen him like this once, only once, and that was at the El Royale. Locked jaw, tense shoulders, eyes dark. He didn't look at you. His fingers sank into Sally's fur, and she nudged closer to him quietly.
"… I…" You blew out a slow breath. "I guess, yeah."
Miles shook his head. "Why? Why don't you wanna stay here? Is this not… am I not good enough for you to stay?"
"What?" You blinked down at him, already shaking your head as you stepped in front of him. "Miles. Hey." Your voice softened and you started to reach from him. "Don't say that about yourself—"
"Stop." His voice sharpened, and his gaze raised to you. You froze, hand halfway to his shoulder, trapped under his eyes. He was shaking, like raising his voice scared him too, but he kept speaking.
"Don't be like this to me right now. Don't try to soften the blow. You want to leave this. It's… it's so good here. I feel good here. Why is this not enough for you? Do… do you not like it here?"
You stared at him, then pulled your hand back, tucking it against your chest. "I do like it here." You said quietly.
"Then… what's the problem?" Miles said, his voice quiet but no less tense as he searched your expression.
How could you tell him? Could you really reach under your chest and pry out that sticky, complicated part of you that you felt so guilty about holding onto?
"… I don't wanna hurt you, Miles." You said slowly, exhaling as you shook your head.
He just stared. You knew him well enough to recognize the flicker of disappointment in the back of his gaze.
He stood, standing over you for a brief moment as he tucked Sally to his chest like she was shielding his heart. "You already are."
Then he ducked back inside, leaving you outside in the setting sun and the autumn breeze.
Four months ago. Lobby of the El Royale.
"I can't do it anymore."
"Miles," you whispered softly. You leaned forward the best you could in your chair, swallowing the thickness from your throat. "Hey, it's- you're okay. Just breathe."
"I can't," he mumbled, gaze glassily focused somewhere around the ground. "I can't—"
"Hey, kid." Billy Lee raised an eyebrow, voice tinged with annoyance. "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna make you play the game again."
Your gaze flicked between them, your hands twisting in your bonds helplessly, but Miles had sobered, to your surprise. You wanted to fling yourself across the table and wring the man's neck for the situation he'd put all of you in, but you found yourself locked in place as Billy Lee's gaze fell on you.
"And you. You shut the hell up too."
You glared right back at him, but he didn't seem shaken. Maybe he knew you couldn't stop thinking about the new body on the floor. You paid little mind to the conversation to the left of you. Billy Lee was interrogating Darlene and Flynn again, and though the words passed into your mind, you didn't consciously register them.
The storm was loud outside, something rattling and huge. You couldn't help but long to be out there instead of inside. It was beginning to smell faintly of smoke, a distant scent carried by the fires in the California side of the lobby.
"Why you dressed up like a priest, then?" Billy Lee was asking, gesturing to Flynn's outfit.
Miles' head turned, his jaw clenching. His eyes were hollow of most emotion, but you could see the hurt inside them, the betrayal. You had little idea of his further connection to Flynn, but the fact that the older man had lied to him was clear.
Flynn, to his credit, looked a tiny bit guilty about this. "Didn't want too many questions." He murmured. "People tend to look the other way when you're wearin' a collar." His gaze flicked to Miles, whose jaw clenched as he lowered his eyes to the floor again. A tremor went through him as Billy Lee continued speaking to the other two, and you tried to lean closer to him, reassuring him the best you could.
There was nothing interesting about you. You were silent, and still, and had no story that nobody could discern from you. Just one unlucky motherfucker sitting in a chair alongside the most broken people imaginable. No wonder Billy Lee wasn't a bit interested in you. You were too collected. Too much of a damn rock.
You'd seen more than enough of your fair share of violence and death. The body on the floor was just another long list you'd been keeping in the back of your head forever. Since the war. Since your work. Since you tried to save people, foolishly, even when it didn't work.
You couldn't even save yourself now. All that surviving in Vietnam, and where had it gotten you? You took in a slow breath, shaky. You supposed you had to savor the air in your lungs while you were alive to feel them.
Tensions were rising at the other end of the table. Flynn couldn't remember his real name and Darlene was being gentle about it and Billy Lee was not.
"All right, all right, well- let's see if we can't jog his memory, huh, Darlene? Pick a color—"
He reached for the roulette wheel, and suddenly thunder boomed above all of you. Everybody in the room flinched as something sparked, crackled, and all light went out in the room in an instant.
Everybody stayed silent for a moment, faces illuminated by the firelight. Billy Lee was looking at the ceiling like it was about to crash down on him. Miles' breathing had intensified again. You squirmed a little in your bonds as coldness crept down your back despite the stifling temperature of the room.
"Now it's quiet again." Billy Lee murmured.
"I don't like it." The young girl said from across the room, her voice unsure.
"No, I don't like it either." Billy Lee's gaze swung to Darlene. "Hey, ain't you supposed to be a singer, huh? Why-why don't you sing something for us, Darlene."
"No thank you." Darlene said simply. Your lips twitched upward, and Darlene caught the motion, her gaze softening marginally as your eyes met.
"Hell, I'll tell you what- if you sing somethin' for us and you're as good as you say you are, I won't make you play the game."
"That seems like a trick." You blurted before you could stop yourself.
"Oh, you do talk." Billy Lee raised an eyebrow at you. "What, you volunteerin' to take her place?"
You just looked at him. Then at Darlene. "Don't do it."
"I agree." Flynn said roughly. "He's gonna do what he's gonna do, but he don't deserve to hear you sing."
Darlene shared a smile with him, her shoulders easing slightly, her gaze flicking to you with a similar gaze of appreciation.
"Suit your fucking selves!" Billy Lee exclaimed, huffing out a breath as he slammed a hand on the roulette wheel. You flinched, mentally preparing yourself for whoever was going to be picked for the round—you were sure it would be you—when Darlene spoke up.
"Wait."
You all stared at her for a moment. Darlene's eyes were filled with tears, but she blinked and took in a deep breath and then she was singing.
You hadn't expected singing to sound so good inside of the carcass of a hotel.
The sound of it, the way her notes drifted through the air. Something tugged slow and deep in your stomach, and your jaw wobbled as you clenched your teeth back and pushed down the sudden wave of emotions flooding you. She was good. She was brilliant, the voice of an angel tethered to Earth. She was—
Billy Lee's hand slammed down firmly on the roulette table again. Darlene's singing cut off abruptly, and you all watched as he sent the wheel spinning.
He shrugged, nonchalant and evil, at Darlene. "I've heard better."
The table was spinning, spinning, spinning, and someone else was going to die, and it was probably you or Miles first and then the other next and—
Suddenly, Father-not-Father Flynn was launching himself at Billy Lee, shouts exchanged, blows cracking over faces and bodies as the two went tumbling over the floor of the El Royale.
You shrieked, watching with wide eyes as the two grappled. Chaos had erupted in the flash of a moment—the two had knocked over a brazier of fire, logs were spreading over the ground and setting fire to the fancy carpet. One of the people who'd been minding you—Annabel, if memory served you correctly—had stepped up by Darlene, raising to take a shot, but Darlene was quicker than you'd expected, using her feet to shove the table over.
The action sent you, Darlene, and Miles tumbling. You winced, your head knocking against the back of the chair you'd been sitting in as you groaned and struggled against your bonds. Miles had backpedaled, back pressing against a structure as he clutched his bound hands in his lap. There was still violence that you couldn't see. A gunshot. The girl yelling about Billy Lee. The sounds of impact and pain.
Jesus Christ, you needed to do something. Flynn was an old man who was outnumbered and outmatched once Billy Lee and his followers got a handle on something, you had to do something.
Your gaze strayed to Miles and you paused. Between the two of you—the gun that had killed Emily.
Miles found your gaze, then found where your gaze was going. He froze, tightening up like someone had put straw in his clothes. He shook his head, eyes going a bit distant. "No, I can't do it." He whispered. "I can't do it no more. I can't. I can't do it."
"Miles." You and Darlene said at the same time, urgently.
"I can't kill no more people."
"Miles!" You exclaimed. His gaze snapped up to you, flicking between you and Darlene behind you (who likely looked as sorry a sight as you did). "Help us," you pleaded, nodding towards the gun.
He shook his head once, jaw working shakily. "I can't kill no more people."
You stared at him for a moment. The world dropped away, everything turning distant as you stared at him.
"What do you mean?" You asked, wetting your lips as you took in a small breath. "How many people have you killed?"
Miles turned his gaze forward, looking down at his bound hands, as he took in a shaky breath.
"One hundred twenty-three." He whispered.
You stared at him for a moment. You could feel Darlene staring too, though a million pieces were clicking into place in your head that hadn't before.
He'd been in Vietnam. Of course he'd been in Vietnam. He was your age, young but not too young to have seen shit. You should've guessed it. The haunt in his eyes. The familiarity of death. The flinching at loud noises.
It wasn't the right place or the right time to tell him you knew what that was like, that you'd seen the shit people like him had gone through firsthand. Instead, you just nodded your head, keeping your voice low.
"Alright." You said gently. "Alright."
"I can't do it." He shook his head, sniffling. "I can't kill no more people."
"Miles," This was Darlene now, tired but soft. "It's all right. You don't have to kill any more people."
He wasn't tearing up anymore. He just looked at the two of you, jaw clenching like a million thoughts were running through his head. The fear wasn't there anymore, though. You watched it slide away, curl into a ball in the back of his eyes.
He shifted, reaching out with both hands as they carefully curled around the gun on the floor. You stared, watching with wide eyes as he carefully shifted his position. His eyes locked with yours.
"You sure?" You asked, quietly.
He nodded, adjusted his hold on the gun, and stood, raising the gun in front of him.
You heard it, the vaguely nervous swagger of an uneasy Billy Lee. "Easy there, altar boy—"
Miles pulled the trigger.
You didn't see Miles for five days.
The El Royale was still stitched into his bones, after all. He knew how to slip through cracks and openings, skirt around the edges of people's vision. Miles had learned how to be unseen, existing quietly on his own.
It made sense in the hotel. But here, it just made you feel like you were living with a ghost. Even Sally would settle reluctantly in his normal spot at night, unable to find him, staring at you accusingly like she could feel how it was all your fault.
You missed him. You missed his soft voice and the tea he made in the mornings. There was a hole everywhere you went now, spaces he didn't fill.
It tugged at you like a loose thread in an article of clothing. You had ruined things. Again. The one good thing you'd had and you were ruining it because you were in love with him. Love, you supposed, ruined everything.
Work dragged at you and your coworkers both noticed your attitude and the vacated seat in the diner. People still didn't sit in the spot, and you realized for the first time how the town had really carved out a place for the two of you.
"Where's your man?" Your coworker Sadie, the girl from your first morning in town, nudged at your shoulder. "He hasn't been showin' up, you two in a little spat or somethin'?"
"Something like that." You said, then, more glumly— "He's not my man."
"You two live together and own a cat."
"We've been through this, Sadie."
"So what's the scoop, then?" She leaned on the counter next to you, wrinkling her nose. "You two have a bad date night or something?"
You exhaled, setting down the dish you were washing a little too hard. "I'm leaving."
Sadie stared at you, blinking. "What?"
"I'm leaving. They're finally fixing the car we came in on and I'm going." You said.
She was still staring at you like you'd grown a head, and maybe you had, because you still weren't sure if you were fully decided on going but you couldn't take it anymore—
"Why the hell would you do that? You're leaving him?" Sadie exclaimed. "You've been layin' out a whole life here for the past few months and you're just saying 'Alright, off I go!'"
"This was never meant to be permanent!" You exclaimed.
"Oh, don't give me that!" She jabbed a finger in your chest. "You've been furnishing a home and building a life with somebody you care about in a town that loves both of you. Whether it was meant to last or not, you live here. You and that sweet boy that everybody loves to hell and back."
You forced down the lump in your throat, glancing down at the counter. Maybe she was right. Maybe she was right and you belonged here and you could belong to him.
No, no, no, you needed to get that out of your head, you couldn't stay here and Miles didn't want to be with you. You refused to hurt him in a whole new way by making it seem like you'd never valued him beyond what he might offer to you as a romantic partner.
Sadie sighed, reading the look on your face. "Don't go." She said, putting a hand on your arm. "You'd regret it. And we'd all miss you." She pointedly squeezed your arm. "He would miss you."
You turned your gaze back to the dishes. "I'll think about it." You murmured.
And you did think about it. You thought about it for the last two days of the five-day period. You thought about it even as you packed up a lot of your things, even as Sally laid on top of your luggage like saying she wanted to be packed along.
"You're gonna stay here, sweet girl." You murmured, gently lifting her from the luggage. Sally mewed, soft little face pressing into your hand as she blinked up at you. "Please don't hate me." You said as an afterthought.
Sally just nuzzled into your arms. The wave of emotion that hit you nearly dizzied you, but instead, you took her into your arms and buried your face into her fur, trying very hard not to cry.
That next morning, you lugged your things to the front door. A duffel bag and a suitcase, your life packed back up on wheels. You hadn't been able to take anything. There were still clothes in your dresser. You were sure Miles would figure it out whenever he went into the room—someone would take them from town, and he could likely get decent money from them.
Sally was following you the whole way, meowing at your feet. She had never done this before, which confused you a little. You bent down once your hands were free, scooping her up and scratching under her chin. "What's gotten into you this morning, hm?"
"You're really leaving?"
You raised your gaze and froze. Miles stood several paces away from you, hands fidgeting at his sides in a way you'd grown used to. He looked like a wreck—eyes bloodshot, face gaunt, like he'd seen a ghost and was becoming one all in one.
"Where have you been?" You questioned, stepping towards him. "God, Miles, I was so worried—"
"You're leaving." He was shaking. You paused, fingers halting their scratching against Sally's neck.
"… Miles," you tried plaintively, but there was the sound of a car horn honking outside. Constance. Bringing you to the hotel so you could retrieve the car.
When you turned your head back to Miles, he'd straightened. You recognized the look from when you'd first met him, the 'customer service' look that was a professional attempt at not entirely losing his shit.
"I'll help you with your bags." He said quietly, keeping his gaze aimed down.
His distance hurt more than him raising his voice at you last week. You stared at him, blinking a few times as you tried to keep your voice steady. "… thank you."
The two of you walked out like it was a funeral procession. Constance was sitting with a cigarette dangling from her fingertips, the window rolled down as she squinted at the two of you.
"Mornin', Miles." She greeted.
Miles nodded at her quietly, loading your suitcase into the back of her trunk. It was a gray, dreary day today, like the sky itself was weighed down by your actions. Dark clouds were forming somewhere to the south, blotting out all remnants of light in the distance. After you shook your thoughts away and loaded your duffel bag into the back, the two of you stood there by Constance's car for a moment.
"Well," you said finally, slowly. "Guess this is it."
"Guess so." Miles was staring at you with a look in his eye you couldn't decipher. His jaw trembled after he'd been looking for a minute, and he ducked his head down.
A million unsaid things were left on your tongue, so of course, you didn't say a single one of them. "I'll be sure to call you when I can. Definitely when I'm settlin' somewhere."
"Alright." His voice cracked. "Be- be safe?"
You nodded. "I will."
"Please don't—" Miles started, then stopped, biting down hard on his lip. He was shaking harder now, but he took in slow breaths.
"We'll miss you." He whispered. Sally was curled on the front step, watching like she already knew what was happening and wanted no part in it.
"This ain't goodbye." You weren't sure why you were promising that when you were the one running in the first place. "We'll see each other again."
Miles shook his head, sniffled once, and then threw his arms around you.
The fierceness of the hug surprised you, but it didn't take long for you to return it. Nose pressing into the side of his neck, you inhaled all of him as the two of you clung to each other. Four months of life together had escalated everything more than you ever thought possible. A random clerk turned into a man that you cared for. A man that you—
Miles pulled back. "Go." He mumbled, swiping at his eyes in a motion nearly quick enough for you to miss. "Just- just go."
And like the coward you were, you obeyed him.
To her credit, Constance didn't say much on the drive there. The radio hummed soothing notes of jazz as you mindlessly pressed your forehead to her window and dazedly watched the town go pass. No signs of life today. There was a storm approaching.
Constance sucked in softly through her teeth as the two of you pulled into the motel parking lot. "Gonna be nice to have that spot open."
"You've said that, Constance." Your eyes fell on the car pulled up near to yours and the man bent halfway into your open hood. "That Ray?"
"Mhm." Constance got out of her car. "Let's get this over with."
That didn't seem like the greatest attitude, but you forced yourself up despite the stone replacing where your heart was.
"You nearly done with that thing?" Constance squawked at Ray, who straightened. He had exactly the face you'd expected—wide and friendly and experienced.
"Very nearly, yeah." He nodded to you. "You must be the owner. Honestly, it's a damn wonder yer beauty took you this far. Constance said you were travelin' a-near constantly the last few months."
"… yeah. We were." You said quietly.
"Well, lucky for you, ol' Ray's worked his magic." He wiped the sweat from his brow, then leaned to you. "Word to the wise? I wouldn't attempt any more cross-country trips with this one. Old girl's done you well, but she'd be better suited towards a small town like this one."
"Ah, don't bother, Ray," Constance scoffed and waved a hand. "I've tried everything with this one, but people make up their damn minds however they want these days."
You tried to smile, but it came out watery. Even the car didn't want to go.
Constance saw your expression, but made no further attempt to convince you. "Just get your damn bags." she said. Thunder boomed in the distance, and the three of you jumped.
"You'll wanna be outta here quick." Ray hummed, squinting down south. The storm clouds were nearly upon the town. They looked darker up close, angry. "That's gonna be one hell of a nasty storm."
You paused from where you were fishing your bags out of Constance's trunk. "How bad is bad?"
"Lotta thunder and lightning. Possibly hail." Ray shrugged. "Radio guys weren't sure, that's how damn bad it was."
He got into his truck, starting it up and giving the two of you a wave. "Safe travels. I'm headin' to the shop before this shit hits us."
You turned to Constance. "Is that why nobody was out? Because the storm's gonna be so bad?"
"Yeah, exactly, nobody wants to get swept up in that shit. Now hurry up! I gotta get going!" Constance exclaimed.
You shoved your suitcase and duffel bag into your trunk. You realized you'd subconsciously made room for bags that weren't coming with you, and you paused, eyes lingering on the empty space.
Something welled up deep inside you as thunder boomed again, loud and close and big.
"What about Miles?" You heard yourself asking. "He hates storms. Is he gonna be okay?"
"Goddammit." Constance swore as she got in her car. "Honey, you gotta decide if you love him or not, because you're breaking him in two. He's better off without you at this point"
"That's an old house." Your heart was racing now, mind running a hundred miles a minute. "Does it even have somewhere safe for him to be? What if it falls?"
"It won't fall."
"But what if it does?" You shouted, something breaking inside of you. "I don't want him to die!"
BOOM. The thunder clapped, as if saying bravo, you've finally got it, and the sky opened up on you.
Rain hit hard. And fast. Constance swore, ducking fully into her car, but you barely paid mind to the rain. The first time you met Miles, you endured the rain. And you were going to do it again. Because you loved him, and you didn't ever want to leave him.
You jumped into your car, starting it up firmly. The rain was still pouring, and it was dripping onto your open car door, but you didn't give a damn. You pulled yourself inside, slammed the door shut, and pressed on the gas.
You could see Constance watching you from her car, her mouth moving wildly—probably something about the parking lot or being safe or asking what in the goddamn hell you were doing, but you didn't have the time to listen or register her right now.
Windshield wiper practically useless, you sped down the streets of the town. It was dark out, practically nighttime from the storm, but you didn't care, not even when the thunder boomed so loud you could feel it shake the car. Screeching to a halt on the street in front of the house—your house—you scrambled, soaked to the bone, up the steps and slammed into the house, paying no mind to the hail beginning to fall around you.
It was chaos. The house rumbled as another thunder blast shook the place, the windows flashing from the lightning outside. You flinched as the sounds of hail began to hit, but you cast that worry aside as you glanced around the house.
"Miles? Miles?!" You exclaimed. You sped through the ground floor, nearly tripping several times from how your shoes slid against the floor, banging on every door you could until you reached the downstairs bathroom and wrenched open the door.
Miles was sitting on the tiled floor in the furthest corner, wedged as far back as he could get with Sally in his lap. When the door opened, he jumped, flinching hard, but his eyes widened as they found you.
He stammered out your name, blinking. "What- what are you—"
"Are you okay?" You asked, panting. "Are you- are you alright?"
"… yes." He was staring at you. "Are- God, you're drenched, what are you—"
You were crying. Actually crying, sniffling as you sank to your knees in front of him. Miles' expression turned alarmed, and he instantly leaned forward, blinking. "Hey, heyhey, what- what's going on—"
"I'm sorry." You said, your voice watery. "I'm so sorry. I-I didn't- I didn't want to leave you, but I didn't wanna hurt you even more. But I-I was so fucking worried about you, I couldn't go. I couldn't go, and I'm sorry I even wanted to—"
Your name again, a touch on your cheek. Miles' fingers trembled slightly as he looked you in the eyes, voice quiet.
"Hey, no, it's- please don't cry, don't cry."
You shook your head. "I'm sorry." You repeated. "I-I tried to tell myself I could go on without you, but it's not true. I need you. I love you, Miles."
His hand froze on your cheek, lips parting. Through the blur of your tears you could see him, hear him, feel him. There was nothing but him and the storm and Sally brushing against the hand you had let limply fall against the floor.
Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your lips.
You took in a sharp breath, blinking, but he pulled back just as fast. Eyes searching your expression, he brushed away a tear from your damp face like it did anything to help.
"I… I love you too." He murmured. His eyes suddenly went watery too. "Please don't leave me agai—"
You grabbed his shirt and kissed him.
There was tongue and lips and skin. He was warm and you were freezing and nothing mattered, nothing at all except him cradling your face like you were home and you clinging to him like you returned the sentiment a thousandfold.
And you did return it. Because he was home. And you loved him.
"It's alright, honey, it's alright." He was pulling back and already whispering to you, sniffling as his own tears fell. He pressed his forehead to yours, a sound between laugh and sob escaping his lips. "I love you too, loved you for so long."
He was perfect, free hand squeezing your own, and you squeezed it back. You both kissed, again and again, panting and moving back in as you desperately pressed into each other on the bathroom floor.
Miles pulled back eventually, still gripping your hand like an anchor as he leaned against the wall.
"Does this mean you're staying?" He whispered, which was a silly question and also so much him that you longed to kiss him again.
You smiled and squeezed his hand. "Oh, sweet boy, I'm stayin' as long as you want me to."
"Forever, then?"
You nodded, eyes moving over his face. "Mhm. Forever."
Miles flung his arms around you, and the two of you pressed together, uncaring about how wet or chilly you were. You held each other there for a moment, and for the first time, you felt Miles Miller breathe you in as much as you did him.
"… the house is gonna be a wreck after the storm, isn't it?" Miles spoke after a moment, voice muffled against your neck.
You released a sigh. "Definitely wrecked, yeah, definitely." You hummed and pressed a kiss to his neck. "We'll have plenty of time to fix it up, though. I'm not going anywhere."
Miles pulled back and kissed you again. You let him steal the air from your lungs as you stroked his scarred cheek and grinned at him like an idiot.
"You're a saint, you know that?" He whispered, voice reverent. "My saint."
You cupped his face. "If I'm a saint, I think loving you is what made me holy."
Miles blinked, eyes growing watery again, but the smile on his face was an indication that it was a good sign.
"I love you." He murmured.
"I love you too, Miles Miller. Very much."
Sally mewed and took the pause to crawl into Miles' lap. Both of you laughed. "We love you too, Sally." Miles said affectionately, his free hand stroking her fur as the other held your hand.
So finally, with a storm above your heads as you sat in the bathroom of a house, you held on to the love of your life and finally, for once, felt at home.
A/N PT2: FUCK TUMBLR FORMATTING FUCK IT SO MUCH FUCK YOU TUMBLR!!!
wow I have a lot to say but I'll say it quick. A million thank-yous to Kris and Mads for keeping me creative and making me feel like I could actually finish this fic. Love you guys!! <3
I've been a recent edition to the Lewis Pullman fandom after the Sentry Summer or whatever we're calling the post-Thunderbolts explosion but I must say after months of lurking that I'm really happy to have found a place where there are so many brilliantly cool people. Lewis' characters are absolutely incredible and I'm so excited to keep writing for them because from where I'm standing right now, the bug is so so so strong.
If you've read this far, I love and appreciate you more than you could know. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the fic always!! <33 Happy October y'all.
Where the doorframe keeps our names, that is where home lives
pairing: Rhett Abbott x reader
warnings: sexism, rodeo danger, language, emotional vulnerability, childhood best friends to strangers to lovers, no mentions of y/n, reader has a braid, reader has the nickname Cricket/Black Widow
summary: You meet at ten, before either of you can name the feeling. You grow up in tandem - twelve, fourteen, fifteen - and at sixteen you leave to learn how to be big in a world that keeps trying to make you feel small. Ten years later you come back with steel in your spine and a job that belongs to men by rumor only. Rhett stayed - built fences, kept the gate straight, and found that the house - and his heart - kept your name anyway. Now you’re older, sharper, and exactly yourself. He wonders if there’s still space for him in the life you made. There is. Under the armor, you’re still the girl who counted In. One. Out. One. and called this place home. And this time, he hopes you will stay.
notes: feel free to leave comments and/or feedback. likes and reblogs are always appreciated! also, feel free to send in requests!
disclaimer: English is not my first language, so please excuse any mistakes 😊
Bull riding is a man’s world. You know that. You feel it every day - how they count you out before the gate swings, how their jokes look for places to land, how a camera climbs your body before it ever finds your rope hand. You learned to stop asking for room and start taking it.
Tonight the arena is three towns over from Wabang. Close enough that the wind smells like the same stubborn grass, close enough that your bones remember which way the evening cool comes down the draws. Close enough that some kid you used to outrun on a gravel road might be on the rail, not recognizing you until the light hits just right. You drive past a diner that used to burn the toast and a gas station that still sells cherry icees you can taste if you try. You do not stop. You are not a ghost visiting old corners. You are here to work.
Pre-rodeo is a hum that wants to be a storm. You feel it in the wrists first, a buzz under the tape like a live wire; in the lungs second, that skinny slice of air that only widens when you make it. You park, kill the engine, sit for one count. In. One. Out, One. Then you move.
Trailer light; mirror check. You slick the flyaways with water because you prefer competence to cosmetics but you know how optics buy you time. Simple red eyeliner, Black leather vest, laces snug. Chaps that move when you do, not before. A little spider stitched small and mean at your glove knuckles - red, the size of a thumbnail, private and public at once. You powder the tail of your rope with rosin, slow circles that smell like old pine and heat. The ritual is quiet on purpose; the show can be loud later.
You walk the alley in a line the boys think is swagger and you know is economy. A teenager in a borrowed hat sees you and elbows his friend; a woman in a work shirt and good boots gives you a quick nod that says go on, then. You nod back. The stock boys pretend not to stare. The bull in your chute tosses his head and plants a message in the dirt: he owes no one anything. Good. You don’t owe him fear.
The proximity to Wabang does the strangest thing to your spine: it stiffens it and softens it at once. Your throat remembers dust and August and the thin metallic taste of county fair lemonade. Your ear remembers Royal’s voice - Don’t fight the first jump, kid. Love it or it’ll teach you hard. Your mouth remembers the bite of salt from curly fries and a boy with a too-long grin who always sat next to you and called coincidence what it wasn’t. You do not go there. Not now. You put the memories in your back pocket like you would a pocketknife: useful later, dangerous if you play with it when you should be working.
Five minutes to call. You stretch the shoulder that sometimes whispers about December and Christmas with the Abbotts one year. You check the brace - not too tight. You flex each finger in your glove and watch the tendons rise like cables. The announcer is warming the crowd with a voice built out of gravel and promise; he says toughness like a brand and heart like a weather report. You roll out your neck until it clicks back into place and give your lungs what they asked for.
In. One. Out. One.
Boys on the rail try their lines. Cute. Predictable. You make them eat their comments with a look and a half-smile they’ll tell stories about later, and you keep walking. The chute boss gives you the courtesy he gives money makers and the respect he gives pros. “You good?” he asks, purely procedural. “Better than good,” you say, because it’s true and because you like how it sounds rolling off the metal.
Three minutes. You lay a palm on the bull’s shoulder and feel the engine and muscle under skin. Left spinner, heavy in the neck, mean little twitch in the right ear. Scar on the muzzle says he’s met a gate wrong. Breath says he’ll test yours. You call him handsome under your breath so only the hide hears it. He snorts like he knows flattery from fact.
You step onto the rail and the world tightens to the shape of a job done well. The leather is a rumor until it squeaks; the hat brim throws your eyes into your own shadow; the hourglass winks once in the floodlight like a secret you decided to share. Out beyond the chutes, the crowd rises for things they don’t yet understand and maybe don’t need to. You don’t ride for their understanding. You ride for the eight quiet seconds that silence the part of your head that thinks too many words.
The sound man hits your cue - a low guitar, a little dirty - and the announcer smiles into the mic like he’s been waiting to say it all week. “Back in town and hungry for it - make some noise for Black Widow.” There it is. The name that used to feel like a dare and now fits like armor. You don’t wink. You don’t wave. You adjust the vest. You settle your hips. You swing a leg and sit the hide like it invited you and you’re polite enough to accept.
Staging narrows to mechanics. Rope across your palm, tail in the fist, knuckles flat, elbow arrowed. Knees soft. Toes light. Chin tucked so the head follows the line your body already believes in. You set your jaw where it won’t get in the way. The gate man waits for your nod; the bull bounces under you like a thought trying to get free. You bring the whole world down to breath and bone.
Somewhere in the stands, Wabang watches. Somewhere at a rail, a man you could find by sound alone is counting with you whether he’s close enough to hear or not. Somewhere under your glove, a little scar you got on the Abbott farm one summer faintly itches like it remembers Wabang more than you do right now.
You tip your chin. Clean. No drama. The latch clacks. And the chute opens like a held breath let go.
The bleachers tremble when the chute bangs. Rhett feels it in his boots, then in his teeth. He isn’t riding tonight - hat brim low, hands empty, family around him like a fence that breathes. The dust lifts in sheets. The floodlights flatten color into bone and shine. You drop into the seat like you were born to it - clean hip set, chin tucked, rope tail snug. The crowd hears Black Widow; Rhett hears summers full of flies and heat and winters of snow and tea and a girl who counted under her breath so the world would hold still.
Cecilia leans forward, elbows on her knees, the way she always did when it mattered. “Royal,” she says, soft and sure, “is that our little-” “Cricket,” Royal finishes, not asking. His mouth barely moves; his eyes do. He watches the way you check the bull’s shoulder with your palm, patient, interested, unimpressed. He doesn’t blink. “Heard tell of a woman in the arena,” he rumbles. “Never thought it was our Cricket.”
Perry squints, grin threatening. “Hell. Look at her.” Rhett looks. The leather is a show; the seat is the truth. You rides the first jump like you love it - Royal’s old lesson turned into muscle and proof. Left spinner, hard and mean; you let the bull have his line, kills the waste, eats the seconds. Floodlight kisses the red spider on your glove like a secret that got tired of hiding. “God,” Perry says, like he is half laughing and half proud. “Cricket went and made herself a myth.” “She made herself a rider,” Cecilia says. There is steel in her voice. She squeezes Rhett’s knee through his jeans. “You see her hands, honey?”
He does. You chalk, you settle, you breathe. He hears it even from here. In. One. Out. One. The alley narrows to a shape around you. Your show name burns hot and red. Your old name whirs under it, small and bright. Both are true. He knew it when you were fifteen and shared fries at the county fair. He knows it now when you put your palm on angry hide and make the world hold still.
A man behind them leans in with a chuckle that doesn’t belong to anything. “Damn,” he says to his buddy, “I want her to ride me like-” Cecilia’s glance over her shoulder could sand paint. He quiets. Rhett doesn’t even turn; all his attention is pinned to the dirt. He catalogues the changes, the sameness, because that keeps his breath steady. The braid - tidier and longer, tied off with a darker ribbon. The mouth - set straight for work, curved at the edges for when the count goes right. The hands - stronger, quicker, still telegraphing nothing. You look older. You look exactly the same. Mostly you look like yourself, the way you only ever did when you were on the ranch and around the Abbotts. He watches you with a feeling that won’t pick one name: awe, relief, and that old, unfair hate that belongs to the boy you left behind - the one for whom your leaving was the end of the world and maybe still is on nights when the stars won’t shut up.
You look like motion made you larger. You look like the world bent around the space you took and decided never to spring back. He hates that a little, the way a healed bone hates the weather - ache that proves it mended crooked and strong. You eat seconds. You eat their noise. You ride without wasting a single breath that doesn’t buy you another inch of control. Rhett hears himself counting with you before he knows he started. In. One. Out. One. First hook, you win the pocket and stay open; second, you let the shoulder roll; third, you check the jaw and leave the head alone so the body can follow. The clock eats. The clock obeys.
Rhett doesn’t smile. He can’t. He’s busy. He’s holding the entire night the way you hold a skittish animal: still, gentle, willing to be bit if it means not letting go. The announcer is a faraway thing. The crowd’s roar is weather he’ll notice later. Right now there is only your spine over mean power and the old county-fair lesson turning into another second survived. Perry slaps Rhett’s shoulder once. Royal’s jaw softens. Perry’s grin shows up slow, reverent against its will. “She looks pretty when she’s working,” he says, and for once there’s no tease in it. Just truth.
The buzzer hits like a door slamming on danger. You make the dismount look like choice. Dirt scatters; a bullfighter buy you clean air; you clear the pocket and sticks the ground, knees easy, shoulders square. You tip your chin to the chute boss. A wink. A wave. A bow. The crowd lifts and lifts you with them.
Scoreboard clicks. Second place.
“Eight clean,” Royal says under his breath, not superstition - fact. Cecilia breathes, “Lord,” the way some people clap. “Cricket,” Perry says, laughter caught in his throat. “Damn.” Rhett finally breathes like he means it. The name lands right where it always lived. Not the brand the world bought, but the first one, the one Royal gave a kid who wouldn’t stop chirping questions and hopping rails. “She’s back,” Cecilia says. “She never left,” Royal answers, meaning the important parts. Rhett keeps his eyes on you as you walk the rail, letting the noise hit and slide off like weather. You are scanning, working, the arena still a job in your hands. But he knows - he knows - you will look up when it counts, and when you do, you´ll find the one thing he’s been able to count by for years.
He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t shout. He stands a fraction taller on the plank, jaw tight, eyes hard to protect what’s softer under them. He hates you for a heartbeat - for leaving, for growing, for proving the world could be survived without him - and then the hate folds itself into heat and respect and under it something he cannot name yet. Perry’s hand thumps Rhett’s shoulder again and stays there this time, a steadying weight. “She was a kid last time,” he says, wonder slipping out sideways. “Look at her now.” Ten years is a long time until it isn’t. Rhett does look. Twenty-six, same as him; ten years, same as a lifetime. The braid is tidier, longer, the smile rarer, the eyes older - in a way he recognizes from his own mirror. Mostly you look like yourself - the version of her that only shows up in situation where you fight to not look and feel small. There is more steel in your eyes. Your smile is different, more show and flash when you wave at the crowd. You take the walk along the rail. The arena bends a little around you; it used to try to make you small and now it doesn’t remember how. You jump the rail to take a picture with a little girl that wears a shirt with a spider and she looks at you like you like you brought Christmas and birthday gifts combined.
And then you look up. Suddenly he feels like ten, twelve, fourteen and sixteen all over again. The light flattens, the roar thins, and for one clean beat the distance between sixteen and twenty-six, between leaving and staying, between Black Widow and Cricket, collapses into a single line of sight. You drop anchor on Rhett like you did since you were ten. His mouth doesn’t move. His chest does.
You tip your chin - tiny, private, the exact measure of Good to see you again - and then you are moving again, back into the work, leaving him with the same thought he’s had since they were kids, only truer now that the years have had their say: You left and you came back. And he’s still right where you can find him.
Second place tastes like dust and sugar - sweet enough to want more, gritty enough to keep you honest. Rhett watches the armor stay on all the way down the alley: the straight spine, the lazy-mean walk, the red spider winking on your glove. He thinks you’ll ghost the pen, vanish into your trailer and your ritual.
They’re where they’ve always been: the Abbotts, three abreast like a line the world forgot to erase. Royal with his hand on the rail. Cecilia with her shoulders pitched forward the way she leans into things she loves. Perry already grinning like he got away with something. Rhett - still as fence post, steel outside so the soft parts don’t get trampled.
The whole machine of you stutters and reboots into something he remembers: knees loose, hat tipped back, that fast bright grin that never made it to cameras. “Perry!” you yell like you’re twelve again, and you’re already moving, sprinting the last ten feet across the dirt. Perry doesn’t brace - he just catches you, all air knocked out of him and laughter back in, picks you up and spins you once. Your boots kick a crescent of dust; your braid whips his shoulder. You’re talking into his collar - nothing words, happy noise - and for a heartbeat Rhett is sixteen again, jealous of anything that gets your first look, even his own brother.
Cecilia steps in like a tide - hands on your cheeks, a thumb to the little scar at your brow, eyes wet and fierce. “Cricket,” she says, and the name lands like shelter. You try to play it cool; you fail immediately. “Cece,” you say, small on the exhale, and fold into her hug like you forgot how tired you were until now. Royal waits his beat, then offers what he always offered you first: steadiness. No fuss. Just a hand that pulls you in tight and thumps your back like you’re a rider he’s proud to claim. “You sit a bull proper,” he says into your hat brim. “Always did.” You nod hard, swallow hard, and for a second your eyes shine the way they did when you were younger and did not yet have the steel to defend you from people that wanted to make you smaller.
When you turn, Rhett is there. You finally look at him. Just him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break. He lets the smile lift one corner of his mouth. “Hi,” he says, and it’s nothing like a boy and exactly like a man who waited without making a scene. The noise falls away for him the way it always does when something matters. He takes inventory because it keeps his hands still: dirt on your jaw, a split in your glove seam (right where he could fix it), the high pulse at your throat. The show has slid off you in layers - what’s left is heat and truth and that stubborn light he’s been chasing since the ferris wheel summers. He feels ten again before he knows why.
Gravel crunches. Royal’s truck rolls to a stop, door swinging wide. You jump out from the passenger side like you’ve been launched - truck too big for you by a mile, but you stick the landing anyway. Shorts, old T-shirt, one knee scraped raw and proud, braid shorter than it will be later with strands already escaping, a thin sunburn across your nose like a badge.
Rhett just stares.
Royal tips his hat toward his boys, half smile caught in his beard. “Couldn’t not take her,” he says, like you’re a force of weather. “Kid kept on begging to meet the calves.”
Perry is faster. He plants himself in front of you, hands on hips, already grinning at the trouble you promise. “Hi,” he says, and it clicks in one second - older-brother energy snapping into place like a gate that knows where it belongs. You return the grin, then march straight up to Rhett and stop close enough to count freckles. You thrust out your hand, palm dusty, chin lifted like you intend to be taken seriously. He doesn’t take it. Not because he won’t - because he forgot how hands work for a second. You angle your head, unimpressed and amused. “Have you never seen a girl before?” Perry snickers loud enough to spook a pigeon. Rhett turns red to his ears and manages a grip; your shake is brisk, businesslike, done.
Royal hooks a thumb toward the porch. “Come on, kid,” he says, “Meet Cecilia before you charm the whole herd.” “Already did,” you say, not moving, eyes flicking past Royal to the small pen where the calves blink in the shade. Then you obey - because you decide to - trotting up the steps beside him, dirt-streaked legs, socks slouched, braid bobbing.
Rhett watches you go, feeling ten and brand-new at the same time, the day suddenly larger than it was five minutes ago. Perry elbows him once, delighted. “You’re doomed,” he whispers. Rhett doesn’t answer. He’s busy memorizing the sound of your feet on their porch and the shape of your hand in his, the beginning of a world he won’t know how to name for years.
A while later you walk through the west pasture. The grass is high enough to shiver against your knees, seedheads painting your shins with pollen. Royal takes the fence line at an easy pace, long shadow keeping you in the shade. Perry kicks through cow paths like he owns them. Rhett is there because he always is, half a step behind, hands in his pockets, watching the ground like it might tell him something.
You talk the whole way.
About the calves - how their eyelashes are ridiculous and how one of them has a white patch shaped like a boot. About the creek - is it cold all summer or just now? About your scraped knee - not from falling, from sliding like a champion, thanks. Every time Royal answers, you jump tracks to the next question like a grasshopper, landing, launching, landing again.
Royal hums to show he’s listening. Perry throws in commentary like he’s calling a game. Rhett mutters something that might be a laugh and might be a warning to himself. Finally - half exasperated, half enchanted - Rhett says it under his breath, not meant as anything but a grumble that escapes anyway: “Do you ever shut up? You’re like a cricket.”
You stop. You look back over your shoulder, sun in your eyes, mouth already curving. Then you stick out your tongue at him, quick as a dare. “You’re rude,” you inform him, then pivot and keep going, talking again before the grass settles. Perry snorts. Royal’s mouth almost smiles. Rhett pretends he isn’t smiling at all.
The name hangs there for a few more steps, light as chaff. Then it drops into place with a small, satisfying click, like a latch finding its home. “Cricket,” Royal says once, testing it, and it fits like it was waiting. Perry repeats it with a flourish. Rhett doesn’t say it out loud. He files it away where he keeps things he plans to take out later when no one’s looking.
“Cricket,” he says, soft, like the name might scare. Then, because you earned it and you chose it, “Black Widow.” You huff, a breath almost like a laugh. “Hey,” you say, as if ten years were a long lunch break. You pull him in, proper. You smell like chute nylon and hot sand and a summer that still thinks you are thirteen. He slides his arms around your waist and tucks his face into the rough of your neck. He stays there for a moment longer than needed, allowing himself to be sixteen and in love again.
Perry elbows the rail because he can’t stand quiet when it turns tender. The two of you part. “Don’t just stand there, Rhett. Say something pretty.” Rhett doesn’t rise to it. He tips his hat instead, old language made new. “Rode clean,” he says, pride as plain as water. “Looked like first.” You huff, pleased. “Second pays enough to keep me hungry.”
Royal’s arm comes around again, a clamp and a thud between your shoulder blades. “You did good, kid,” he rumbles. You give him the small, satisfied nod you used to give when the calf finally took the gate. Then you turn to Perry with your mouth already twisting into trouble. “Heard you have a kid,” you say, tone pure mischief. “Who let you be responsible for a human on purpose?” Perry presses a hand to his heart, staggers like you shot him with kindness. “Not only that,” he says, delighted. “A wife too. You’ll come meet ’em.” “Yeah, of course,” you say, no hesitation, like you’ve had the address written on your palm for a year. “You think I’m passing up the chance to tell a small person all your secrets?” Perry whoops. “Bring it on.”
Somewhere behind his steady face, Rhett’s whole chest loosens. The word of course lands in him like a promise he didn’t ask you to make out loud. You will return home, he thinks, the thought as simple and enormous as fence meeting horizon. Maybe not every day. Maybe not forever. But home got bigger the minute you said yes to the kitchen and the kid and the idea that there’s a chair at their table with your name on it again.
Late spring, the kind that forgets itself after sunset. The creek is fat with meltwater, cottonwoods just starting to fuzz, calves still wearing ears too big for their heads. You’re twelve, all knees and scabbed shins, braid unspooling, T-shirt with someone else’s name written on the tag. You’ve spent all day handing Royal tools and pretending not to race Perry between fenceposts. Rhett walks the line behind you, steady and quiet, like the fence might wander off if he looks away.
By dusk, you’re soft with tired. Hay clings to your socks; your head sports a new scrape you’ve already decided to keep. The Abbotts’ porch light glows gold through the screen. Inside, the table is crowded - bowls, bread, the smell of garlic and something simmered slow. You stop in the doorway, feeling that strange tug again: not home, exactly, but something leaning close to it.
“Shoes,” Cecilia calls without looking up, voice all quilt and sunlight. You obey. The thud of your sneakers on the floorboards sounds like permission. She turns, wooden spoon in hand, scanning you like she always does. “Any damage?” “Minor,” you report. “Fence two bit my head. I won.” Royal chuckles. Perry fakes outrage. Rhett smirks into his glass.
Dinner is easy - bread still warm, stew too heavy on the vegetables for Perry and just right for you. Royal tells stories about bulls with grudges. Perry interrupts for effect. Rhett rolls his eyes, but his mouth curves anyway. You talk with your hands, knock your spoon once against your bowl, apologize, forget, and do it again. No one minds.
When the dishes are stacked and the house hums quiet, Cecilia wipes her hands and nods toward the mudroom. “Come here, kid. Help me fold.” You follow. The mudroom smells like soap and pine. Towels wait in a neat stack beside a row of hooks - four coats, all sizes. Yours hangs there too, lighter and smaller, but there. You know it’s yours because last week you left it on the fence and Royal brought it in muttering and Cecilia hung it anyway.
She passes you a towel. You fold. She folds. The quiet between you feels kind. “You’re shooting up fast,” she says after a bit. “We’ll have to start marking that doorframe again. Been a year since the boys got measured.” “Rhett keeps cheating,” you say, grinning. “Do not,” comes faintly from the kitchen. Cecilia smiles. “We’ll see about that.” She gestures with her chin toward the kitchen doorway, where the frame still bears faded pencil lines and initials: R, P, and a stack of years like tree rings.
Later, when everyone’s gone to the living room for pie, you wander over with the stub of a pencil. You’re just curious, you tell yourself - want to see where you’d fit. Rhett is already there, marking something. “Adding this year,” he says, not turning. Then, half a beat later, “You too.” Before you can answer, he scribbles Cricket under the lowest line - your name small, careful, tucked between the years like it’s been waiting. You stare. “I don’t-”
Cecilia appears in the doorway, drying her hands. “It’s fine,” she says softly, seeing the look on your face. “You’re family, honey. You come often enough we might as well keep track.” It hits before you can brace: the word family, clean and simple, and the way it lands right in your chest. Your throat knots. Your vision blurs. You blink hard, then harder. “Sorry,” you mumble, wiping your face with the heel of your hand. “I don’t- I’m not trying to cry. It’s stupid.” “Oh, sweetheart,” Cecilia says, already there, arms open. You fold into her like it’s instinct. She smells like soap and stew and the day. “It’s not stupid. It’s twelve.” You laugh once, bent and watery. “Twelve’s the worst.” “It is,” she agrees. “And you’re doing it beautifully.”
Behind her, the kitchen floor creaks. Perry has appeared, pie in hand, eyes wide. “We doing hugs?” he asks. “I’m great at hugs.” He swoops in before you can object, nearly lifting you off the ground in a bear squeeze that smells like cinnamon and dust. “Perry,” Rhett mutters, exasperated but fond. “What? It’s emotional!” Rhett stands there, awkward and too tall for the moment, hands half in his pockets. Then he scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, quiet. “If you keep crying, we’ll have to add a waterline under your name.” You laugh through your sniffles, a little hiccup of sound. “That’s not even funny.” He shrugs, cheeks pink. “Maybe not. But it worked.” It did.
Cecilia gives your shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. “All right,” she says, brisk again. “Enough heart-to-heart. Someone cut this pie before Perry eats it with the pan.” “Too late!” Perry crows from the table. Rhett rolls his eyes, but when he passes you a fork, his hand brushes yours just enough to make it count.
Later, after pie, you find your coat hanging neatly on its hook, still beside theirs. You touch the sleeve and then look at the doorframe - your name small and straight, a new line among the old ones. For a second you let yourself imagine a chair with your name carved in the back, waiting here even when you’re not.
Outside, the crickets start up like a promise. You smile. You sleep that night in a borrowed blanket on a soft couch and the quiet certainty that someone would still measure you next year, too.
The sponsor wrangler finds you first - logo shirt, clipboard smile, eyes on the hourglass at your glove instead of your face. He steers his patter toward the banner wall like you’re part of the furniture. You go three steps with him, then plant. The man blinks when the furniture suddenly has brakes. “Just a few shots, Black Widow. Little smile?”
You tip your head like a knife. “Little check,” you say, and glance at Royal. “You need me now or can I give him thirty seconds?” Royal folds his arms. “Thirty. After that I start charging.” The wrangler laughs like he isn’t sure if it’s a joke. You line up in front of the vinyl, hands on hips, hat low. Flash. Flash. He asks you to turn a little. You do. He asks for a wink. You give him a look instead - camera-hot, teeth nowhere in sight. The wrangler decides he has enough.
Then the reporter oozes in, the kind that calls women “sweetheart” and men “sir.” He doesn’t ask; he enters your air. “Widow, got a sec? Off the record, what’s the secret - tight clothes or tight grip?” Rhett feels his jaw go hard. Perry shifts his weight like he’s already bored of the man’s face and is looking for something more interesting to hit. Royal doesn’t move. Cecilia moves enough - one step forward, chin up, storm gathering.
You beat all of them to it.
“Good question,” you say, smiling like you just found a snake under a rock. “My secret is I don’t mistake a microphone for a personality. You want a quote? Try this: ‘It’s not clothes, it’s core.’ Spell that right.” The reporter opens his mouth to be offended, decides to laugh instead because the camera’s still on, and backs away muttering about “colorful.” You hand the mic back to the wrangler without looking at him. He takes it like it’s hot. You dust your hands off - nothing on them, the gesture pure punctuation - and turn back to the Abbotts with the steel off your eyes again.
A little girl in a plastic hat appears from nowhere like a rumor, two front teeth missing and a Sharpie clutched like a weapon. “Miss Widow?” she squeaks. “Can you sign my hat? My mom says girls can’t-” She doesn’t finish because she’s already second-guessing it. You drop into a crouch so you’re eye-level. Rhett thinks his heart might beat out of his chest. “Your mom’s wrong about interesting things,” you say, gentle as you get. “What’s your name?”
“Kaylee.” You print KAYLEE on the brim, then add a tiny spider next to it. “Count with me, Kaylee,” you say, soft. “In. One.” She does, slow and careful. You nod like she just roped the moon. “Good. Keep that. It works.” Kaylee runs off, hat too big and pride bigger. Rhett watches the way your mouth tightens when she vanishes into the crowd. It’s the face you make when the world gets under your vest - fast, then gone.
“Come on,” Perry says, voice back to loud. “We got a cooler and a tailgate with our name on it.” You go with them to the gravel, to the beat-up truck where all the good conversations always happen. Cecilia fishes a bottle of water from the ice and snaps it into your hand with maternal force. You drink like it’s pay. Royal leans on the tailgate and starts asking the questions only someone who knows stock asks - shoulders on that bull look heavier than his last run? You liked the pocket he set on jump three? You answer like a pro, words clean, hands unconsciously marking beats in the air.
Rhett stands close enough to watch the tendon in your wrist work as you talk. Close enough to notice the split seam in your glove again. He takes it from your hand like it’s nothing, like he’s done it a hundred times, which he has. Pocketknife. Rawhide lace. The ritual is muscle-deep. “Hold still,” he says. “I am holding.” You lean a hip into the bumper, eyes on him now instead of the stitches. “You carry that lace for all your girlfriends?” “Just the ones who will beat me in the arena.” He pulls the lace snug, neat square knot, thumb brushing your pulse on purpose and not at all by accident. “There.” You flex your hand once. Approving. “Useful Abbott.” Perry groans. “Don’t encourage him.”
Royal’s phone buzzes. He steps away, voice low, hat tipped, already a silhouette in the glare. Cecilia drifts toward a knot of neighbors who remember you as freckles and scabbed knees. For a minute it is just you and Rhett under the wash of lot light and slow moths. “Riding Wabang next week and the one after?” he asks. You nod. “I will. Both” “How does that sit with you?” You taste it before you speak. “Feels like coming home,” you say, truth and bravado talking at the same time.
He opens his mouth, something careful starting there, when Cecilia is back, warm and direct. “Good. Then when are you coming for dinner?” She does not make it a question so much as a plan. “Tuesday, if you roll in Monday. I will do roast.” “Tuesday,” you say, quick and sure. “I will bring pie.”
Royal reappears, folding his phone into his pocket. “Heard Wabang.” His eyes cut to you, weighing and approving. “Enter both nights if they will have you, on both weeks. Purse is better on Friday, stock is ranker, suits you.” “Then I will take both,” you say. “I like honest work.”
Perry materializes like he was listening from ten feet away. “And go easy on Rhett while you are at it,” he adds, grin already out. “Man has a fragile disposition.” Rhett does not look at him. He looks at you. In his head he thinks the thing he does not say out loud, the one that never learned manners. The hardest thing you did to me was leaving.
Cecilia pats your arm, oblivious to the thought but not the feeling in the air. “Text me when you hit county line. I will keep a plate warm.” “I will,” you say. Your mouth tilts. “And I will measure again on the doorframe.” Perry groans. “Here we go. Another inch and she will claim she is taller than me.” “Only if the pencil agrees,” Royal says, straight-faced. Rhett pushes his hat back a fraction. “If the pencil agrees, I will not argue.” You laugh, small and bright, and it loosens everything. The lot is cooling. Trucks turn over, taillights smear red, moths pass like lazy confetti through the floodlight. You shift your bag on your shoulder.
“I should go,” you say, not sorry. “Early loadout.” “Tuesday,” Cecilia reminds, already stepping into a hug that lands you back on your heels. Royal gives your shoulder one firm press that says he heard your ride and liked it. Perry leans in for a noisy squeeze and stage whispers, “Bring two pies. Insurance.” “I will,” you say, “And Perry? Looking forward to meet your little bug.”
You and Rhett are last. You do not reach for him. He does not reach for you. He tips his hat instead. “Drive safe,” he says. “Count for me,” you answer, the private request hidden in the simple words. “In. One. Out. One,” he says, soft, like a promise he will keep whether you hear it or not. You back away a step, then another, braid over your shoulder, spider winking at your knuckles. “Tuesday,” you say again, and turn toward the dark road that points you at Wabang.
Rhett watches your taillights shrink, hears Perry’s ongoing pie negotiations, feels Royal’s quiet settle, catches Cecilia’s glance that says she saw more than she will say. He thinks what he always thinks when the night gets honest. You left and now you came back. He is still right where you can find him. Rhett stands there until the taillights quit being red and turn into night. Tuesday is only four sleeps away and somehow feels like a mile and a minute. It isn’t. It’s roast and a doorframe and a house that still carries your name like you never left.
Tuesday arrives faster than you think. You turn up the Abbott drive and you are sixteen with a new license, you are ten on your first visit, and you are every age in between. You aren’t even out of the car when a shape slips off the porch. You know it’s Rhett from the outline alone - taller than you remember, maybe just taller than he was - and you smile before you mean to.
“You beat the roast,” he says, taking the steps in two. “Barely,” you say. “Cece texted me a threat about Perry already eating all the sides.” “Accurate.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He reaches without asking for your bag and the pie, gathering what you’re carrying like gravity. You let him. The two of you walk in silence. Ten years feel like nothing and everything at once.
The screen door bumps once and swings. A woman steps out with a dish towel over her shoulder and a kid tucked behind her thigh. You’re already smiling at Amy when your brain catches up to the face above her. “Becky?” you blurt, then laugh at yourself. “Oh my god, Becky?” Her eyes go round, then brighter. “No way,” she says, already crossing the porch. “You are the infamous Cricket? Oh my god.” She pulls you in, towel and all, then holds you out by the elbows like she’s checking for proof.
Behind you, the porch board creaks. Rhett is there, shoulder to the post, just watching - hat pushed back, that small private smile that lives in the corner of his mouth when the world organizes itself into a shape he likes. “Look at you. Back like nothing. Cricket aka Black Widow in my kitchen. What is this timeline.” “Please,” you say, grinning. “Look at you. The baddest baby from second period grew up and took over the Abbott porch.”
Perry hears that from three rooms away. “Confirmed!” he yells. “Married the baddest baby on purpose.” Becky rolls her eyes, same as high school, and tips her head toward the kid. “Amy, honey, this is Cricket. The one Daddy and Uncle Rhett won’t shut up about.” Amy slides out from behind Rebecca’s leg like she’s been released. “I heard so much about you,” she says carefully, like she’s reciting a spell she wants to get right. “Daddy says you ride a bull like you were born on it. “He’s right,” you say, solemn for her benefit. You offer a fist. She bumps it, examines your shirt, and spots the red spider on it. “Is that yours?” “Mine,” you say. “She’s small and mean and only bites if people are silly.” Becky snorts. “So, you.” “So, me,” you agree.
“Becky,” you say again, because it’s still funny, because it’s still true in your head. “You remember when you got sent to the office for starting a petition about vending machines?” Becky lifts her chin. “And we got the candy bars back by spring. You’re welcome for your childhood.” Amy gasps like this is legend. “Mom started a petition?” “Your mother started three,” Perry says, appearing with two forks he definitely does not need. “And a small riot over the dress code.” “Peaceful assembly,” Becky says, swatting him with the dish towel. Then to you, gentler: “You look good. You look… right.”
You feel it land - how time kept moving here without you, how chairs filled and a kid learned to say petition, how the pencil climbed the doorframe - and somehow there was still a space with your name on it the whole time. “Feels right,” you say. “We’re all older. Some of us taller.” You look up at Rhett for that part, on purpose. “By a hat,” he says, deadpan. “Cheater’s unit,” you fire back. Becky laughs, easy and delighted.
Amy is so excited she doesn’t stop for air. She leans in, conspiratorial, eyes huge. “And Uncle Rhett talks about you the way he reads the Bible. Slow. Like it matters.” You snort before you can help it. “That sounds dangerous.” Rebecca laughs into her sleeve. “He does,” she says, delighted and merciless. “Reverent, even.” Rhett goes a color you’ve only ever seen on ripe tomatoes. “Rebecca.” “What?” she says, all innocence. “Scripture’s scripture.”
Amy bounces on her toes, ponytail thwacking her shoulder. “He says you count. He showed me. In. One.” She inhales with theatrical care, chest puffed, then beams like she’s nailed a recital. You match her, just as solemn. “Out. One.” The two of you finish the breath together and the kitchen seems to land in the same place at the same time.
Cecilia, passing with a dish towel, taps Amy’s shoulder. “Let the lady breathe between questions, bug,” she says, fond. “Or she’ll have to start charging by the answer.” “I have allowance,” Amy says gravely, then turns back to you. “Also I lost a tooth. Wanna see?” “I was hoping you’d offer,” you say, and she bares the gap with pride. You put a hand to your heart. “Classic work.” Rebecca hooks an arm around Amy’s waist and peels her gently back. “Alright, press corps. Give the Black Widow an inch.” She looks at you, eyes soft around the mischief. “It’s good to see you, truly. Never knew I listened to stories about you in all my time here. Thought you were someone else. When Perry told me the infamous Cricket was back in town, I told him if he didn’t invite you I’d stage a coup.” You grin. “Always knew you had dictator potential, Becky.” “Don’t out me in front of my child,” she stage-whispers, then kisses Amy’s head. “Go wash up. Hands. Face. Forearms. Everything.”
Amy salutes and darts away, then skids back like she remembered something essential. “Friday we’re going to the rodeo,” she announces, breathless. “Daddy says Uncle Rhett might ride if his shoulder’s nice, and Grandpa says you’re braver than sense, and I think you’re both going to win.”
Your eyes flick to Rhett. There’s a split-second where the air warms and you feel like you are sixteen again. “Friday,” you echo, easy as you can make it. “We’ll see how the stock feels.” Rebecca’s grin tips sly. “Oh, she’s not the only one who’s heard things. Entries posted. Two Abbotts on the board. One by name and one by heart” She nudges Rhett with her hip as she passes. “Try not to make it a sermon in the chute.” He rubs a thumb along the seam of his pocket, not meeting your eyes. “I’ll try not to make it anything.” “Liar,” you say, gentle.
Cecilia rescues everyone by clapping her hands once. “Seats, heathens. Roast waits for no soul.” She touches your elbow as you pass her, a little grounding pressure that says welcome in a language you didn’t forget. “Good to have you where you belong.” Royal passes behind her, gives you a quiet shoulder tap that means he agrees with more words than he’ll use. You realize - sudden and bright - that the household grew and shifted without you and somehow kept you threaded through it anyway.
At the table, Amy claims the chair beside you like she called it years ago. “Can you sign my hat after?” she asks, already whispering though no one told her to. “Mom says you put spiders. I want two. One big, one little. So they can be friends.” “Deal,” you say. “But you have to promise to breathe on Friday.” She braces both little hands on the edge of the table and nods solemnly. “In. Out.” Across from you, Rebecca lifts her water glass in a mock toast. “To Friday,” she says. “To brave and foolish, in equal measure.” Rhett finally looks at you over the rim of his glass. The corner of his mouth lifts, rueful and sure. “To honest work.”
You tap your fork twice on your plate, a private drumroll you didn’t know you’d been saving. “To both of us starting the weekend right.” You don’t put teeth in it. You don’t have to. The tease is the truth. Perry whistles, shameless. “God help the bulls.” Royal only grunts, approval disguised as something else. Cecilia sets a mountain of roast on your plate like she’s building you a ramp back into the life you left.
“Eat,” she says. “Then we’ll measure the doorframe. I found the pencil.” Amy gasps. “Can I do the line? I’ll write CRICKET so neat.” “You can,” you say, feeling the old ache turn into something quieter. “Make it straight.” “Like a verse,” Rebecca murmurs, and you kick her lightly under the table. Rhett’s boot finds yours by accident-or-not, steadying you where the floor feels like moving.
Dinner goes the way time goes when you’re happy - loose, fast, and somehow full. Laughter bellies up to old stories; new ones wedge in without asking. Somewhere in the middle the house shifts a little to make room for you without really needing to. Dishes are a game. Amy crowns Perry with a foam beard; he poses like a sea captain; you bark a laugh you didn’t know you were saving. Cecilia clucks, secretly pleased. Royal dries exactly one plate and calls it supervision.
You take the towel and fall into the old assembly line. You dry; you pass to Rhett; he shelves. You still remember where every mug lives - Cecilia’s floral high, Royal’s chipped low, the blue ones stacked by habit - but you hand them to him anyway. Your fingers brush more often than necessary, the small, stupid electricity of it knocking politely and then staying. “Top shelf,” he murmurs, even when you already know. “I know,” you say, and let him tell you.
When the last glass clicks home, Amy tugs you towards the living room. The doorframe - still hosting years of lines and initials like tree rings - waits in the kitchen light. You back to the jamb. Rhett steps in behind you, palm to your crown, knuckles gentle at your jaw. For a moment, you feel like fifteen again and a buried memory resurfaces.
July heat in the floorboards. A fly ticking the screen. Perry somewhere out back, singing off-key. Cecelia clinking spoons. Royal’s boots on the porch like punctuation. You’re barefoot, sunburned, still damp from the creek, hair rope-braided and shedding. Rhett says, “Back straight,” and you say, “Bossy,” and he says, “Honest,” and you both grin like you invented talking.
He marks you - CRICKET, 15 - and doesn’t step away. His hand stays a second too long, warm at your crown, his thumb a breath from your cheekbone like it’s checking for straightness that isn’t on the jamb. He smells like hay and laundry soap. You can count the dust freckles on his knuckles. Your pulse stutters. “In,” you whisper, because you need something to do with your lungs. “Out,” he answers, because he always does.
You tilt - moth-wing small - until the tip of his nose skims your cheekbone and your bottom lip brushes the edge of his. Not a kiss, not yet - just the promise of one, the shape of it, the sure knowledge that if no one speaks you will finish what you started. His breath catches. His thumb steadies your jaw like he’s making the line straight. Your hand finds his shirt, two fingers curled in cotton, tiny anchor.
The house holds its breath with you. Then screen door snaps. “Pie!” Cecelia calls, miracle-loud. You both freeze; the moment blinks, breaks neat as twine. He clears his throat and underlines your name like he meant to all along. You study it with academic fury. The fly keeps time like nothing happened. Everything did.
“Back straight,” he says. “Bossy.” The old summer flicker across his eyes too. You see it. You pretend you didn’t. Your throat does that treacherous, soft thing anyway. “Honest,”, he breathes out. Perry is suddenly there, scooping Amy under the arms and boosting her like a crane. “Steady hands, Picasso.” Amy bites her lower lip, all business, and drags the pencil slow and true. The graphite whispers. She adds the letters with her tongue caught in the gap of her teeth: C R I C K E T - crooked, perfect. “Attagirl,” Royal says from the table, proud like he invented handwriting.
Rhett’s palm lingers at your crown a heartbeat longer than needed, then slides away. He reaches past, steadying Amy’s sneaker against his thigh so she can dot the final T without wobble. Your shoulder brushes his chest; you don’t move. Neither does he. “Signature touch,” Perry proclaims, lowering Amy. “Gotta have one.” Rhett’s pencil clicks once. Quick as a secret, he inks the tiny spider beside your name. Your knuckles graze his wrist when you reach to blow the dust away. He doesn’t pull back; you don’t, either. “Straight,” Amy announces, satisfied. “Pretty as a verse,” Rebecca says, and you huff a laugh you can’t help.
“Still shorter than me,” Perry crows, rescuing the moment with exactly the right amount of nonsense. He slaps the jamb above his own line. “And definitely shorter than Rhett.” “I contain multitudes,” you say. “Short ones,” Perry says, delighted. Amy plants her fists on her hips. “Height isn’t the important part,” she declares. “Brave is.” “Listen to the management,” Rebecca says, kissing the top of Amy’s head. “She’s right.” Cecilia taps the counter with a spoon. “All right - jam taste, then bed for the brave one and planning for the fools.” She eyes you and Rhett. “Friday fools, specifically.”
Royal leans a shoulder to the doorway, comfortable as weather. “Neck-heavy stock on the sheet. Leave your chest soft on the first jump.” “Love it,” you say. “Ride it,” he corrects, but he’s pleased. Perry uncaps a jar and hands you a spoon. “Fig first. If you lie, it’s a sin.” You taste, close your eyes, let the porch and years and sugar do their work. “Holy,” you pronounce. “See?” Perry beams, vindicated. “God-tier jam.”
Rhett doesn’t touch the spoon. He touches the tiny spider he drew by your name instead, smudging an invisible speck with his thumb like he’s setting ink. “Friday,” he says, softer than the soap-smell in the room. “In,” you answer. “Out,” he finishes, and for a beat the house is so quiet you can hear the crickets outside. Then Amy yawns huge and theatrical, and the spell breaks into laughter. “Bed,” Cecilia says, ushering her out. Rebecca follows with a wave.
You stand, pat your pockets for keys, lift the pie tins. “I should head out.” “I’ll walk you,” Rhett says, already moving, hat low, shoulder brushing the jamb as you pass your new mark. He takes your bag without asking. It’s nothing, it’s everything. Porch boards talk under your boots. Night smells like cut grass and dish soap drifting from the sink. The truck ticks as it cools. For a second you both just stand there in the wash of the porch light and moths.
“Thanks for dinner,” you say. “Thanks for being here,” he answers, like it’s simple. You set the pie tin on the hood.. The gravel is a dark ocean around you. “Friday,” he says. “Friday,” you echo. He opens his arms a fraction and you step in - one of those quiet, careful hugs that starts as courtesy and then isn’t. His chin finds the spot above your temple like it remembers the map. You count once together without speaking.
You step back first because one of you has to. “See you at the chutes,” you say. “I’ll be there,” he says. “Count for you. And watch you. Maybe steal your win.” “You will the do the first two,” you say, certain. Then you smile. “Maybe you will do the third.” You step into the car. He shuts your door. You roll the window down halfway, grin quick and mean as a promise. “Tell Perry I’m stealing a corner piece of pie next time.” “He’ll stage a coup,” Rhett says, lips tipping. “Drive safe.”
You put the truck in gear. The porch light skims your windshield; the moths spiral like confetti. You tap the horn once and go. He watches your taillights shrink until they stop being red and turn into night. His chest does the old, unfair thing. He feels sixteen again - standing where the drive meets the road, holding a lace he didn’t know what to do with - when you told him you were leaving.
It’s the color of early morning that doesn’t belong to anyone. Gas station neon hums. The cherry Icee sign is lit for no one. The air smells like dust that hasn’t decided to rise. You’re already there when he pulls in: oversized shirt, braid a little crooked from sleep or nerves. He swings down from the truck and the door bang is too loud for the hour. If he speaks, it becomes real. He speaks anyway.
“Why here?” he asks, rougher than he meant. “Neutral ground,” you say, small smile trying to make it easier. “Didn’t want to make the porch sad.” “The porch will hear about it,” he says, and it’s not a joke. You nod toward the east, where the highway cuts a clean line. “I got a spot in a trailer. Stock contractor’s niece. It’s legit.” Facts; simple; like listing the parts of a rigging.
“What about-” he starts, and everything that could go in the blank crowds his tongue: us, me, the creek, Tuesday stew, Royal’s fence line, Cece’s towels, Perry’s dumb songs, the way your name fits on the doorframe. He picks none of them. “What about school?” he says, because he’s a coward and it’s safer. “I’ll finish,” you say, like that’s the easy part. “On the road. Night classes when I can. It’s not forever.” You grip the strap. “I just… I have to see if the world is as big as it feels from the chutes.” He hears: bigger than us. “Today?” he asks, and the word sounds like a test he’s already failed. “In a week,” you answer. “Next Friday.” You swallow and your eyes land on his shoulder - the place your hand knows. “I didn’t want to disappear on you.”
A week. It hits him sideways - relief and dread braided tight. Not now. Worse: not yet. A fuse lit in daylight. “You couldn’t wait longer?” It comes out thin. He means: pick us. He means: pick me. “If I wait, I’ll get good at waiting,” you say. “And I can’t be small that long.” “So I, we, this place - make you small?” His jaw tightens until it hurts. “That’s not what I said.” “It’s what I heard,” he says, too fast. “That’s not-” You start. “I can’t be my small. Not anymore.”
Wind flips the flag. A semi moans past and drags the horizon with it. He wants to grab you and shake a different answer loose. He wants to lie down across the road until the week changes its mind. He does neither. He shoves his hands in his pockets so he won’t reach and lose.
You pull a coil of rawhide lace from your back pocket and hold it out. “For your glove,” you say. “In case the next Friday in the chutes asks for more than you planned.” He stares at it like it might bite. “So that’s what I get? Lace and a countdown?” “You get the truth,” you say. “And time to hate me less.” “I don’t-” he starts, but the word is already wrong. He hates you right then in that specific way you hate weather for doing exactly what it promised: you were always going to go. He hates that the week will be a museum of lasts. He hates you because it proves the world is survivable without him at its center.
You see it land and don’t flinch. “Rhett,” you say - his name in your mouth is soft with teeth. “If I stay because you ask me to, I’ll punish you for it.” “I wouldn’t ask,” he says, the truest thing he owns. He doesn’t add that he wants to anyway. He doesn’t add that not asking feels like betrayal too.
The door chimes. The attendant yawns. Somewhere a radio mutters about weather three towns over. You step in close enough he can count the flecks in your eyes. You fix the curl at the edge of your braid because you can’t fix anything else. “In,” you whisper, offering him the only ritual you share. He clenches his jaw. “Don’t make me count you out,” he says, a plea dressed as anger. You nod, throat working. “Okay.” You lay the lace in his palm. He doesn’t close his hand.
“Next Friday,” you say, as if speaking the shape of it will make it less sharp. “After supper. I’ll come by first. I want to say goodbye right.” He wants to say don’t you dare make it pretty. He says nothing. You tip your chin like you do before a gate, turn, and go. You don’t look back. It’s the only mercy you give and he hates you for it.
Thursday, two towns from Wabang, the cab smells like dust and coffee gone thin. Rhett needs to run some errands before the weekend. Then, his phone buzzes in the cup holder. Unknown number.
hi. this is Cricket.
i can never sleep before a ride.
you want to grab a drink at the Handsome Gambler?
He stares at the screen long enough for the next buzz to come - three gray dots that never quite resolve. He thumbs back:
On my way.
He sets the phone face down like it might bite and takes the next turn without thinking. Headlights comb the fencelines. Moths break themselves on the glass and keep going. The radio is low, some old station that knows better than to talk between songs.
What does it mean that you’re back? He chews it like a nail. It could mean everything, which is a bad idea, or it could mean exactly what the text says: a drink, because Friday is close and the world is loud. He decides - out loud, so he’ll hear it - to not make it big. Not tonight. A beer is a beer. A door in, a door out. He can do that. The Handsome Gambler floats up like it always does: neon sign, the first loud voices floating in. He kills the engine and the quiet is immediate.
You’re outside under the neon, arms folded against the breeze, boot toe worrying a crack in the concrete. The sign paints you in red and white and a little blue; it’s not flattering and it doesn’t matter. For a second it knocks the breath clean out of him - how you look the same and not the same at all. Same braid, tighter. Same mouth, older at the edges. Then you smile. His heart does the old, unfair skip. “Hey,” you say, like it isn’t ten years and three lifetimes. He doesn´t answer and wraps you in a quick but tight hug instead.
He holds the door and you slip past, his hand hovering at the small of your back without landing. Inside the Handsome Gambler, the jukebox is losing a fight to a Hank Williams cover and a hard pool break. You pause, take it in - the neon blinking like a bad idea, the varnish worn to truth, the air thick with cigarette smoke and cold beer. First time past the gravel and myth. It feels smaller than the legend and exactly the right size for tonight.
Rhett angles you toward a corner booth - a little wedge of privacy in a room made of noise. “One second,” he says, and peels off to the bar. You watch him lean in, trade a few words with the bartender, easy as habit. A nod, a grin, two bottles set down with the thunk of people who know each other’s ways. His life moved while you were gone. Of course it did. Yours did too.
He comes back with two beers and slides one over to you before he drops into the booth right next to you. There is enough space yet he lands right next to you, shoulders and knees touching like it is coincidence. “Cold enough?” he asks. “Close to holy,” you say, bottle sweating against your palm. The jukebox coughs up another Hank chorus; a cue ball cracks; neon hums. Up close, he smells like soap and road and the faint ghost of cedar from a tack room. Your legs stay touching. Neither of you adjust.
“This place seemed like the coolest thing on earth when we were kids,” you say, watching the people around you. “We all tried to sneak in. No one ever made it past the gravel.” Rhett’s mouth ticks. “Perry got as far as the ice machine once. Claimed it counted.” “It didn’t,” you say, and your laugh goes soft. “I have spend many nights here,” Rhett says, proving again that he has also lived these past ten years, “And honestly? I’d rather be at the county fair again.” You nod, slow, smile tugging at your lips. The mirror behind the bar folds you together with neon and old bottles, and the room tilts into memory like it’s been waiting.
Fifteen, heat slicking the midway. Grease and sugar in the air. Everything gold like the day’s been dipped in corn syrup. You and Rhett shoulder to shoulder at the fry stand, sharing a paper boat gone limp with salt. You pretend not to notice how your fingers keep finding each other in the ketchup. One soda between you because you’re “not thirsty.” You pass it back and forth without talking about mouths. The straw goes glossy. You learn how to sip without looking like you mean it.
You’re grinning when it happens. A boy from school - letter jacket even though it’s August, friend pack fanned behind him - sidles in with the exact smile that always looks for somewhere to land. “Well, if it isn’t Cricket,” he says, making it sound like a joke. “Heard you’re a real rider these days.” His buddy snorts. “She can ride me-”
Rhett’s head turns, slow, like weather rolling in. He doesn’t move otherwise. You feel your jaw lock. Your body knows this angle, this tone, this stage: the part where your throat forgets language, where you’re faster with a bull than a boy in a pack, where you go small because small used to be safe. “Walk,” Rhett says, very softly, to you, like a hand on the small of your back that no one else can see. You take one step, then another, paper boat in a death grip. The boys peel off, laughing at their own echoes. You don’t look back. The sound climbs your spine anyway.
You stop by the ring toss, like momentum let go. The whole fair breathes around you - lights, a loudspeaker begging the derby to work, children with blue tongues. Your hand rattles the ice in the cup because it needs a job. “This place makes me feel so small,” you say, and it’s too honest to be casual. “I ride bulls on weekends and whenever I can, but one boy opens his mouth and I shut up.” Rhett doesn’t say it’s fine. He doesn’t say don’t let it get to you. He looks at your white-knuckled grip and then at your face. “Okay,” he says. “Then we make a place that isn’t small.” “How?” He jerks his chin at the wheel. “Get higher.” You huff something that’s almost a laugh. “That’s not a plan.” “Sure it is,” he says. “Plan A: altitude.”
You let him tug you toward the ride. He buys two tickets like it’s not his last money and you both know it is. You get the last car - chipped paint, names carved into the steel: K+J, a heart that didn’t work out. The attendant kicks the bar with his boot and forgets to say don’t rock the seat. Halfway up, the wheel stutters and stops. Wind climbs your shins. The fair unrolls below: tilt-a-whirl trying to outspin itself, the demolition emcee feeding a dying microphone, neon that hasn’t learned to blink in time. Up here it’s just the two of you and a sticky straw and a horizon pretending to be forever.
“Guess we live here now,” Rhett says, light. His knuckles are white on the rail. “In,” you say, testing him, testing yourself. “Out,” he answers, and it lands low in your ribs like it always does. The car steadies. Your fists unknot an inch. “Do you think you’ll ever leave?” he asks, casual voice that isn’t casual. “Do you think you’ll ever ask me to stay?” you shoot back, then stare at the bolt head near your knee like it’s a quiz. He looks down at his hands. “I’ll… be where you can find me,” he says. It’s not an answer and it’s exactly one.
The wheel lurches and crawls a notch, then hangs. At the top, everything holds just long enough to turn your stomach into a pocket full of bees. You reach for the soda and miss the straw. Your knuckles bump his mouth. The car stutters a fraction, like the universe heard something it liked. “Sorry,” you breathe. “It’s fine,” he says, not fine. He taps the straw closer with two fingers, steady. You drink. He watches your throat like he found something on a map.
The wheel shudders, starts again, crawls. You don’t let go of the rail or each other. Down on the ground, the boys are already processed into background noise - cotton candy and bad aim. Up here, their words can’t climb. When your feet hit dust again, you both pretend to need air. You end up at the dart booth. The prizes swing in a light the color of melted sherbet. You spot it - small and mean: a ridiculous red spider plush with cartoon eyes.
“Want it?” Rhett asks. “You’ll never hit three,” you say, purely to be rude. “Respectfully,” he says, rolling his shoulder like a pitcher, “watch a professional fail twice.” He fails once, twice - far left, then an ugly bounce off the rim - and then he laughs, shakes his head, settles. In. Out. He hits the third balloon so clean the carny doesn’t even begrudge it. “Pick your poison,” the carny says, bored. You point up at the spider. He snorts like you’re kidding and then realizes you’re not. Rhett hands it to you with two fingers like it might hiss. You hold it by one leg. It’s silly and weightless and perfect. “Name her,” he says. “Later,” you say. “When she earns it.”
You end up at the ice cream stand again because everything ends at the ice cream stand. You buy ice cream for the both of you. Rhett leans his shoulder into yours like he’s making a wall you can lean on without anyone noticing. The boy with the letter jacket passes with his pack and doesn’t see you. It’s almost funny. “Still feel small?” Rhett asks, not looking at you. You twist the spider’s leg once and feel something in your chest unkink. “Less,” you say. “Altitude helped.”
“Plan A delivers,” he says, smug. “What’s Plan B?” “I don´t know,” he admits, “Maybe next time we say something smart back.” You bump his boot with yours. He bumps back. Neither of you name the thing sitting between you, knees and elbows and something about to happen. A girl with blue tongue runs by shrieking. The loudspeaker finally dies. The night remembers how to be a sky. “Want the last of the soda?” he asks. “Always,” you say, and when your fingers touch on the paper cup, you don’t move them away first.
“You know,” you say, breaking the silence, voice lazy but not casual, “I picked my name after that ridiculous spider you won at the fair. The red one with the crooked eyes.” Rhett’s head turns, slow. For a moment, the words hit him square in the chest - an ache and a flash, both. He can still see the booth lights smeared across your face, the balloon pop, the way you’d held that dumb plush by one leg like it was treasure. “You didn’t,” he says, a half laugh caught on something softer. You grin into your bottle. “I did. Black Widow came from her. Figured she deserved an upgrade.”
He stares at you like he’s trying to place the years between then and now and keeps failing. That old night has lived in his head for a decade - your laugh, the fair lights, the way you’d said less small like it was a prayer. And now here you are, and tomorrow there will be a spider stitched on your glove, turning memory into armor. “Guess you didn’t forget everything,” he says quietly. You shrug. “You don’t forget the things that built you.” He takes a long drink, steadying himself. Maybe you left, but it turns out you didn’t really go missing. You carried the same pieces he did - just took them farther down the road.
The jukebox changes tracks. Outside, a truck passes slow, headlights sliding through the window like a promise that hasn’t picked a side yet. “Still got her?” he asks, teasing but almost shy. You nod once. Then you smile, real and small. “In my trailer. Never could throw her out.” For a moment neither of you speak. The neon hum fills the space where words could be, and Rhett thinks maybe forgetting was never the problem. Maybe surviving the remembering was.
The night thins over a second beer. Rhett yawns without covering and you click your tongue at him. “Rude,” you say. “Ancient,” he counters, then blinks, sheepish. “Sorry.” “Forgiven. We should both sleep. Tomorrow needs our brains.” You slide out of the booth. He stands when you do - old habit, no theater. Outside, the neon sign flickers like it’s practicing blinking. The lot is a shallow sea of gravel and truck chrome.
“At the chutes,” he says. “At the chutes,” you echo. You hug like you’ve learned how - brief, steady, nowhere to hide. His hand finds the middle of your back and lands this time. Your jaw brushes his shoulder; he smells like soap and dust and a little cedar. You count one breath together because you always do. “In,” you say, barely there. “Out,” he answers.
You break before the moment decides for you. He walks you to your truck; you walk him halfway to his. It’s dumb and perfect and exactly how you used to part after county-fair nights, or how you walked through the pastures - two kids orbiting in each others presence.
“Drive safe,” he says. “You too,” you say. “No sermons.” “No promises.” You laugh, get in, roll the window down. “See you, Abbott.” “See you, Cricket.” Engines turn. Headlights carve two clean paths out of the lot, angles that split then run parallel for a while, each holding the other in the corner of a mirror until the road bends.
On the way home, he keeps his hands at ten and two and lets the quiet talk. Ten years feels like a canyon until he remembers every mile before it - the creek dares, the doorframe marks, the spider at the dart booth. If a lifetime can start at fifteen, maybe ten years is just one hard winter a ranch survives.
On your side of the highway, the dash glows soft. You think about how leaving didn’t erase anything; it only stretched the thread. You think about the count, and the Friday draw, and a night at the county fair ten year ago. It´s a long time until it isn’t. There are still so many Fridays ahead. So many doorframe lines. So many small, honest seconds that make the big ones possible.
You both pull into separate driveways and sit there a beat longer than necessary, hands loose on the wheel, hearts running the same old count. In. One. Out. One.
Friday evening comes fast when you’re excited and under pressure. The lot glows; the dust tastes like a dare. You dress the part and then sharpen it. Black leather vest, cut close and laced tighter than rumor - clean V that shows a slice of sternum and just enough curve to make the cameras blink before they find your rope hand. The back is matte, the edges burnished; the laces crisscross like a warning. Simple red eyeliner, no glitter - heat without apology. Chaps black as a shut gate, stitched with a thin red welt that flashes when you move; they sit low over your hips, swing clean over your boots. Jeans dark, no whiskers, no tears - work-first, second-skin. Glove snug, the tiny red spider mean on your knuckles. Hat brim pulled down to throw your eyes into your own shadow. Rosin dust freckles your collarbones like you walked through fire and didn’t mind.
You look hot - purpose-hot, weapon-hot. Heads turn and you don’t give them the satisfaction of noticing. Rhett does look too. He tries not to - fails immediately. His gaze catches on the deep V of the vest, the polished line of your throat, the way the leather frames strength instead of pretending to hide it. His jaw sets like he’s bracing against weather. His eyes keep coming back, guilty as a hand in the cookie jar and twice as careful. Perry clocks it from ten feet out and drifts in with a grin he can’t be trusted with. He doesn’t look at you - he looks at Rhett looking at you. “Eyes up, preacher,” he murmurs, just for his brother. “Sermon later.” Rhett doesn’t blink. “I’m appreciating craftsmanship,” he says, deadpan, which fools no one. “Mm-hmm,” Perry says, delighted. “Real educational.”
You’ve got your game face on - steel instead of softness, edges instead of grace. It only melts for a few minutes when you say hi to the Abbotts. Cecilia’s palm is cool to your cheek. Perry grins like he already got away with something. Rebecca and Amy hug you tight. Rhett’s hat tips, small and private. Royal comes in last, touches your shoulder on the pass like a blessing he doesn’t need applause for. “Heard your draw for today,” he says. “Neck heavy. Don’t fight the first jump.” “I’ll love it,” you say. “You’ll ride it,” he corrects, gravel warm. Pride, quiet and unshowy, lives in the space between his words.
You adjust a lace at your side, checking nothing and everything. The vest creaks, subtle and expensive. Rhett swallows like he just remembered how throats work. Perry’s grin grows teeth. “All right,” Perry says, clapping Rhett once on the shoulder. “Let’s get you to heaven by way of eight seconds, yeah?” Rhett tips his hat to hide a smile he doesn’t trust. The armor slides back into place. You tip your chin, and the leather, the whole look says exactly what you intend: I’m not here to be looked at. I’m here to be watched.
People try to take pieces. Fans get the good ones - Sharpie on hats, a crouch to eye level, the tiny spider drawn on a shirt, a photo if they ask nicely. Reporters earn exactly what they earn: one quotable sentence, no wink, no teeth. Hustlers crowd the rail with quick talk and slow hands; you give them the look that says not tonight and move.
Back of chutes is heat and engine. The bull in your slot tosses his head like he owes no one anything. You touch hide once - left spinner, heavy neck, mean twitch in the right ear - and the read settles in your bones. “Two minutes,” chute boss calls. Rhett ghosts in at your elbow, already taped, already squared. “You good?” “Better,” you say. It sounds like metal. It feels like breath. He nods toward your glove. “Spider looks mean,” he says, and it’s a joke and a prayer. You nod toward his wrap. “Looks honest,” you answer, and that’s both of you saying come back whole without spooking the stock.
The house voice booms the name that used to be a dare and now fits like armor. You climb: rail, knee, sit. Mechanics take the wheel. Rope across palm, tail in fist, knuckles flat, elbow arrowed. Knees soft. Toes light. Chin tucked. Jaw set out of the way. The gate man waits for your nod. You find your count where you always left it. “In. One. Out. One”
The latch clacks; the world bucks. The first jump comes hot and hard and you love it like a problem you were born to solve. You give him his line, kill the waste, eat the seconds. Second hook - you win the pocket and stay open. Third - you let the shoulder roll. Fourth - you check the jaw and leave the head alone so the body can follow. Floodlight kisses the stitched red spider as if it’s claiming you for the camera. The clock eats. The clock obeys.
Buzzer. You hit the ground hard and yet it still looks like a choice; you can hear the Abbotts cheer; dirt sprays and you’re on your feet, hat low, shoulders square. You tip the chin to the chute boss; you breathe. Scoreboard climbs. First for now. You barely have time to be lifted by the crowd before it thins to hum. Rhett is already climbing. His draw throws a shoulder and quits dirty in the middle - one of those bulls that lies about rhythm. He sets like a blueprint you’ve memorized. Rope. Tail. Chin. Soft knees. The gate snaps and he goes to work quiet, eating noise the way you did, line by line. From the rail you count for him because that’s the job the world gave you. “In. One. Out. One.”
He wins jump two with a small mercy in his spine; jump five tries to throw ugly and he makes it beautiful. Buzzer hits like a door slamming on bluff. He steps clean, rolls the landing, hat brim low. He looks to you first without meaning to - habit, home - and you give him the nod you save for true things.
The floodlights still buzz; banners snap tired on their poles; the grounds smell like dust, diesel, and sweet hay. After a beer on the tailgate you and Rhett sit in the bed of Royal’s truck, shoulders touching, your weight finding his without asking. The PA coughs out one last jingle; somewhere a chute gate bangs like an afterthought.
“I’m turning in,” you say, voice soft from the adrenaline leak. Goodnights line up like a chute list. Royal’s one-armed clamp, a thud between your shoulders that reads approved. Perry’s noisy squeeze and a whispered, “Win us breakfast tomorrow.” Cecilia’s palms to your cheeks, a kiss to your brow, pride bright as the floodlights. Amy barrels in next. “Two spiders tomorrow,” she insists, tiny fist on your knee. “One brave, one braver.” “Deal,” you say, solemn. “But you have to breathe for both.” “In, one” she declares, filling up. “Out, one,” you finish, and she grins like she invented air. Rebecca hooks an arm around Amy’s middle and leans in for a quick hug of her own. “We’re bringing signs,” she warns. “Subtle, tasteful, deafening.” “Perfect,” you say. “Subtle is my brand.”
Rhett is last. No fuss - just open arms. You step in. It’s brief and steady, the kind of hug that lands in the middle of your back and keeps a hand there a heartbeat longer than needed. “If you can’t sleep,” he says at your ear, “call.” “I will,” you promise, toss him a smile that hits clean, and hop down.
“Walk her,” Cecilia says to no one in particular and exactly to Rhett. He’s already moving. You and Rhett take the gravel toward the trailers - string lights humming, generators thrumming, rodeo-boys laughter thinning to yawns. Amy waves with both hands until Rebecca turns her toward the parking lane; Perry mimes writing CRICKET ten feet tall on imaginary poster board; Royal and Cecilia fall into their familiar silhouette against the truck.
At your trailer step, you pause. The grounds breathe around you - stock quieting, rigs ticking as they cool, a bull snorting once like a closing argument. “Game face tomorrow,” he says, eyes warm under the brim. “Steel,” you say. “Count,” he answers. “In,” you breathe. “Out,” he finishes. You bump his boot with yours, small and sure. “Night, Abbott.” “Night, Cricket.” He backs a step, like you’re a gate he knows to honor, then turns for the truck. You slip inside the trailer, lights low, heart loud; outside, he walks back through the dust, and the whole place settles like it knows you’ll both be up before dawn, ready to try and make the world hold still again.
The next day blurs - stretch, ice, tape; sponsors, stock lists, a nap that doesn’t take. Afternoon heat lifts in sheets off the pens. You eat a sandwich you don’t taste. Amy appears twice to practice breathing and once to present a glitter poster that says GO WIDOW in letters that shed on everything. By evening the wind shifts down the draws the way it always did. Steel slides over you like it was made to fit.
The grounds are louder tonight. Saturday purse, ranker pen. You pass through the small gauntlet - fans get the good piece, hustlers get the look, reporters get one sentence and no sugar. The Abbotts pull you into the quiet between. Cecilia’s hand to your cheek, quick and cool. Royal’s thumb taps your shoulder once: read the neck, trust your seat. Perry kisses Amy’s head and declares himself head of optics. Rebecca waves the sign like weather. Rhett meets you in the alley, taped and squared. “You good?” he asks. “Hungry,” you say. He grins, rare and quick. “Good.” Today, Rhett rides before you.
He draws early and ugly - compact, catty, a bull with a bad opinion about gravity. He tapes quiet, nods to nobody, and steps into the chute like a man walking into weather he deserves. From the rail you watch the set: rope, tail, chin, knees soft. He’s textbook until the gate hits. The first jump comes out dirty and sideways. He moves with it - almost. The second lies about direction; he buys the lie. By the third he’s a half beat ahead of the shoulder and you can see the math turn on him - hips chasing, chest firm when it should be soft. The bull throws a corkscrew you’d call personal. He lasts five and change, then skates off the front end with his hat still on and lands like he planned to, which he didn’t.
The buzzer insults him by being late. The crowd does its thing - sympathy claps, winces, a few men in caps whoop like it proves something about the world that makes them feel better. Rhett tips his brim and walks out hard enough to make gravel complain.
He comes down the alley dark, ripping tape like it owes him money. You meet him in the strip of shade that smells like rosin and old heat. “Left lied,” you start, clean. “He changed on four and - ” “I know,” he snaps, too sharp. “I was there.” You blink once. Hands up, palms out. “Okay.” He keeps moving - angry circles in a too-small pen. “Sat crooked. Opened my knee early. Rode the damned front like a rookie. Stupid.” The word lands like spit. He kicks a pebble into the sheeted steel. The clang makes two heads turn.
“Hey,” you say, low. “Breathe.” “Don’t tell me to breathe,” he fires back. Loud enough that a couple stock boys look, then look away. “Fine,” you say. “Don’t.” He laughs - empty. “Wonderful coaching.” “I’m not coaching,” you say. Steel slides behind your teeth. “I counted with you.” “Yeah?” He swings toward you, eyes hot, jaw wired. “Counted me right into the dirt, didn’t it?”
That one hits sideways. You hold your ground. “Don’t put that on me.” “Who else?” he throws, searching for a wall to hit. “Royal? The bull? God?” “Your chest got proud when he got ugly,” you say, simple as wire. “He baited you. You said yes.” He takes a step - close enough you can see the quake still living in his hands. “You think I don’t know that? You think I need - what, a sermon? A compass? I don’t need you fixing my head every time it tilts.” “Then don’t tilt it at me,” you bite back, and the edge in your voice is the first you’ve allowed. “I came to stand next to you, not in front of your damn mirror.” “Of course you did,” he says, laugh breaking. “Always the savior. Ride your eight and save the room.”
There it is - the old, stupid vein you both know how to hit. It hums ugly. “Careful,” you say. “I am careful.” He’s not. He’s sixteen and furious and the floodlights just happen to be different. “You breeze in here with your new name and-” “And what?” Your chin tips a degree. The spider on your glove winks like a dare. “And do the job?” “And act like it doesn’t cost anybody anything.” “That’s not fair,” you say, flat. He flings his arms wide at the alley, at the pen, at the version of himself that just cratered. “Nothing about this is fair.”
Silence loads. From the apron, Perry starts over and then stops, reading the weather. Royal’s shadow doesn’t move. Cecilia appears at the edge of things and, with a glance like a palm to the air, holds everyone back. You keep your voice steady because one of you has to. “You’re mad you lost. I get it. Be mad at the bull. Be mad at yourself. Don’t swing on me.” “I’m not swinging.” His hands open and close, betraying him. “I’m-” “-looking for someone to bleed,” you say. “Pick a wall.”
He stares at you, and something ugly and old reaches for the steering wheel. “You know what?” he says, tone going quiet, dangerous. “Go ahead. Walk. Go put steel on and make the whole place forget I ate dirt.” Your nostrils flare. “I’m on deck. I don’t get to choose when the world calls.” “Yeah,” he says, voice climbing, “go again like you did when you were sixteen.” It hangs in the heat like a slap. You don’t blink. You don’t let the wince out of its cage. You give him your palms like surrender that isn’t. “Okay.” He looks like he wants to snatch the words back. He doesn’t. Pride pins his mouth shut. That old fuse you both know burns hot and mean. “Good luck tomorrow,” you say, and the way you say luck is surgical. “Don’t need it,” he lies. “Clearly,” you answer, and step past him.
He doesn’t follow. He lets you go - like he did at the gas station, like he did at sixteen when he mistook not asking for virtue. It makes him sicker, and he wears the sickness like penance. You walk. You don’t hurry. Steel finds your spine like it pays rent. The alley breathes around you. The bull in your slot plants his head and scrapes a warning in the dirt. You put your hand on hide. The engine under it says prove it. You nod - at the bull, at the job, at the part of yourself that only makes sense under lights.
Behind you, he finally finds air and wastes it. “Fine,” he throws after your back, loud enough to sting, not loud enough to be a scene. “Go. Be big.” You don’t turn. You lift one hand without looking, a small, dismissive wave that says not my fight and you don’t get to pick my size.
The gate boss catches your eye. “You good?” “Better,” you say, and step onto the rail. Up in the mouth of the chute, leather squeaks, rope lies across your palm, tail in your fist. Mechanics shut the door on everything else. You tuck your chin. Knees soft. Toes light. Elbow arrowed. Jaw set where it won’t get in your way. You find the count where it always waits. “In. Out.”
Back in the alley, Rhett stands where you left him, hands shaking, the taste of old words in his mouth. Perry touches his shoulder and gets shrugged off. Royal doesn’t look over. Cecilia watches you climb and loves you and wants to throttle her son and says nothing because saying nothing is charity right now. Rhett puts his hat back on like armor and stares at the chute you chose instead of him. He hates you for a breath - for leaving, for growing, for refusing to be small enough to hold without burning. He hates himself more for helping you go by making the door easy to reach.
The latch clacks. The world bucks. Your name hits the PA and all his anger falls through a trapdoor into the same old vow he can’t stop making, even when he’s failing at everything else. He counts for you anyway. “In,” he says to the dust. “Out,” he finishes, and the word tastes like apology he hasn’t earned yet.
The gate snaps and the world comes out mean.
First jump: hard left, dirty step, the kind that asks who you are. You answer with your spine - soft chest, hips talking, chin tucked where belief lives. Second jump lies about right; you don’t buy it. Third jump corkscrews spiteful and sudden - hips high, shoulder quit, a twist that isn’t rhythm so much as insult. You stay with it, a whisper ahead, then the bull invents a fourth beat and throws it on top like a dare.
It works.
You go light for a breath. The rope teeth your palm; your wrist takes a wrong truth; the world tips. Your hat stays on out of stubbornness and nothing else. You pitch forward - close enough to smell the hot, sour breath under horn - then whip sideways, fingers scraping hide. The ground comes up as an answer nobody wanted.
Impact knocks the air out of you like a door slammed in your chest. Vision scatters - stars, dust, a floodlight broken into lake water. Sound goes narrow: one whistle, one woman’s gasp, the bullfighter’s boot thunder. The bull cuts, looking for you; the fighters sell their bodies and buy you clean daylight.
You don’t get up.
The ground is cold and hot at once; your wrists are a white-bone scream, bright and precise. Your lungs do a fish thing - open, close, nothing. Time makes a tent and sits on your chest.
In the alley, Rhett’s heart stops time with it. Shock hits first - the kind that empties your head and turns your hands useless. He’s already moving when he realizes he started; hat gone, stride long, every muscle on the wrong frequency. Regret pile-drives in behind it: the last words he gave you were sharpened on old ghosts, and now you’re in the dirt while his pride echoes. The math is ugly. He would take the whole sentence back in his teeth if he could.
He hits the rail at the same moment a bullfighter slaps your boot as if he can pound breath back in. Somewhere, Perry says your name like a swear and a prayer. Cecilia’s hand finds Royal’s sleeve and knots. Royal doesn’t move, because moving would mean the world is allowed to be this, and he’s not ready to sign that form.
Then your lungs find the number.
Air claws in, raw. Vision squeezes to a pin and then opens. You swallow dust and stubbornness. The pain in your wrists has shape now - rope-bite blooming, tendons angry, a bright rope of ache up to your elbow. You catalog it the way you’ve cataloged worse: left worse than right, fingers all talking, nothing loose that shouldn’t be.
You roll to your knees. The crowd makes a sound you can feel in your gums. The bullbellies are already gone, fighters between you and temperament, the gate clanging like a gavel. You push to your feet with more will than leverage, hat somehow still low, braid hooked over your shoulder like a banner that didn’t learn retreat. For a second the ground sways. You square your hips at it and it decides not to. You raise your fist. Not high - just enough. Leather creaks. The stitched red spider flashes mean under the lights. Steel comes back over your face like a visor. The crowd explodes. It isn’t pretty; it’s grateful. Somewhere a stranger screams your name like he’s earned it; somewhere a little girl on the rail jumps straight up and down until her hat flies.
Rhett sags against the rail like a cut wire found a post. Relief is violent; regret worse. You look like everything he loves and everything he’s been scared to touch. And something else hits him then, loud and simple: you’re older. Not old - older. Boys do not silence you anymore. The world can still knock wind out of you, but it doesn’t get to make you small. You stand up in front of it and show your teeth.
He has never seen you prettier.
Not because the vest is carved close and the V is a sin under floodlights. Not because the red liner makes your eyes look like they could set weather on fire. Because you are standing - hands hurt, lungs burned, dust on your mouth - and offering the night your chin. Because beauty, it turns out, is a stubbornness that doesn’t humiliate anyone.
You step off the dirt under your own power. The chute boss reaches; you shake him off with a thanks that sounds like law. The medic shadows you; you let him hover and don’t let him land. You run the math of your wrists again - open, close, open - wincing where it’s honest and hiding it where it’s none of their business.
Rhett meets you halfway down the alley before he knows how to ask. His mouth opens; all the wrong words crowd it. You give him a look that says not here and I’m standing and we will not put a crown on your guilt in public. He swallows them. What comes out is smaller and better. “Hands?” “Mad,” you say. “Not broken.”
He nods, because if he speaks the apology he wants to, it will crack. Perry ghosts in, already making noise at the medic, already offering to rip a sleeve for a bandage like it’s 1880. Cecilia smuggles a water bottle into your hand with quiet ferocity. Royal’s eyes meet yours and say a book without moving. You drink, slow. The burn in your chest settles into a coal. The ache in your wrists steadies into a fact. The scoreboard is a rumor you don’t chase. You came here to ride; you rode; the ground had its say; you took your turn back. That is the whole of it.
Rhett stands just inside your weather. He can feel the print of the last thing he said like a brand he didn’t earn. He wants to touch your elbow and then doesn’t. He wants to tell you that steel looks better on you than it ever did in his head. He wants to tell you that when you went down, the part of him that’s been angry for ten years shut up so fast it left skid marks. Instead he says, “In.” You could make him eat it. You don’t. You let your mouth tilt, a fraction. “Out.” The alley gives that breath back to both of you. The noise of the grounds returns - another whistle, a laugh that thinks too much of itself, the clank of a gate that needs grease. The world keeps being a world.
“Next week,” he says, because penance he can actually do is better than guilt he can’t spend. “We fix the front.” “We fix the front,” you echo, as if he’s talking about wire and not pride. He nods, jaw tight around every other sentence. You flex your fingers once, wince and then deadpan: “Tie my shoe?” He almost laughs. “Yes, ma’am.” He crouches, quick competent hands doing a small, ridiculous intimacy the whole night can’t see. You watch his hat brim and his ears and you let yourself breathe through the throb. Perry hovers, theatrically useless; Cecilia posts herself like a windbreak; Royal stays where he is because some approvals don’t need walking. When Rhett stands, your eyes catch and hold, no audience. “I’m-” he starts. “Later,” you say, not unkind. “Later,” he agrees, like a vow.
The PA barks someone else’s name. The dust lifts; the floodlights flatten; the night moves on like it always does. You slide the steel back over the soft and turn toward the place work lives. Rhett turns with you, a half step behind, the way he always has when he remembers who he is. He thinks again - harder this time - about how the boy who let you go at sixteen because he thought not asking was mercy has nothing to teach the man in this alley.
You roll your shoulders once, shake your wrists open to the ache, and nod like a gate about to give. You’re not smaller. You’re not. And you are - damn him, damn the years - the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Not because you shine, but because you don’t flinch from the parts that don’t.
They steer you toward the med corner - a folding table, a battered kit, a lamp that makes everything look like a confession. You perch on the cooler lid because the chair wobbles. The medic hovers, asks if you can make a fist, if you can feel your fingertips, if your vision ever went black. You nod where it’s true.
“I’ve got her,” Rhett says, voice low enough to be permission and not a challenge. The medic reads the room and steps back two paces. Rhett snaps the kit open like he’s done it a hundred times - and he has. Tape, elastic, a brace with tired Velcro. He kneels so your wrists are eye level. His hands are all gentled edges now, the fight shaken out of them. “Left first,” he says. You lay it there. He checks, not just looks - presses your nails, waits for the color to rush back, runs his thumb along the angry line where the rope tried to overstay its welcome. “Tell me if I’m too rough.” “You won’t be,” you say, and for once it isn’t bravado.
He smears cool gel where the heat is loudest, thumb careful at the tendon. The ache recedes half an inch. He wraps soft underwrap, then the brace, then the elastic, firm without cruelty. He tests the strap, retests. “Move your fingers.” You do. Pain flares, then resolves. “Mad,” you say again. “Not broken.” He nods, concentrating like a man rewiring a fence in gusting wind. “Right.” He does the same to the other wrist, slower. You watch the small things: how he steadies your hand over his thigh so you don’t have to hold your arm’s weight, how he keeps the tape off your skin where it’s already starting to bruise, how he doesn’t ask again if you’re okay because he knows okay is on layaway.
“Thumb spica,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and adds a loop that cradles your joint. It’s stupidly tender. Your throat does that treacherous knotting and you clear it before it thinks it won. He finishes, sits back on his heels, surveys his work like a man who trusts his hands when his mouth isn’t up to much. “There.” You flex, wince, huff a laugh. “Useful Abbott.” He’s looking at your face now, not your hands. The apology is still in there, wanting out. What comes up instead is something else - awkward, earnest, bigger than small talk. “Dinner tomorrow,” he says, then too fast, “You should - come. And, uh, stay a few days. Help on the place. If… if you want.”
You go very still. Not steel - just still. The breath you were about to take waits to see what he’s really asking. He sees your silence and backpedals like a calf that realizes the gate swings the other way. “I mean - Mum told me to ask. She - Cecilia - she said Sunday, roast, and we’re short on hands - and-” He grimaces at himself, keeps going. “And I- I’d like it. I would. If you… stayed. With us.” A beat. Softer, truer: “With me.”
Your mouth tilts and finally commits to a smile you don’t hand out for free. “Gladly.” He blinks like the word landed warmer than he braced for. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” you say, as if the syllable were obvious as weather. “I’ll come. I’ll stay. I’ll be useful.” You look down at your wrists, then back up. “And I’ll let you boss my braces for a couple days.” He exhales, and the breath has relief tucked inside it like a folded note. “Deal.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “We’ll make Perry do the heavy lifting.” “Perry was born for it,” you say. “Cecilia’ll set your chair,” he adds, then, quieter: “It never left.”
You don’t trust your voice for a second, so you bump his knee with the toe of your boot. He bumps back. The lamp hums; the grounds keep exhaling end-of-night; somewhere Amy’s laugh carries thin and high as she retells your ride to a patient Rebecca for the fourth time. Rhett stands, offers you his hand out of habit, not theater. You take it, let him lever you up without pretending you don’t need the help. The braces hold. So do you. “Walk you to the trailer?” he asks. “Yes,” you say, because some answers should be easy.
You move through the thinning chaos side by side, shoulders almost brushing, wrists bound neat, the fight settled for now. At your steps, he pauses. There’s too much to say and not enough night to say it right. He chooses small, the way you both decided to. “Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow,” you echo. He tips his hat, old language made new. You open the door and breathe out once, careful around your ribs. When you look back, he’s still there, hands in his pockets, not in a hurry to make the distance bigger. “Night, Rhett,” you say. “Night, Cricket,” he answers, and the way he says it carries all the things he’s not letting himself say until the time is right. He waited ten years for you, he can wait a few days longer.
You pull into the yard with the windows down and the radio low. Before you can kill the engine, the screen door bangs and Amy launches off the porch like she’s been spring-loaded since dawn. “You’re here!” she yells, hair in a crooked braid that looks suspiciously like yours. She barrels to your door and then remembers something Cecilia must’ve taught her, skidding to a stop so you won’t open it into her forehead. You step out and she’s already on you - small arms cinched around your waist, that kid-weight that feels like a promise. When she lets go, she puts herself at your hip and stays there, quick feet matching yours like a shadow learning choreography.
“I made you a schedule,” she confides, solemn. “It says ‘Be With Amy’ and then it says ‘Lunch’ and then it says ‘Be With Amy More.’” “A very professional plan,” you say. “Who approved it?” “Me,” she says, scandalized you’d ask. “I’m the boss.” “Obviously.” You hook an arm across her shoulders and let her steer you toward the porch like she owns the house now. Maybe she does.
Cecilia meets you on the steps, hands to your cheeks, eyes bright and satisfied in a way that makes the word home sit down and behave. “Come on,” she murmurs. “We’ll get you fed.” Behind her, Rebecca leans in the doorway with a grin, and Perry calls from the kitchen, “She’s stealing all my help already,” like he didn’t hand Amy the marker and whisper what to write. Rhett is last, like he does on purpose now - time for everyone else to go first. He takes your bag without asking, tips his hat without fuss. The look you toss him is small and private and lands clean. He carries your things down the hall like the weight is familiar and good.
Dinner smudges into evening - the kind of gentle talk that sands away the road. Amy narrates your every move like a sportscaster (“Now she is sitting! Now she is drinking water!”), and you let yourself be adored because it seems to feed the whole room. The doorframe catches your eye on the way to the sink - pencil lines stacked like tree rings, your name right there. You touch it once, quick. It stays.
You sleep that night in the guest room that used to be a storeroom and now smells like lemon oil and sun. The window is cracked open to the slow choir of crickets. On the nightstand sits a chipped mug full of red and black markers and a note in Cecilia’s tidy hand: In case you need your spiders. You smile in the dark. Your wrists throb like honest work. You sleep hard.
Monday dawn comes crisp and plain. Work boots by the door. Coffee that tastes like resolve. The whiteboard on the fridge reads: South pasture check. East fence check. Creek trough scrub. Fix latch - again. Perry has added heroic feats in the corner with a sword doodle. Amy’s added stickers.
The morning scatters you like seed. You go with Royal along the fence, staples clicking home with that tidy little sound that means right. He doesn’t say much; he never needed to. When he does speak, it’s to point with his chin at a stretch of wire and say, “There,” or to rumble, “Good,” like the word weighs something and he trusts you to carry it. Cecilia and Rebecca run the house like a treaty - bread rising, laundry snapping on the line, a choreographed exchange of tools on the porch with no wasted steps. Perry argues with a latch that insists it’s sentient. Amy patrols, clipboard in hand, assigning grades for “effort” and “attitude” and “style.”
By late afternoon the sun tilts gold, and heat blows itself out into a wind you can live in. You and Rhett end up in the west pasture, saddles creaking, horses swinging easy. You ride the fence, then the fence rides you - silence you don’t have to pad with anything, the kind of quiet that puts words in order before you spend them.
You pull up at the high spot where the land opens like a book. The light goes honey and then something softer. Dust hangs in the air like a promise not to last. “About yesterday,” Rhett says. You breathe out once. The world waits. “About yesterday.” “I was an ass,” he says, factual as a fencepost. No drama. No preamble. “I was mad at me, so I picked you. It was easy and cheap, and I’m sorry.” The apology lands where it needs to. You feel it settle; you let it. “Thank you,” you say. He looks out over the pasture like he’s checking for stray cattle. “I was mad for a long time,” he admits, quieter. “At sixteen, at you, at every version of me that didn’t ask you to stay. I made it into religion, almost. Felt righteous. Turns out it was just heavy.”
You run your palm down your horse’s neck; he leans into the touch. “Leaving was the best thing I ever did,” you say, the words clean because you’ve scuffed them smooth on the inside of your mouth. “And the worst. Same choice, two truths.” He nods like he’s been waiting for that exact sentence. “Proud and sorry,” he says, like he’s naming your weather. “Both hold.” “They do,” you answer. “I left because I needed to know if I could be big on purpose. Not because anyone here made me small. I left because I was afraid I’d punish whoever kept me if I stayed. I’m proud I went. I hate the parts that hurt you.” He swallows like that knocked around inside his throat. “Being away grew you up,” he says, not with awe, just with recognition. “You come back with-” he gestures, searching-“edges that fit you. It looks good on you. The leaving. And the coming back looks… better.”
It finds the soft part of you that you built armor around and taps. You tip your chin at the horizon because picking a fixed point helps. “Sometimes I wanted to call you when it was bad,” you say. “More often I wanted to call when it was good. That was the worst part. Wanting to hand you the good thing, and you not being there because I’d made it that way.” His mouth pulls, apology and smile in a tangle. “I would’ve picked up,” he says, a little helpless. “I know,” you say, and you both let the ache have its half-inch before you take the air back.
The apology settles. The horses flick flies; the wind minds its manners. Rhett shifts in the saddle like he’s got one more fence to fix between you. “So,” he says, mouth crooked, “penance.” You arch a brow. “Go on.” “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, like he’s offering to replace a gate he backed into. “I’ll drive us into town, open the door, carry whatever you pretend isn’t heavy. I’ll procure pie and one respectable beer.” A beat. “For medicinal purposes.” You let it hang, enjoying him. “Medicinal.” “Doctor’s orders,” he says, deadpan, then softer: “Cece’s, probably.”
He looks out over the pasture, pretending to check a draw for strays and absolutely not thinking, It’s not a date, it’s late, it’s just… making it right. I absolutely want it to be a date. He doesn’t say any of that. He says, “After chores, Wednesday. We’ll leave from the farm. You don’t have to lift a finger unless it’s to point at the biggest slice.”
“I can be persuaded,” you say, hiding a smile in your glove. “Door, pie, beer… that’s a compelling treatment plan.” He nods like a man who just set a post straight. “Good. I’ll… wash the truck.” You gasp, delighted. “A full miracle.” “Don’t get greedy,” he warns, warm. “I’m still picking you up - in the yard. I’ll honk once. Then I’ll walk you to the truck like I’ve got sense.” “And you’ll open the door,” you prompt, because it’s fun to watch him promise. “And I’ll open the door,” he echoes, shameless now. “And carry your stuff.” You let out a small, helpless laugh that makes both horses tilt an ear like they’re listening. “Deal.” “Wednesday, then,” he says, steady again. “Pie and beer.” He doesn’t call it anything. You don’t either. The word sits between you anyway, all dressed up and patient.
Tuesday seems to move slow on purpose, all sunshine, warm weather and small chores. It’s the kind of day that looks ordinary from far away and feels like a pocket you keep checking just to be sure it’s still there. Morning starts with coffee and the good kind of quiet. You reach for a mug; Rhett is already setting one in your hand, eyes warm under the brim like he’s been up long enough to grow patient. Your fingers brush; neither of you make it weird. Rebecca clocks it over the rim of her cup and hides a smile in the steam.
Out in the yard, the list is a scatter: hose the dust off a trailer, stack a cord of wood that never ends, check the mineral blocks in the east lot. Amy attaches herself to your leg like a koala with a clipboard. “Shadow day,” she announces. “I am learning.” She writes LEARN on the paper in all caps and then draws a spider. Somewhere across the yard Rhett washes his truck like he promised. It is likely to be dirty again by the end of the day, but you appreciate the gesture.
By the water spigot, Rebecca sidles in close and hip-checks you, conspiratorial. “Perry looked like that for a year,” she murmurs, chin tipping toward Rhett, who is doing something incredibly urgent to a coil of hose while very clearly not looking at you. “Like the sun was behind clouds and then realized it could just come out.” You shrug like it’s nothing. The shrug doesn’t explain your warm neck. “Uh-huh,” she says, amused and kind. “We see you.”
Late morning is the hose fight none of you intended. Rhett leans over the trough to scrub the green off the rim; you and Amy creep up behind him like cartoon burglars. “On three,” Amy whispers, hand on the handle. “One - two -” You spray. The arc hits square between Rhett’s shoulder blades. He jerks, yelps, turns, and you squeal and run, laughing hard enough to make your ribs complain. He gives chase, long strides eating ground, the hose hissing like a live wire.
You bank around the truck; he catches you at the curve, one arm cinching your waist from behind, momentum carrying both of you three more steps. You land against his chest with your hands braced on his forearm, breathless, water freckles on your face. Everything pauses - just long enough for you to feel the thump of his heart against your shoulder blade - then Amy’s war cry splits the air and soaks you both again. You break apart, laughing, dripping, alive.
At lunch, Cecilia puts a bowl of sliced peaches on the table and pretends not to notice the damp hair, the flushed cheeks, the way you take the seat next to Rhett like it was conincident. Royal passes you the bowl without looking and somehow it still feels like approval.
Afternoon heat settles but doesn’t smother. You and Rhett load the bed of the truck with fence posts in a rhythm that feels like a song you both know. He glances at your wrists, checks the braces without touching them. “How mad?” he asks, meaning pain. “Less,” you answer, meaning everything. He nods like that answer fits his bones.
Midafternoon, Rebecca swings by with a jar of lemonade and a sentence shaped like a question. “You good?” she asks, and it means is this okay, the way the day is doing it to you? You tip your head. “I am.” She grins like that’s what she wanted to hear and wanders off to find Perry, who is loudly losing an argument to Amy who swears the saw Big Foot the other day.
Little glances keep happening. By the gate; over the rim of a bucket; across Amy’s head while she narrates your lives like a podcast. Rhett is not a man who stares. He’s a man who double-checks. Today he double-checks you. You let him.
Evening slants gold and everyone drifts inside with the dust still on their boots. Dinner turns into after-dinner turns into the couch. Rebecca and Perry collapse first - she kicks her feet up; he pretends the remote is a scepter. Royal takes his chair like a landmark. Cecilia tucks a blanket into the corner and clucks at anyone who complains about the draft.
You end up on the couch beside Rhett. It happens without planning - you toss Amy a pillow, he shifts to make room, somehow the space you settle fills the shape between you two exactly. The movie starts (something with horses that get saved by courage and romance and contracts), and you are not touching until you are: thigh to thigh, the slow lean of shoulders that forget to hold themselves up. You could move. You don’t. He could move. He doesn’t.
Ten minutes in, fate intervenes in the form of Amy and Rebecca “accidentally” wedging themselves onto the other side, a tangle of blanket and elbows. “Plenty of space,” Rebecca says, deadpan, as she forces the geography of the couch to change. Physics does the rest. You end up tucked into Rhett’s side, the easy inevitability of it so complete it steals your breath for a second and then gives it back warmer.
His arm comes around you like it’s been trying to remember how - hesitant, then confident, resting along your shoulders with just enough weight to count. Your head finds the place under his jaw that smells like soap and dust and cedar. Your ribs let go of a long, old breath. Amy leans against your knee, eyelids doing the flutter. Perry whispers commentary he thinks is quiet. Rebecca shushes him with her foot.
When the hero horse clears the final fence and the music swells, Rhett tilts his head and presses a small, unassuming kiss into your hair. It is the kind of thing a person does when there’s nothing left to prove and everything to keep. You go still for the length of a heartbeat and then let yourself lean that fraction closer, the give of your weight a yes without ceremony. Across the room, Royal has his reading glasses perched on his nose and pretends to be studying the mail. He isn’t. Cecilia is very interested in mending a button that doesn’t need mending. Neither of them says a word, but the looks they trade are a hymn.
Credits roll. Amy is asleep, mouth open, one hand still clutching the corner of your sleeve. Rebecca peels herself up, stretches, and declares the ending “emotionally manipulative in a satisfying way.” Perry agrees with his whole chest and then tries to carry three empty bowls at once to impress no one in particular. You don’t move, not right away. Rhett’s thumb traces one absent-minded arc against your shoulder where the blanket slips. It’s not a promise. It’s not nothing. It’s the kind of touch you file under true.
Eventually, the evening sorts itself: Amy to bed, Perry to dishes with dramatic sighs, Rebecca to text someone a meme, Royal to the porch to check the weather by listening. You stand, stretching, and the loss of his arm around you is sudden and cool. He rises too - old habit - and walks you as far as the hall.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, like you’re both still on the couch. “Tomorrow,” you echo. “Pie and then a beer,” he adds, not overplaying it. “You will carry my things,” you tease, and the words puts a little star on the calendar in your chest. You trade a look that doesn’t need translation. Then you peel off toward the guest room with a warm ache in your wrists and a steadier one under your ribs, the kind that means something good is growing where nothing hurried it. Down the hall, Cecilia switches off the kitchen light and leaves the porch one on. Royal cracks the door to listen to the night. Somewhere outside, crickets pick up the count and keep it for you.
In. One. Out. One. And then the next.
The house goes quiet but your head doesn’t. You try the old tricks - left side, right side, count the breaths, count the fence posts you fixed - nothing sticks. The night is soft and blue outside the window, the kind that says come sit a while.
You pull on a T-shirt and cotton shorts, tug boots over bare feet, and slip out the back. The yard smells like cut grass and warm wood. Crickets run their metronome. You climb onto a hay bale at the edge of the stack, knees up, arms looped around your shins, and let the night take a little weight. It’s a small country out here - barn a dark shoulder, porch light a polite star, the wind nosing the leaves like it’s checking in. You breathe and it doesn’t behave, not at first. Then it does.
Footsteps, careful on gravel. You know them. He keeps to the edge of the yard like he’s not trying to spook a horse. When Rhett steps into the spill of porch light and sees you, his mouth does that slow, private lift. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. “Not for lack of trying.” You pat the hay beside you. He comes, sets a palm to the bale like he’s asking permission, then climbs up and settles a foot of space away. Knees up, forearms on them, hat hooked in two fingers and hanging off his knee. Close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, far enough to pretend you’re not. “Too quiet?” he says. “Too many good noises,” you say. “Brains hate that.” He huffs, not quite a laugh. “Hate that too.” A long band of quiet. The kind that’s true. Somewhere a cow shifts, blows, goes back to dreaming a salt block into existence.
“Thanks for today,” you say finally. “For - all of it. For letting Amy draft me into her calendar. For-” you hunt the right-sized word and don’t find it- “for keeping a place for me, even when I wasn’t here.” He could reach for the bigger truth - you never left, not where it counts - but he tucks it away for a braver hour and picks steady instead. “Amy runs a tight ship,” he says. “You make good crew.” Your mouth goes soft like that actually hit. “Best compliment I’ve ever gotten,” you say, dead serious, and he tips his head in acknowledgment.
Another piece of silence. He turns the hat once, slow. “You ever think about…” He stops, scoffs at himself. Tries again. “About the other kind of life?” “Which one?” “The one where you… don’t drive away every Sunday night.” He keeps his eyes on the dark yard. “The one with gardens that get watered regular, and a dog that’s too dumb to run off, and-” He gestures, helpless and fond, “chores that never die and don’t have a crowd.” “Sometimes,” you say, and it’s not a hedge. “Not as a replacement. As a… parallel universe.” You tip your chin at him. “You?”
“Sometimes,” he echoes. The hat turns once more. “Kept thinking I’d recognize it if it showed up. Never did.” A beat. “Or it did and I didn’t have the sense.” You watch his profile - the line of nose and mouth, the stubborn kindness of it - and let the thing that’s in the air do its own math. He doesn’t say not like you. He doesn’t have to. The words sit down between you anyway, polite, waiting. You pick at a strand of hay. “I tried,” you say. “Other kind of lives. Boys with trucks and good intentions and apartments that smelled like laundry and loss.” You roll the hay thin, then thinner. “One wanted me smaller. ‘For my own good,’” you add, fingers making quotation marks that look like claws. “He said the road was a phase and a phase was a thing you correct.” You blow out a laugh with no joy in it. “He didn’t make it to December.” “Good,” Rhett says, like a closing gate. “Another was kind,” you go on, softer. “Funny. Sent me videos of puppies trying stairs. We lasted almost a year. But the world would tilt and the first number I wanted to dial didn’t belong to him. That felt unfair.” You lay the hay back on the bale like a hair you don’t want the wind to carry wrong. “So I quit pretending I could make someone the first call by force.”
Rhett swallows, looks down at his hands, the big quiet of him going attentive and raw. “I didn’t… find anybody,” he says, simple. Then, as if the truth requires exactness: “Found somebodys. Plural. Good people. Smart. Strong. One girl could out-weld Perry, which I didn’t know was possible.” It draws a ghost of a smile. “But I kept feeling like I was taking up space I wasn’t built for in rooms that were perfectly fine without me.” He shrugs. “I didn’t want to be a placeholder. Or make somebody one for me.” You nod. The barn breathes. The wind changes its mind and then changes it back.
“Royal says love’s a ranch job,” he adds after a while. “Not a parade float. Shows up every day. Leaves mud on the floor. Puts the gate back on its hinges when the wind takes it. I figured I’d know it by the mess.” He tips the brim of his hat toward you, not quite looking. “Turns out I knew it by the quiet.” You feel that like a hand on the center of your chest. You answer it without stepping on it. “I liked the mess,” you say. “All the noise the world makes when you’re winning or losing. But I love the quiet where my head sits still and somebody else’s doesn’t feel like a test.” You risk a look and find him already there. The night carries your breath back and forth like a small boat. You don’t touch. You both think about it and then let the thought go because there’s too much honesty in the air to cheapen with a wrong move.
“Sometimes I think I ruined us at sixteen,” you say, surprisingly steady. “Like if I’d stayed, we would’ve grown crooked anyway, and I would’ve blamed you for the shade.” He shakes his head, once. “I would’ve tried to hold you still,” he says. “Which is worse.” He glances up, meets your eyes, decides not to run. “You didn’t ruin anything. You grew it somewhere else and brought it back alive.” You smile with only half your mouth because the other half is busy being wrecked. “Still mad at me sometimes?” you ask, no flinch. “Sometimes,” he says, honest and vulnerable. “But it’s quiet now. Comes like rain on tin. Leaves like steam.” “Same,” you say. “Like a bruise under a shirt. You forget it’s there until somebody hugs you.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh, might be agreement, might be a prayer. He puts the hat down on the bale between you. His hands are empty, steady on his knees. “You cold?” he asks after a minute. “Little,” you lie, because you want him to ask. He risks an arm across the back of your shoulders the way a man tests ice he already decided to cross. You let yourself lean, slow, until your temple meets his shoulder and the shirt there smells like soap and sun and something in your bones named rest. He doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t have to. Your breath finds the count without instruction.
In. One. Out. One.
Crickets carry it for you when you forget. The porch light clicks off; Royal has decided the night can be trusted. You stay on the hay until your legs go pins and needles and the breeze raises gooseflesh you pretend you don’t feel. Rhett notices like he notices everything slow. “Come on,” he says, gentle, not bossy. “Before Cecilia wakes up sensing someone disobeyed a blanket.” You slide down first; he follows, drops to gravel, and steadies you with one hand around your forearm when your foot finds a hole it didn’t expect. His fingers slip to your wrist, brush the brace, linger a second too long to be accident and not long enough to be a declaration. You don’t pull away.
At the door, you pause, and he holds it, and the old language of the gesture sets the air to right. “Night, Rhett,” you say, and the smile in it is wider than yesterday. “Night, Cricket,” he says, and the softness in it is a little braver. You pad down the hall with hay in your hair and dust on your calves and a head finally willing to be quiet. In your room, you sit on the edge of the bed and count once just because you can. The house breathes. The yard breathes. Somewhere out by the stack, a hat waits on a hay bale like proof you didn’t imagine anything. You sleep, at last, like a person who set something down without breaking it.
Wednesday sprints. Work always does when there’s something bright on the far end of it. You and Rebecca rake the loose grass Perry’s mower left behind, two conspirators turning windrows into neat green ribbons. “Art,” she declares, admiring your piles. “Agrarian minimalism.” You bow with your rake.
Later, you and Amy make the feed rounds - and, as Amy gravely adds, “the petting rounds.” She narrates each pat like a sportscaster. “Excellent muzzle. Ten out of ten ears.” A gelding leans his whole happy head into her shoulder. Perry strolls past and shakes his head. “These horses are spoiled.” You and Amy stick your tongues out in perfect sync. He snorts, busted.
Cecilia and Rebecca catch you on the porch like a pit crew. “Shower,” Cecilia orders, already holding a clean towel and the good soap. “We have objectives.” Amy appears at your elbow with solemn urgency. “Can I sit on the toilet while you shower? I will not peek.” Rebecca inhales to scold. You’re already laughing. “Permission granted, Peeping Not Tom. Eyes closed or you lose dessert.”
Amy squeezes them shut so hard her whole face crinkles. You sing under the steam and Amy belts along off-key, delighted. Perry’s laugh floats down the hall when he passes. “Concert tickets at will call?” Amy, eyes still screwed shut, hands the towel in like it’s the Olympic torch. “No peeking,” she reminds herself, turning her head with exaggerated dignity while you wrap up.
You let her be your stylist: she considers options with hands on hips, then selects black jeans, the soft tee with the tiny red spider at the hem, and the leather jacket that means business and mercy at once. “Hair braided. For old times sake,” she says like she is 77 and not 7. You let her pass you the elastic like a nurse in an OR.
From down the hall, a shower kicks on - pipes humming their familiar tune. You picture Rhett under that water, scrubbing off pasture and daylight, picking a clean shirt on purpose. The thought lands warm. Amy, entirely serious, tucks a spider sticker in your pocket. “For courage,” she says. You breathe. The house breathes back.
The horn taps once - polite, practiced. Amy bolts upright on the couch like a fire alarm. “Date time!” she squeals, already windmilling toward the door. You don’t correct her. You just press your palms to your jeans to smooth nerves that don’t need smoothing and grin like you’ve been caught.
Cecilia appears with the pan - clean, shining, a hand on your cheek like a blessing. “Have fun,” she says, which in Cecilia means be careful and be brave. Rebecca fans her face with a dish towel. “I’ll allow kissing on the hand like a Regency ball,” she intones. “Anything more requires a committee.” “Committee is me,” Amy declares, spider sticker ready. “I will approve.” Perry hooks your elbow, solemn as a pastor and twice as dramatic. “All rise,” he says, and escorts you across the porch as if it’s an aisle and the lawn is full of witnesses. “I am giving this menace to pie.” Royal leans in the doorway, half a smile tucked in his beard, hat low. “Bring the truck back with four wheels,” he rumbles. Abbott for go on, then.
Rhett stands by the passenger-side fender, clean shirt, hair still damp, truck dusted to a shine he’ll deny caring about. He straightens when he sees you like the horizon just did something interesting. The nerves in his mouth tip brave. He steps forward, takes your bag with a quiet, “Got it,” and it’s nothing and everything.
Perry hams it up, placing your hand in Rhett’s like a ceremonial transfer. “Treat her gentle,” he says, eyes dancing. “Plan on it,” Rhett answers, simple, steady. He opens the door with old-fashioned care, palm out to steady you up the step. You settle; he tucks your bag at your feet and closes the door like it’s valuable. It is. Amy presses her face to the window, both hands on the glass. “Bring back intel!” she whispers, as if you’re off to spy. “Bed by curfew,” Rebecca calls, which earns her a dish towel flick from Cecilia.
Rhett rounds the hood, slides in, glances once at you and once at the road like he’s aligning two maps. “Ready?” “Born,” you say, and your knee finds the dash when the first bump hits. Neither of you apologizes. He eases the truck into the lane. Gravel crunches, the porch light throws a farewell across the yard, and the house recedes - a warm square full of people pretending not to watch. On the breeze, Amy’s voice chases you like confetti: “Kiss her hand! Regency rules!”
Rhett’s mouth curves. His right hand - the one not on the wheel - turns palm-up between you, a half-offer, half-joke. You lay your fingers there, light. He lifts your knuckles and brushes them with his mouth - quick, shy, perfect - like he’s been reading the same rule book. “Approved,” you say, a little breathless. “Committee satisfied,” he says, trying to be dry and failing. The road opens. The radio hums low. Ahead, neon and pie and a beer that tastes like someone else’s bad decisions wait to be investigated. He drives. You lean back. Between you, the quiet is not-empty in the very best way.
The diner glows like a lighthouse - neon fork buzzing, windows full of warm people and warmer pie. Rhett pulls into the slot that used to be Royal’s by unspoken law and cuts the engine. For a second you both sit in the quiet tick of cooling metal and the soft radio fade. Inside, the bell over the door does its old shy jingle. The waitress spots you before your eyes finish adjusting. “Well, look what the cat and good manners dragged in,” she says, already reaching for two menus she won’t use. “Same booth,” she adds, because of course she knows.
Rhett gestures you ahead, palm light at your back without landing. Third booth from the jukebox - the one the sky finds just before the sun goes all the way down. He slides your side of the table in with a little tug so you don’t bump your knee. It’s nothing; it’s everything. “Peach?” The waitress asks, pad ready but her mind already made. “Peach,” you and Rhett say together, then grin at your own cliché. “And coffee that’s flirting with good,” you add. She taps her pen, satisfied. “Two slices, two coffees. I’ll bring the good sugar.”
Rhett rests his forearms on the table, hands folded the way he does when he’s trying not to fidget. “I noticed,” you say, eyes dropping to his clean shirt, then back up. “You shine up nice.” His ears do the pink thing. “You, uh, look like you plan to win a pool tournament and a lawsuit.” “I contain multitudes,” you say, pleased. “Short ones,” he adds and there is no bite to it.
Coffees arrive, dark and hopeful. The waitress sets down a little metal pitcher and winks. “Honey if you need it,” she says, as if she’s been informed by the grapevine. Rhett’s mouth tilts. Pie lands with the gravity it deserves - sun-warm, generous, the ice cream thinking about surrender. Rhett pulls the plates closer, and his knuckle brushes yours. Neither of you pull back. “To penance,” he says, and it’s half a toast, half an apology re-stated in sweeter language. “To penace,” you answer, tapping your fork to his like a bell. You eat the first bite the way you’d step into a river - careful, then all in. Peach, cinnamon, the cold slump of ice cream, the hot slide of honey he tips onto both plates without asking. The jukebox clatters into a song you both know by muscle memory and ignore on purpose.
You talk easy, in and out of old ruts that aren’t ruts anymore: the way the wind in Wabang always smells like it knows your middle name; Amy’s clipboard tyranny. You trade tiny histories you hadn’t given to anyone else because they weren’t worth the postage until now - your worst rodeo motel (a carpet that crunched), his most heroic plumbing emergency (Perry, a wrench, and a prayer), the first time you both realized that counting worked. Somewhere in the middle you touch his wrist to make a point and forget to remove your hand for two breaths. He doesn’t move. You don’t say big things. You let the small ones stack.
When the plates are mostly crumbs and melted cream, he slips the bill away with practiced stealth. “Beer?” he asks. Not casual, not heavy - just the next step on a map the day drew for you. “Beer,” you say. He stands. You stand. For the brief second before you move, the space closes - his hand at the small of your back, not quite touching, your shoulder tilted toward him like it’s found its favorite angle. The waitress says, “See you kids,” like she watched you grow up and is pleased with the edit.
You step out into evening - heat gone soft, sky low and kind. He holds the door because he was raised right. You brush past because you know exactly how close to get. In the glass you catch twin reflections - older, steadier, maybe braver. The Handsome Gambler hums like a bad habit that learned charm. The door swings open and the smell of beer, summer, and old country songs wraps around you like a dare. Same neon signs, same floor that sticks a little, but you don’t feel small anymore walking through it. The air feels yours.
Rhett follows half a step behind, his hat brim catching the amber light. The place looks smaller to him tonight - not because it is, but because you fill it better than the memory ever did. “You sure about this table?” he asks, nodding at the pool setup under a crooked light. “You scared?” you ask, already reaching for a cue. He huffs. “You used to apologize to the cue ball.” You chalk the tip with a little flourish. “Yeah, well. The road teaches you things.” He grabs his own cue, eyes still faintly amused, faintly uncertain. “Like what?” You bend, line up the break, and the crack echoes off the wood-paneled walls. Two solids drop clean. You straighten, give him that dangerous, slow smile. “Surviving bulls. And men. Turns out being good at manly things helps.”
He stares at the table, then at you. There’s surprise first, then something softer, more like pride, more like of course. “You practiced,” he says finally. “Practiced everything,” you say. “You have to, when the world keeps asking if you can.” You line up another shot, drop the three ball in the corner pocket. The little applause from a group at the bar makes you grin wider. You catch Rhett watching you instead of the game, the faint twitch of his jaw like he’s trying to reconcile the girl who used to miss easy shots with the woman who doesn’t waste a move.
“Your turn,” you tell him, stepping back, hips against the table. He leans in to shoot, misses by a hair. You whistle, low. “Guess all those years didn’t help your game much.” He laughs under his breath. “Been busy fixing fences.” “Figures,” you tease. “All straight lines, no corners.” He shoots you a look that says careful but it’s fond. “You talk more now.” “You listen better,” you return, and it lands somewhere between a compliment and a confession.
The jukebox slides into something slow, a song about dust and promises. You circle the table, chalk dust on your fingers, eyes glinting under the crooked lamp. When you pass him, he catches a faint breath of your shampoo and something else - warm, electric, the scent of a life lived at full speed. It hits him harder than whiskey. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought comes anyway, uninvited and loud: Ten years changed everything. And nothing.
You line up your last shot, the cue gliding against your fingers. “Eight ball, right corner,” you say. He knows that confidence; it used to scare him when you aimed it at the world. Now it steadies him. The ball drops, smooth as a promise kept. You look up, chin tilted. “Still scared?” He shakes his head, smiling small. “No. Not of you, anyway.” “Good,” you say, and rack the balls again. “First round’s yours. Second’s mine.”
He looks at you, the way your braid swings when you lean, the curve of your grin when you win, and he feels something like awe crawl under his ribs. You’ve got the same spark, but it’s grown teeth - and grace. “Guess the road did teach you a thing or two,” he says. You flash him a look over your shoulder, half challenge, half invitation. “It taught me how to hold on when everything bucks.” He doesn’t ask if you mean the bulls, the years, or him. He just nods once, quiet, the same way he always did when he understood more than he could say.
You’ve just racked a fresh game when a shadow falls across the table - sponsor shirt, belt buckle loud, the kind of smile that thinks it’s a favor. “Well, if it isn’t the infamous Black Widow,” he drawls, eyes taking a tour you didn’t authorize. “Heard you can ride. Shame you gotta dress like that to-” You don’t let him finish. “Finish the sentence,” you say, mild as a butter knife. “I like to keep a trophy shelf of bad ideas.”
He blinks, recalibrates, chuckles like you’re being cute. “Just saying the brand’s the brand. Fans don’t come for fundamentals.” “Right,” you nod. “They come for tight cores and clean pockets. You’d know that if you’d ever made a whistle for something besides a bartender.” A couple stools down, someone chokes on their beer. The man shifts to square up, finds the floor suddenly uneven. He tries a different tack. “Could get you real sponsors if you smiled more. Wear my patch. I’ll make calls.” “You couldn’t book me a dentist,” you say, friendly. “And if I wanted to sell my smile, I’d charge per tooth.”
His mouth opens. Nothing useful emerges. He looks at Rhett like he’s expecting backup, bro-bond, purchase order for your time. Rhett doesn’t move. Hands in his pockets, eyes steady, he is the picture of a man who will haul you out of a fire but won’t take your hose while you’re using it. He gives the guy a polite, unreadable nod that translates to she’s talking; I’m learning. The man tries swagger again, thinner now. “You know who I am?” You tilt your head. “You’re the reason every committee now prints ‘Don’t Touch the Stock or the Riders’ on the back of the programs.” Beat. “Thanks for pushing policy.”
A laugh pops from the bar like a cork. Color rises under his tan. He looks at the eight ball, at your leather jacket, at the spider stitched mean on your shirt. “Tell you what,” you say, bright and bored. “You want a patch on me? Earn it. Pull your bull rope tomorrow. Eight clean. I’ll wear a sticker with your name on it for the drive home.” He sputters. “That’s not-” “Right,” you say. “It’s not.” Silence lands. The jukebox clicks, hunts for another song. He cocks his head like he might throw one last dart; decides against it; mutters something about “mouthy,” and peels off toward safer weather.
You watch him go long enough to be sure he’s gone-gone, then turn back to Rhett. You hook two fingers in his belt loop and tug, an easy little come on, like you’ve been doing it since you were kids. He goes willingly, heart doing that humiliating skip it has no legal right to. The casual claim of it - your fingers at his hip, the assumption he’ll follow - short-circuits him in ways a man shouldn’t admit in public. He catches up, close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest as you pass. “Thanks for letting me work,” you say, light. “Wasn’t mine to do,” he answers, softer. “Looked good, though.” “What did?” “Everything,” he says, and tries to make it a joke, fails, lets it stand. You bump his hip with yours, grinning. “Rack ’em, Abbott.” He does, hands steadying on the felt, and thinks - helpless, fond - drag me anywhere you want.
He watches you sink another shot - smooth, unbothered - and the felt tilts into memory. Not this room, not these lights, but that season when you were just starting to kick the small out of your life and make space for the larger thing you were building. Back when your hands moved faster than your mouth, when the words were still sharpening but your spine already knew the answer.
They call it the Flats - a wind-scoured patch by the creek where someone’s cousin always had a truck, someone’s brother always had a lighter, and somebody’s uncle “didn’t see nothing.” A bonfire eats pallet wood and shoots sparks into a sky clear enough to shame you. Music leaks from a radio with one good speaker. Sixteen feels older there, and dumber.
Rhett leans on Perry’s tailgate with a warm beer sweating in his hand and watches you work a circle through the crowd, chin up, braid snared with dust, eyes on everything. You don´t smile much; when you do, it lands like a thrown coin. The boy who starts it - of course it was the boy who always starts it - blocks your path with a grin he wears like a badge. Big belt. Bigger mouth. He’s been loud all night, the kind of drunk that makes courage out of volume. “Hey, Cricket,” he says, sing-song, testing the name like he owns it. “Heard you like riding things that don’t got horns.” A couple of laughs snap like dry twigs. Rhett feels Perry go still next to him - statue still. He waits, because he knows you. You tips your head, loose and dangerous. “You heard wrong,” you say. “I ride anything that tries to make me small.”
“Cute,” the boy says, stepping closer, breath sour. “You wanna try riding me then? I’ll take it slow so you can count.” Perry’s boots scrape gravel. Rhett’s bottle turns to air in his hand. You lift a palm at both of them without even looking, a traffic cop in a torn denim jacket, and lock eyes with the boy. “Last chance,” you say. “Walk.” He snorts, leans in, makes the mistake of touching your braid like it was a bell pull.
The punch is simple. No warning. No speech. You step in and put your knuckles dead-center on his mouth, straight as a rulebook, hips behind it. The crack shuts the music off for a heartbeat. The boy’s head snaps; he goes down on his ass with a sound like surprise and pennies. Blood hits his chin like he’s been kissed by mean luck. Blood hits your knuckles as well, little red spots.
Someone yells. Someone else whoops. An overeager friend’s fist clips your lip before you can duck. Quick, not full force, but it stings. You don’t waver. You don’t give ground. Your eyes lock, ready if he lunges again. On your left, the boy’s buddies puff up, more smoke than fire, until Perry slides between bodies with that grin he wears when he’s already decided to enjoy himself if it gets stupid. Rhett takes your right, eyes steady, shoulders loose, one hand free in case the pack has more guts than sense. “Everybody breathe,” Perry says, cheerful as a church greeter. “Or don’t. I’m not your mother.” The boy touches his mouth, comes up red, stares at the blood like it’s news. He starts to surge, then clockes the old Abbott steel staring out of two faces and the way your stance doesn’t shake. He thinks better of it.
“You good?” Rhett asks you, quiet. “Great,” you say, lip already swelling, eyes bright like fever and fun. “He’s done.” The boy decides he is. He spits, swears something about “bitch,” and gets hauled off by friends who suddenly believe in de-escalation. The ring of onlookers breakes into nervous laughter, relief, stories already growing new legs.
You shake your hand out once, wince, then laugh, too - sharp and real. The sound goes straight through Rhett like summer heat. “Illegal beer’s terrible,” you say, grabbing a bottle from the tailgate and pressing it to your knuckles. “But useful.” Perry barks a laugh and tosses you a clean rag. “You’ve got form.” “Royal taught me not to waste motion,” you say, dabbing at your lip. “He’ll kill me if he sees this.” “He’ll kill the other guy first,” Perry says, pleased. “Get in. We’re leaving before anybody decides they have cousins in law enforcement.”
He drives. You and Rhett climb into the truck bed - house rule when the night needs air to cool it. The road out of the Flats is star-stitched. Wind lifts your braid; the rag at your mouth blushes pink and you don’t care. You sit knee to knee with Rhett, boots braced on the toolbox, grinning like the world blinked first. Rhett watches you in profile: dust on your cheekbones, pride set hard under the hurt, the way you keep checking your knuckles like they’re a friend that needs looking after. He thinks of the steer in the demo pen that learned manners the day Royal stopped meeting it with force and gave it somewhere to put its fear. He thinks of how you count under your breath when things get loud. And he thinks, helpless and full: I have never loved you more than right now.
You catch him looking. You always do. “What?” you say, half dare, half laugh around the split lip. “Nothing,” he says. Honesty fails him, courage shows up late. “Just… good hit.” “Good target,” you say. “You were slow.” “I was admiring the form,” he says. It comes out like a flirt even though he did not mean to put teeth in it. “Besides, Perry looked eager.” From the cab, Perry thumps the roof like he can hear through the wind. “I was eager,” he yells, thrilled. “Next time let me at him first, Cricket!” You roll your eyes, grin wider, wince and all. “Boys,” you say.
“Trouble,” Rhett says back, but it comes out fond. He takes the rag and holds it to your lip when the truck bounces. You let him. Your head tips toward his shoulder for a fraction before you catch yourself and sit up straight. He pretends not to feel the heat of you through denim. “Think Royal hears about this?” you ask after a minute. “He hears about everything,” Rhett says. “Cece is going to fuss,” you say, and the way you say Cece is warm enough to make his chest ache. The Abbotts are not just neighbors. They are the gravity you use to measure every other place.
“She’ll fuss and feed you,” Rhett says. “In that order.” “Payment for services rendered,” you say, then soften it with, “I’ll help with dishes.” Wind steals some of the quiet. Stars handle the rest. The road hums the truck into a steady rhythm that feels like counting. The bed jolts, your shoulder brushes his; you don’t move away. Neither does he.
“You always gonna swing first?” he asks after a long while - not judging, just checking where the map edges are. “Only when it’s worth it,” you say. “Only when someone tries to make me small.” You tip your chin at him. “You gonna keep catching me if I miss?” “I don’t think you will,” he says. “But yeah.” You nod once, like that’s a contract - both of you signing in road dust and night air. Your grin settles into something like contentment. The rag has gone pale, your lip has puffed, and the boy behind you has learned the hard way to keep your name out of his mouth.
“Hey, Abbott,” you say, voice lazy with victory and wind. “In.” He smiles before he can help it. “Out.” Your head falls on his shoulder and when he realizes that he goes very still. Out there, with the illegal beer skunking and the bonfire glow shrinking in the rearview, Rhett breathes with you like a vow he doesn’t know how to say out loud yet. He lets the night write it on his bones anyway: I’ve got you. I always did.
Back under the crooked lamp at the Handsome Gambler, he watches you chalk, line up, drop the eight clean, and thinks: same fire. The fist learned grammar. The girl who swung first now speaks first, and the room remembers its manners. “You’re up,” you say, handing him the cue, eyes bright. He takes it, smiles crooked. “I was just thinking,” he says. “Dangerous,” you tease. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But accurate.”
He watches you rack up another game. The faint scar on your knuckles catching neon like a thin thread of old fire. You flick him a glance that’s half-tease, half truth. “I learned to talk like steel because I used to lead with bone.” Silence settles around you that isn’t empty. He looks at your knuckles again - the old story in new skin. Before he can talk himself out of it, he holds out a hand.
“May I?” he asks. You look at him, measure the moment, then offer your fist like a dare you expect him to pass. He takes your hand the way he handles skittish stock and expensive glass: careful, sure. He turns your knuckles into the light, thumb skimming the pale crescent. Then he bends, slow enough to warn you, and sets a kiss there - no show, no flourish. Just gratitude and apology and a promise he hasn’t said out loud yet. You don’t pull away. You go very still, the way you do before a gate swings. When he straightens, your eyes are warmer around the edges. “Sentimental,” you say, but there’s no bite in it. “Accurate,” he answers. His palm stays under yours a heartbeat longer, a soft brace, then lets go like respect looks when it knows its job.
Behind you, someone laughs too loud. The game picks up on a TV. The world resumes its ordinary spin. You lift your beer; he steals a sip like he used to steal fries, and you let him like you always did. He breathes the way you taught him. “In,” you murmur, almost smiling. “Out,” he says, soft, and feels the warmth in his chest settle into something steady and good - like a family fire burning low and watched over, like a promise kept in the small hours under a sky that doesn’t blink.
You play out the rack - clean, easy, both of you lighter for having said some of the heavy. He steals the eight by a breath and lifts his hands like a man who knows better than to gloat. You rack again, because you can. Next game goes to you on a long rail shot that makes two old boys at the bar whistle under their breath. You tip them a mock-curtain call, chalk your cue, then set it down.
“I want to head back,” you say, soft but decided. “Weekend’ll be here quick.” He nods. “I’ll drive.” Outside, the night’s settled and the truck’s cooled. He opens your door like it’s a vow he enjoys keeping. The road between the Gambler and the grounds is short - radio low, windows cracked, that good silence riding shotgun. He taps the wheel with two fingers when the song hits a line he likes; you smile without looking over.
At your trailer he kills the engine. The dark is kind out here, lights strung like low constellations. Neither of you moves. “Thank you,” he says, after a beat. “For what?” you ask, genuine. “For letting me be wrong and not making me smaller for it,” he says. “For coming back without pretending you never left.” You look at him full-on. The porch light rims his hat and softens his jaw. “Thank you for being mad,” you say. “And then not being. Both mattered.”
He nods once, satisfied and a little raw. You lean in. He does too. The hug is tight - no play, no show - his arms around your shoulders, your hands at his back. He breathes you in like he’s been underwater and forgot he could swim. Before you part, he dips, unthinking, and presses his mouth to your hair. It lands like a benediction he didn’t plan. You slide back, fingers trailing his sleeve. “Night, Rhett.” “Night, Cricket.”
You hop down, boots on gravel, take two steps toward the door - then pivot, quick. He’s still watching. You come back on your toes, catch his cheek in one palm, and kiss him there: warm, sure, a little sideways so it feels like a secret and not a siege. He goes very still, then blinks like a man memorizing. “Sleep,” you say, backing away. “Weekend’s mean.” “I’ll count,” he promises, voice gone rough.
You climb the steps, key in the lock, light on. You lift a hand at the threshold; he lifts his back. The door clicks; the light becomes a square on the gravel. He doesn’t turn the engine over yet. He sits with the window down, listening to the night tick. In his chest the old word he wouldn’t say out loud turns over and settles: home. Not a place so much as a direction - two steps from the Gambler, a truck length from your trailer, a long time from sixteen and the worst conversation of his life. Maybe waiting wasn’t noble. Maybe it was just stubborn. Either way, tonight it feels like it learned patience on purpose.
He taps the wheel, breathes in, breathes out. “Friday,” he says to the empty seat, and smiles. Then he starts the truck and drives back through the gentle dark, carrying the echo of your cheek on his skin like a brand he chose. Friday is only days away and also already here in the way everyone says it like a promise.
Friday outruns your nerves. The grounds thrum - generators growling, mic checks snapping, stock rattling steel like weather with a temper. You pull the person you need to be over like a second skin: vest cinched tight, tape clean, spider winking mean across your knuckles. Black leather, low-cut V catching the floodlight, red liner sharp as a warning. You look like trouble on purpose.
Rhett arrives late in that way only riders do - half-dressed in leather and dust, hat low, eyes already in the chute. He finds you by muscle memory anyway. No time for pretty. He catches your elbow, pulls you in for one quick, rib-straight hug that smells like rosin and sun and home. It lands like a promise and is gone in the same heartbeat. “Count for me,” he says into your hair, breath quick, voice calm. “In,” you answer, almost smiling. “Out.” Perry jogs past, clapping Rhett’s shoulder. “Quit flirting and go be heroic.” Cecilia’s look is softer: “Breathe, honey.” Royal just tips his chin toward the alley: Go.
Rhett steps back, thumbs the brim, something raw and ready in his mouth. “See you in eight,” he says, already turning. “See you in eight,” you echo, letting him go the way you never could at sixteen - palms open, steel in place. He disappears down the alley in three long strides, the crowd swallowing him, the gate man’s voice cutting clean. You set your feet on the rail and do what he asked, lending him your lungs from a distance as the latch clacks and the night decides what kind of story it’s going to be.
The arena sounds like a storm made of wood and lungs. Boards rattle. People stand, then sit, then stand again. Rhett does not move. He felt the bull fold under him in the eighth second, shoulder drop, head snap. He rode the twist, then the ground rose like a dirty wave and took him. Now the dirt is inside his mouth, iron and grit, and the sky is a bright white plate with dust on it. He tries to push up. His arm is a stranger. The world pulls left and keeps pulling.
The bull circles back.
You vault the rail without thinking. Black leather flashes, spurs catch the light, and you hit the dirt running. The pick up men are on the far side. The bullfighters are cutting the first angle, but the animal has Rhett in his eye like a nail set into wood. He stamps, snorts, throws clods. The crowd rolls into one long vowel. Rhett hears your name like a memory dropped in water. Older now, both of you. Lines at the eyes. Strength that does not brag.
You do not slow down.
You strip your hat and fling it past Rhett to the left, a snapping black bird. The bull flicks an ear. You take your vest half open and crack it like a flag. You are talking as you move, steady and low, voice made for skittish stock and men who will not admit fear.
"Hey. Big man. Right here."
The bull swings to you. There is a thin white line of scar on his muzzle, healed ugly. His breath is a hot engine. You plant your boots, weight forward, knees soft, hands out. You look at him like you look at a gate that sticks. Not angry. Deciding.
Rhett tries to get up again. Pain lifts the top of his head like a lid. He sees you draw the animal off his line by inches. He has seen you ride every kind of mean in the world, but he has never seen you like this, between horns and a man on the ground, making yourself larger than you are. "Count, Abbott," you call without looking back. "With me. In. One. Out. One." He obeys before he can argue. The numbers run like beads. In. One. Out. One.
The bull feints right. You go with him, a half step and a clap to keep him keyed on your hands. A bullfighter throws his body across Rhett's boots and hauls, boots scraping. The other tries to cut the hip. The bull hooks and misses by an inch. You slap your vest against your thigh and yell, not pretty, not brave, just loud.
"Here. Look at me. Come on."
He looks. For a second his eyes are nothing but night. You do not blink. Rhett sees everything in frames. The way your braid has come loose at the nape. The sweat at your temple. The small tremor in your fingers that you lock down by will. You have always been like this. Brave and reckless. The first summer, back when you were kids and Royal was teaching you both how to move around a cranky cow, you learned to square your shoulders and tell fear to wait its turn.
The bull charges.
You break left and cut right at the last possible breath, a small quick angle that makes him overshoot by a hair. He blows past your hip. A horn kisses leather where your thigh should have been. The crowd gasps, then swallows it. The pick up men are finally here, long reins, shouting. The bullfighters clap and kick and give the bull too many targets at once. He swings to them. You pivot and run three steps back to Rhett.
He is on his side, eyes open now, chest hitching like a bad engine. "Hey." You drop to a knee. Your hand finds the back plate of his vest, then his jaw. "Stay with me." “Hi,” he grits out. The tiny effort makes his lungs protest. It comes out wrong. He tastes copper. He hates how small his voice sounds under the noise. Your mouth twists like you almost smile. "Hold still."
The bull stomps, angry at the new order. A pick up man gets a rope on him, turns him, gets him moving toward the out gate, shoulders leaning against power. You do not move away from Rhett until the gate slams. Your body shielding his in case the bull would go rogue again. The animal fights, but the angle is good, the door is open, and a second horse eases the line. The bull goes, still throwing his head, and then he is gone. The sudden lack of him makes the air feel thin.
"You with me?" He blinks. The white plate of sky softens to blue. Your face comes into focus. Older, yes. Beautiful, yes. But more than that, present. The word hits him with more force than the ground did. "Yeah," he says. "I am now." EMTs are already kneeling. The backboard appears like a magic trick. You slide out of the way, still close enough that your knee touches his shoulder, still close enough that your hand can trap his if he starts to drift. The medic asks him questions. Name. Date. Where he is. Rhett answers because your thumb is tracing slow lines across his knuckles, and that tells him there is time to be gentle.
The announcer is trying to make it a lesson. He talks about heart. He talks about toughness. He does not have language for what you just did. Most people do not. They strap Rhett in. He hates it, but he lets them. When the medic moves to lift his arm, you are there first, sliding your hand under his wrist to help, your touch competent, not tender, but he feels the heat of it straight through. You meet his eyes.
"Do not do the macho thing," you say. "Let them look. You can curse at me later." He swallows. Dust scratches his throat. "You just stood in front of a bull for me." "Someone had to," you say, like you are talking about carrying in groceries. Then your jaw tightens. "And I knew you could not do it for yourself." Something opens in his chest he did not know was locked. It hurts, and it feels like relief. He wants to tell you everything he did not say when you left. He wants to ask why you came back. He wants to bury his face in your shoulder and count to ten. The stretcher bumps. You walk beside it. A kid leans over the rail and yells your name. You lift a hand without looking away from Rhett. "Keep counting," you say.
At the mouth of the tunnel the light breaks into bars. It is cooler there, metal and shadow. The arena sound fades to a hum. You stop them with a palm on the medic's arm. "One second," you say. You lean down and set your forehead to Rhett's again, the exact shape of earlier. Your voice is closer. "You scared me." He almost laughs. It shakes in his chest. "You scared me back." "Fair trade," you say. Then you kiss his temple. It is small. It is the kind of promise that can survive daylight.
They wheel him on. You walk with them until the hallway turns and the rules say you cannot. You hand the medic Rhett's glove. You kept it in your fist the whole time without knowing. The leather is warm. Your fingers do not want to let go. Rhett watches you through the lift and drop of strangers' shoulders. For a heartbeat the crowd, the cameras, the long hard years, all of it goes quiet. There is only a girl who learned to run toward danger and a man who finally understands why she had to. He keeps counting your way until the room goes soft around the edges and the medic tells him to close his eyes. In. One. Out. One. When he opens them again, he promises himself two things. He will let them patch the body. And he will not be an almost to you, not anymore.
Later, you sit next to Rhett on a cooler. The medics have cleared him - pupils fine, pride bruised - just the usual bullrider blues blooming under the skin. The Abbotts drift at a distance on purpose: Cecilia and Royal by the gate, Perry narrating something for Amy. Rhett’s propped against his truck, hat tipped back, a crackling bag of ice pressed to his shoulder. Melt tracks down his biceps, silvering the dust. He winces once, breathes past it, eyes on nothing, mouth set in that almost-smile he wears when he’s hurting and pretending he isn’t. “Thought you retired from being stupid,” he says. “Tunnel rumor will say you just tried to get yourself killed for me.” You peel off a glove with your teeth and pocket it. “Would have been a waste. You still owe me fries.” That gets him. He huffs, which is as close to a laugh as pain will allow, and the sound bounces off cinderblock like a memory.
Inching just a closer, you tip your chin at Rhett’s shoulder. “You keeping that on as decoration or you going to hold the ice where the bruise is?” He shifts the bag up an inch. “Bossy.” “Alive,” you say. “You are welcome.” The Abbotts pretend not to listen. Somewhere, a radio crackles. The concrete smells like old water. “You look different,” he says, then decides to be braver. “You look the same and different.” “Older,” you say. “Meaner. Better boots.” His eyes go to your boots, scuffed at the toe, polished everywhere else. “I remember when you had to stuff paper in your left one because your socks had holes.” You laugh, quiet, soft and it stirs something in his chest.
He thinks of fifteen. A shared order from fries on a Friday. He had licked salt from his thumb and said, dead serious, that he was going to ride anything they put under him and make it look easy. You rolled your eyes and said you were going to leave this town before it taught you how to be small. He told you not to, then pretended he had meant it as a joke. You both watched Royal set his shoulders against a twitchy steer and turn patient force into clean motion, and for a breath the world felt simple.
“You left,” he says, softer now. It is not a charge. It is a pin dropped on a map. “Yeah,” you say. You do not apologize. “I had to.” He waits. You do not fill the silence. That is your oldest game. He breaks first, as usual. “And now you are back, and you are the one riding bulls.” “Looks like.” “That a problem?” he asks, too casual by half. “For who?” You lean one shoulder into the wall of his truck. “For the boys who cannot count to eight unless a girl spells it for them? For the men with opinions about my neckline? For you?” His grin shows up slow. “For me it is a story I am glad I get to watch.” You do not look away, which is what startles him. You used to look anywhere else when talk got honest. Ceiling. Dirt. The side of his face. Now you look right at him until he shifts again and the ice bag crackles. “Do not flirt if you are going to pass out,” you say. “It ruins the effect.” “Let me practice,” he says. “I am older. I need the reps.” “You always needed the reps.”
You could say more. You could say that every mile you put between you and this place was heavy with the shape he left next to you on the bleachers. You could say that the circuit chews and spits and that you learned to make teeth of your own. You could say that seeing him fall and not get up nearly knocked the air out of you. You do not say it. He watches you sitting there, legs dangling over the edge of the truck bed. He sees you at ten in a sunburned ponytail, your calves dusty, jumping out of his fathers. He sees you now in black leather and sweat, spine straight, the only person in the building who could make a bull look away. Between those pictures there is a long road but right here - and right here, he finds he doesn’t care. He loved you at ten, even if the word didn’t fit yet. He loved you at twelve and fourteen, and at fifteen when he almost kissed you. He loved you at sixteen when you left and it felt like the end of the world. He loves you now, ten years older, edges trued and soft places stubborn. He loves you now that you’ve come back - to the ranch, to the noise and the quiet, to the space beside him that never forgot your shape.
After another hour and another beer, you call it a night. “Try not to be an idiot,” you say. “I’ll work on it,” he answers. “Good,” you say. “I’m better at bossing people who live.” Perry, now within heckling range, barks a laugh. Rebecca and Amy materialize at your side to say goodnight; Amy’s gap-toothed grin is immediate and ferocious. “I like her.” “Excellent taste,” Perry declares, scandalized with pride. “Both of you.” He throws that last part at Rhett like a blessing disguised as a jab.
You make the rounds, saving Rhett for last because that’s what you do now. You step in; he meets you halfway. One-armed around your shoulders, his face finds the warm crook of your neck like it remembers the coordinates. You breathe once, steady. Perry groans in operatic pain. “Oh, for - get a room. Or a chute. Not right here. I’m fragile.” You tip a death-ray over Rhett’s shoulder that could fell a bull. Perry clutches his heart and staggers for cover. Rebecca is laughing into her sleeve. Amy claps like a tiny judge approving the scene. Cecilia’s smile is sunshine through the last of the storm. Royal’s mouth does that almost-smile it saves for family. You ease back, fingers trailing his sleeve, and the night feels properly finished.
Rhett watches you leave. Cecilia notices the way Rhett’s looking. Cecelia always notices. “You gonna tell me, or am I supposed to guess?” she asks, soft enough not to bend the air. Rhett shifts the ice, buying himself a second. “Tell you what?” She flicks her eyes toward where he just left. “Whatever that face is.” He tries a grin. It works halfway. “It’s nothing…,” he starts, then remembers lies don´t seem to work on his mother. He clears his throat. “It’s just - she looks like herself here. Even more at the ranch. Happy. Softer. Like that kid who stole the last fry and counted under her breath so the world wouldn’t get away from her.” He looks down at his hands, then back at his mother. Honesty gets easier once it starts moving. “Feels like her place has always been our table. I don’t know how to say that without making it sound like a net.” Cecilia’s hand covers his wrist, brief and warm. “No net,” she says. “Just tell her what you told me. Not a confession. The truth. A compliment she can use.” Her smile tucks at one corner. “She’ll appreciate useful.” Rhett nods. “I will, soon.”
The night sits on Abbott land like a warm coat. Crickets work the fenceline. The stars are big enough to make a man feel honest. They’ve got the fire low and the chairs dragged out where the yard gives to pasture. Royal nurses coffee gone mean a long time ago. Perry has a beer sweating in his fist. Rhett turns a bottlecap over and over like it’s a prayer wheel.
No one talks first. It’s the Abbott way. Then Perry quits pretending to be polite. “So,” he says, aiming at the sky and hitting Rhett instead. “Why didn’t you ever ask her out?” Rhett doesn’t look up. He rolls the cap to its edge and sets it spinning on his knee. “Which her.” Perry snorts. “The only her we’re all thinking about. Cricket. Widow. Take your pick.” Royal doesn’t laugh. He looks at Rhett the way he looks at a skittish colt - still, patient, a little sad he knows what’s coming. “Boy,” he says, not unkind. “You used to watch her and pretend you didn´t. You scratched her name into the door like she belonged there. Don’t start playing dumb now.”
Rhett lets the cap fall. It dies in the grass with a small, final sound. “I was twelve, then fourteen and then sixteen,” he says. “And dumb.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “And then she left.” Perry leans back and props his boots on a stump. “It was obvious,” he says. “The way you always found your place next to her and called it coincidence. The way you brought water like you didn’t notice her lips on the bottle.” He grins into the dark. “The way you counted when she counted, like you were both stealing air from the same jar.”
Rhett almost smiles. It breaks before it lands. “You want the truth?” “We did drag you out here to make you say it,” Perry says. Rhett nods once, like he’s taken a gate he wasn’t sure about. “I didn’t ask because she was always leaving,” he says. “And she needed to. I didn’t want to be the thing she had to cut loose to be big.” He pauses. The frogs fill it. “And because I figured I was the almost. Second choice in my own damn head. I thought - hell, I thought she didn’t like me like that. Not really.” “Hmm,” Royal says, which is half a sentence when you know him. He looks out at the pasture like he expects it to answer. “Or maybe you were just scared.” “Both,” Rhett admits. “She scares me in the right ways.” He huffs a laugh that isn’t mean. “Always has.”
Perry tips his bottle toward the house, toward the empty stretch of dark where the road runs to town. “She hugged you like it didn’t matter who was watching,” he says. “I saw your face. You looked like were fifteen again when she kissed you on the cheek that one day.” “Felt like it,” Rhett says. He tries for humor and doesn’t quite make it. “Thought I might drop a lemonade.” Royal’s mouth doesn’t turn up, but his eyes do. “You were kids” he says. “No crime in taking too long then.” He sets his cup down. “But you ain’t boys now.” Silence again. A coyote barks somewhere out in the draw. The fire pops. In his chest, Rhett hears the old metronome: In. One. Out. One.
“I didn’t ask because asking would’ve made it real if she said no. And if she said yes, well. That’d be a whole other kind of real.” Perry whistles soft. “So you are hiding in almost.” “Yeah,” Rhett says. “I hide in almost.” Royal picks up a stick and stirs a coal like it owes him money. “You know what almost is good for?” Rhett shakes his head. “Nothing,” Royal says. “It don’t feed cattle and it don’t hold a gate. It’s just noise you make to keep from hearing yourself breathe.” Perry claps once, satisfied. “There it is. Philosophy with a hat.” Royal ignores him. “She left to not be small,” he says to Rhett like it’s the weather. “You don’t make her small by asking. You let her say no if she means no. That’s respect.” He looks over, the kind of look that put the fear of God in sons and bulls. “And if she says yes, you make damn sure you can carry your end.” Rhett sits with it. The stars don’t blink. They don’t need to.
“I almost told her ten times since she came back,” he says. “Almost,” Perry repeats, rolling the word in his mouth like a bad seed. Rhett laughs, finally. “All right. I get it.” He loses the battle with his own honesty and lets the rest out. “When she hugged me, I felt sixteen. When she walked away, I felt twentysix and tired and like I’d waste another ten years if I didn’t move.” He taps his chest with two fingers, a little embarrassed. “I don’t want to be almost to her. Not anymore.” Royal stands, slow and easy. “Then don’t be.”
Perry raises his bottle like a toast. “Ask her out, you coward. With your mouth. Words.” Rhett looks at the house again, then the road, then the sky. He breathes the way she taught him, the way he taught himself to keep from breaking things he wanted to keep. “In,” he says under his breath. “Out,” Perry echoes, softer than he means to. Rhett nods. “I’ll do it,” he says. “Use my words. Ask like a person.”
Royal picks his cup back up. “Good,” he says, which is a whole paragraph when you know him. He starts toward the porch. Perry barks a laugh and follows. “And bring me some sense if she says yes, ’cause I’m gonna have to hear about it for the rest of my life.” Rhett stays a minute longer, just him and the stars and the quiet that isn’t empty. He thinks about the kid who counted under her breath, and the woman who steps between horns and the people she loves like it’s a job. He feels sixteen and steady at the same time. He flips the dead bottlecap into the fire and stands. Tomorrow he’ll ask. Tonight, he breathes. In. One. Out. One. Then he goes inside.
Saturday comes in fast and mean and hot. You haven’t slept; the edges of you are sandpaper. Your wrist still hurts. Sweat tacky on your skin, tape itching, leather that usually feels like a second self now rides you like a bad idea. Little droplets climb under your wrist brace. Rhett climbs on against everyone’s advice and makes it look good - clean seat, smart saves, numbers that shut people up. You don’t have that gear today. Every jump feels like a dare you’re a half-beat late to meet. You hang on anyway. You finish. It’s enough to land second overall, Rhett a notch behind you in third. Usually second tastes like sugar with grit. Today it tastes like loss and failure. The scoreboard says you did fine; your chest says small and irritable and you can’t even name the reason. You strip the glove, shake the ache from your wrist, and the noise of the arena feels three sizes too big.
The fight starts stupid. Small tinder, big flame. You are still wired from the ride, from the cameras, from the way the sponsor rep said your name like a coupon. In the parking lot the wind picks up grit. Rhett reaches to take your bag. You yank it back like it bit you. “I can carry it,” you snap. “I know,” he says, soft as ever. “I wanted to help.” “That is the problem,” you fire back. “You always want to help. You are so soft. I do not deserve soft. I do not need it.” He does not step back. He does not lift his hands. He keeps his voice level. “You deserve not to be tired alone,” he says.
You laugh, sharp. “Cute. Put that on a shirt.” You pace three steps and turn on him. “I built this. I did it by myself. I got used to not expecting anyone. You show up with softness and something other that feels just as familiar and I do not know where to put it.” “Put it here,” he says. He taps his own chest once. “Or at our table. Or in the booth of the diner over pie. You do not have to do it by yourself. You have Perry. You have my parents. You have me. We are your family. You are not alone.” The wind takes the last word and throws it back at you. Not alone. Your mouth is still set. Your eyes are not. You brace your hands on your hips like you are about to tell the ground to fight you. It does not. It gives.
“I was alone for a long time,” you say. The first words come out like they are too big. The rest follow easier. “I thought I always had to be strong. Make it by myself. If I am honest, leaving the Abbotts, leaving you, that was the smartest thing and the dumbest thing at the same time. I needed to go so the world could not make me small. I should have brought you with me in my pocket.”
Rhett breathes once, slow. He takes one step. You do not retreat. He sets his hands on your arms, light. Not pinning. Not pushing. Anchoring. “You did the hard part,” he says. “Now let us do some of the rest.” You swallow. Something in your shoulders comes down. The fight goes out of your jaw. You put your forehead to his chest, fast, like if you think about it you might miss. He wraps you up and holds, gentle as a promise. You do not shake. You do not talk. You just breathe, and he matches you because it is the only language that has never failed either of you. “In,” you say, muffled. “Out,” he answers.
He drives you home, not to your trailer. To the farm. The road is quiet. The radio stays off. He keeps one hand on the wheel and one on the bench between you, palm up. You set your fingers there and leave them. You watch the trees go by and disappear into the dark night. You watch the stars and Rhett watches you. At the house he gives you a shirt without saying anything. It smells like cedar and dust and him. You disappear into the bathroom and come back with damp hair and bare feet, his shirt hitting mid thigh. He does not stare. He tries not to. He fails a little. His bed is bigger than it used to be, not for a sixteen year old kid anymore but now for a man that is taller and whose shoulders became broader as he got older. You both fit. You tuck into his side like you were carved to fit that space. He tucks a blanket around your legs like he has done this a hundred times in his head. The room hums with night sounds and the small click of the heater.
“I am not good at this,” you say into his collarbone. “You are doing fine,” he says. “You sure you want it,” you ask, and there is no steel in it at all. “Every night for the rest of my life,” he thinks, clear as a bell. He does not say it. He says the part that will not scare you. “I want this tonight. And tomorrow we can want tomorrow.”
You consider that. Then you take his hand and bring it to your mouth and kiss the heel of it once, quick. It feels like a signature. “Okay,” you say. He presses his lips to the small pale crescent on your knuckle, the one that will never quite fade. Your breath evens. Your weight settles. He watches the window until stars blink through clouds. He keeps his palm on your back, steady and warm, and lets the thought return, simple and strong, a tide that does not need words. I want this every night, he thinks. Every small softness. Every morning after a hard thing. Every counted breath. You sleep. He does not, not for a while. He is busy wanting and keeping watch, which feels like the same thing when the person under your hand is home.
Morning smells like coffee and hay. The house is quiet in the way a place gets when everyone’s already been up an hour. You come down the back stairs with Rhett, bare ankles, his shirt tucked into your jeans, hair braided quick and clean. He keeps a respectful half-step, hand brushing your back only when the last step creaks.
Cecilia looks up from the stove, takes in both of you with a single, expert glance, and turns a biscuit in the pan like she’s considering the weather. “Morning, you two,” she says, warm as a quilt. Royal nods from the table, newspaper folded into obedient quarters. “Coffee’s fresh.” Perry lifts a brow, only because it’s a muscle he can’t stop using. “Y’all sleep all right?” he asks, faux-casual. “Fine,” Rhett says. “Like a rock,” you say, and steal a strip of bacon off his plate with a speed that makes Amy gasp-laugh.
They don’t make a scene. They make room. A second mug appears beside your elbow; a jar of honey slides your way like an apology for every hard thing you did alone. Rebecca forks over the last of the scrambled eggs with a conspiratorial tilt. Royal reaches without looking and sets a clean knife next to your plate because you always forget you’ll need one until you do.
Breakfast is the kind that happens to you: biscuits that split with a sigh, jam that tastes like last summer, talk that loops easy over fence repairs and a neighbor’s mule who never quite learned manners. You eat like a person who finally believes there will be enough. When the plates are messy and the kettle clicks off, Cecilia wipes her hands on a towel and says, “I need to run a couple errands. Up to the feed store and over to Mabel’s for pie.” Her eyes cut to you, soft and sure. “Ride with me?”
You nod before she’s finished. “Gladly. I just need to grab a few things from home.” “I’ll drive you,” she says, the decision already folding itself into the day. “Can I come?” Amy pipes up from her chair, bouncing once. “Can I, Aunt Cricket?” The room goes very still, like a deer lifting its head in tall grass. The name lands in the middle of the table and glows. You blink. Your mouth opens, closes. Rhett sees it - just the shine at the corner of your eye, gone as quick as it came. You reaches your hand across the table to Amy, palm up. “Of course, little bug,” you say, voice steady and bright. Amy slides her small hand into yours like it was always meant to. Royal’s newspaper settles. Perry looks away like he’s being polite to his own feelings. Rebecca hides a smile in her tea. Cecilia only nods, like a plan that started years ago just finished rooting.
Rhett watches you stand with them - his mother, his niece - and something inside him sets like concrete in sun. You pick up your hat, squeeze his fingers once under the table, and follow Cecilia and Amy toward the door. And Rhett sits there with the taste of honey and the certainty that the road ahead already knows all your names. The screen door sighs shut behind Cecilia and Amy. They leave. The house breathes. Tires crunch the gravel, then fade. The kitchen holds its breath for half a beat. Royal lowers his newspaper an inch. Perry leans back in his chair until it creaks. They both look at Rhett like he’s a colt who just squared up to a fence he’s been circling for years.
“What’s going on,” Perry says. Not a question. Rhett rubs a thumb over a coffee ring on the table. “I’m gonna tell her,” he says. Simple. The room seems to fit around it. Royal folds the paper. “Good,” he says - four letters worth a page. “Say it plain.” Perry kicks the table leg. “And say it where the whole county can’t hear you mispronounce your own heart,” he adds, grin crooked. “Or do - give me something to live for.” Rhett stands. He can feel the plan forming as he speaks it. “Back pasture,” he says. “South of the cottonwoods. No neighbors. I’ll take the truck. Blankets in the bed. Flowers. Compliments and truth.”
They move without making it a meeting. Perry raids the shed for an extension cord and a coil of fairy lights last used for Amy’s school play. Royal disappears into the barn and returns with a clean old quilt - the good one with the blue stars - folded over his arm like an offering. Rhett drives his truck out to the backpasture. On his way out, he stops by the fence line, wades into the ditch for a handful of wildflowers that don’t match and don’t need to.
Out back, the day rips wide and quiet. They idle the truck behind the cottonwoods where the pasture turns away from the house and the sky is big enough to keep secrets. Perry climbs in the bed like a raccoon, stringing lights along the headache rack and down the rails, swearing cheerfully when they tangle and more cheerfully when they blink alive. “Not too bright,” Rhett says. “Son, nothing about this is subtle,” Perry says, satisfied. “Also, if you’re gonna whisper about your feelings ‘where no one can hear,’ try not to park by the cattle gate that leaves like a tattletale in the wind.” He points. “Back it up ten feet.” Rhett backs it up ten feet. The gate hushes.
Royal shakes out the quilt and helps spread it in the bed like he’s laying a saddle blanket. He tucks a few worn pillows at the head, then steps back, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed at the symmetry like a man judging a fence line. Rhett rolls a blanket tight to use as a bolster for your wrist if the brace starts biting. He stows a spare hair tie by the thermos because experience makes good guesses. He sets the wildflowers in the jar and fusses the stems until they stop looking like he ripped them out of a ditch (which he did).
Perry puts two tea candles in old jam jars and wedges them safe in the wheel wells so they will look like fireflies that learned manners later. Then he places a lighter next to it. Royal eyes the scene. “You’re not gonna talk her into anything,” he says. “Just tell her what you told your mama. Truth. Complement she can use.” Rhett nods. “I know.” Perry hops down, wipes his hands on his jeans. “And if you get tongue-tied,” he says, “say ‘I like you here.’ Point at the quilt. Point at the stars. Point at your dumb face. That’ll cover it.” He tips his hat toward the trees.
Rhett flips him a look. Perry just grins bigger and saunters off, whistling something smug. Royal lingers. He reaches out and tugs a corner of the quilt, straightens it a fraction, then presses his palm once to Rhett’s shoulder - solid, proud, brief. “She’s family,” he says. “Act like it. The rest follows.” “I will,” Rhett says. It lands as vow and normal sentence both. Royal nods and leaves him to it. When the dust from their boots settles, Rhett stands alone beside the truck and listens to the pasture breathe. The fairy lights wink against the chrome. He smooths the quilt one more time. He sets the flowers so they don’t block the sky.
Then he leans on the fender, hat low, and waits for a car door out front, for the sound of Cecilia’s laugh and Amy’s running feet, for your step in the gravel - so he can meet you at the corner of the house, take your bag without a fight, and say it plain where only the cottonwoods and the cattle can hear: I like you here. You fit. The rest can come slow.
Cecilia’s car crunches up the drive just as the light turns honey. Amy explodes out of the passenger seat before the engine’s even quiet, wearing one of your promo shirts two sizes too big - BLACK WIDOW across the front with the tiny red spider - and a grin that could blind a storm. She sprints straight for Rhett, skidding to a stop to model. “Look!” she says, arms out. “Aunt Cricket said I could!”
Rhett feels something in his chest kick hard enough to rattle his ribs. “You look perfect, little bug,” he manages, voice steady by a miracle. Cecilia closes her door, meets his eye over the roof, and smiles like a secret she’s kept since he was born. You come around the hood with a paper sack and wind in your braid. You’re flushed and easy, laughing low at something Cecilia says - soft, the way you get when you’re home. You tip your chin at Rhett, a hello that lands where a kiss might later.
Inside, the table fills itself: roast and beans, biscuits that split with a sigh, the tomato salad that only shows up when the garden’s showing off. Amy plants herself next to you, sits tall so the Widow on her shirt shows, and asks a mile of questions. You answer between bites, teaching her how to brace a plate with her forearm, how to count when nerves show up, how to say “no, thank you” in a voice that means it. Rebecca teases that the shirt’s worth ten points off fear; you say, “At least.”
Perry waits until everyone’s halfway full to get loud. “Y’all remember the night Cricket laid out Tommy Harwell at the Flats?” he begins, already grinning. “One punch. Man went down like a sack of wet feed. Illegal beer everywhere-” “Perry,” Cecilia warns, but she’s smiling. You point your fork at him. “Tell it right or don’t tell it.” “I am telling it right,” Perry says, wounded. “She gave him one warning, he touched her braid - boom, meteor strike.” He smacks a fist into his palm. “Royal, remember? Boy’s lip looked like a fresh brand.” Royal’s mouth does that almost-smile. “I recall,” he says. “Also recall driving over there because somebody called me and said my sons were going to start a war.” “Cricket ended it,” Perry says cheerfully. “Rhett looked like the ferris wheel got stuck at the top again.” Rhett glares at him without heat. “Eat your beans,” he says.
You lean back in your chair, laughing - real, head-tipped, eyes bright. “Tommy actually apologized to me at the supermarket a few days ago,” you offer, deadpan. “Said he found God. I said good, tell Him to mind your hands.” The table breaks. Even Royal chuckles under his breath. Amy claps, delighted. “Aunt Cricket, you’re a superhero.” You nudge her cap brim down with one finger. “Nah. Just stubborn.” Rhett watches you in the wash of kitchen light: the way you tease Perry back until he throws up both palms in surrender, the way you hook your ankle around the chair rung and listen when Royal asks about your next draw, the way Cecilia sneaks you an extra biscuit and you try to refuse and fail. It’s all so simple it hurts - like the world finally picked one key and stayed in it.
After dinner, plates scraped and stacked, conversation thinning into the sweet hum of work well done, Rhett catches your eye. He touches two fingers to the brim of his hat - old language, new meaning. “Walk with me?” he asks. Your mouth softens. “Yeah,” you say, pushing your chair back. You squeeze Amy’s shoulder as you pass - “Guard the pie” - and she salutes like she’s been given a post. Cecilia turns to the sink with suspicious efficiency. Perry suddenly remembers the barn needs checking. Royal pretends to read the paper and misses every word. Rhett holds the back door, lets the evening air spill over you both, and leads you out toward the cottonwoods and the quiet place where the fairy lights are waiting.
The cottonwoods made a hush big enough for two. You round the tailgate and stopp. The last of the light goes soft over your face; something in your mouth loosened - the small shape you wear when you remember you were once younger and softer. “Rhett,” you say, warning braided with thanks. He climbs into the bed and holds out a hand. You take it - warm, sure - and let him pull you up. You lay down shoulder to shoulder on the quilt; your braid knocked loose against his arm, the sky a bowl overhead. For a while you just breathe. In. One. Out. One. Your laugh lands low and pleased. You tuck yourself under his arm - careful at first, then all at once when you decide the ground is steady and he is safe. He studies the wildflowers like they might help him line up the words. When he looks at you again, it’s steady.
“I’ve been thinking about how to say this since I was old enough to pretend I wasn’t,” he begins. “Back then I liked you so loud I had to act quiet about it or I was gonna embarrass us both. I sat next to you and called it coincidence. I brought water and carried your bags. I watched you and then pretended I wasn´t. I counted when you counted because it made the world hold still.” You tilt your head, that listening look you reserve for bulls and truths. “You were bad at pretending,” you say softly. He huffs a laugh. “Terrible. Then you left - and that was the smartest thing I’ve ever watched. You needed a place big enough not to make you small. I told myself I was proud. I was. I was also heartbroken and angry. I also got real good at being empty and loud about it. I hid in almost, because almost felt safer than a clean ‘no.’ Turns out almost is nothing. It doesn’t hold gates or feed cattle or get a man home at night.”
You watch his hands as he talks: the way his thumb rubs the edge of the pie tin; the way he keeps his palm open against the quilt like he’s reminding himself not to grab at what he’s offering. “I kept waiting for perfect,” he says. “Back then the county fair. Shared fries. Maybe the front porch. And then you left. I tried for perfect about five times since you came back. No cameras. No dust. No history. Thought I’d take a tidy shot. Maybe over pie at Mabel´s. Life never set that gate for me.” He quiets for a moment, then starts again. “And then you came back and you were you, but steadier. The way you sit a bull now - how you don’t waste motion? I want to be that for you. The quiet part that lets the rest work.”
You try to make a joke - habit. “That a job posting, Abbott?” “Yeah,” he says, surprising you by not laughing. “Soft where you’re steel. Steady where you’re tired. I want to carry some of the parts that don’t win buckles - braces and hair ties and the ‘later’ you hand to men who don’t deserve your now. I want to be the person who remembers your coffee order and your glove seam and the way your breathing shifts when you’re about to say you’re fine but you’re not.” Your breath catches. “Getting specific.” “I’ve always been specific about you,” he answers, and it comes out easy, like he’s been practicing honest longer than he knew. “You look like yourself here - around my folks, with Amy in that ridiculous shirt, with pie you didn’t have to buy. You fit. I like you anywhere, but I like you here most. With us. With me.”
You look up at the lights, buying a second. “And when I’m not here?” “Then I meet you where you are,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “Back road at dawn, airport curb at midnight, or behind a chute when the world’s loud and you need someone who won’t add noise. I’ll hold space. I’ll learn when to shut up and when to say, ‘Breathe.’ I’ll be proud out loud and angry in private, so you don’t have to spend yourself on other people’s feelings.” Your mouth softens; the line in your brow eases. “What do you want from me?” He considers that like it deserves care. “Truth. What you can give on days you’ve still got some to give. A chance to be a place, not a test.” His voice dips, gentler. “And for you to let us - me, Perry, Amy, Rebecca, my folks - count as your family when you need one.” “Big ask,” you say, but there’s no bite in it. “Worth it,” he says. “I don’t need you to be soft, but I won’t let the world punish you for not being. I can be soft enough for both of us when that’s what the moment needs.”
Silence folds warm between you. He lets it. The pasture breathes. Somewhere a cow coughs like an old aunt clearing her throat. The fairy lights hum. He clears his throat, and the last piece finds its place. “I liked you when we were kids. I like you now in the way that makes room for everything you’ve had to become. That’s the whole of it. No almost. If you want it, I’m here. If you don’t, I’ll still be proud and quiet about it and make sure you’ve got good braces for your wrist in every bag. And I will buy you these fries I still owe you.”
You turn to him. The expression on your face is sixteen and older at once - light with something settled, content like a question finally answered. You kiss him. No rush, no tilt of the world - just the clean click of something long lined up finally pushed home. His hand finds the back of your neck, gentle; you breathe against his mouth once, counting without numbers. When you pull back, your voice is steady and bright. “I liked you when I was sixteen,” you say. “And I think I love you now that I’m older.” He closes his eyes just long enough to feel the word settle into his bones. When he opens them, you’re still there - leg hooked over his, head under his chin like you were always designed to fit that way.
“Okay,” he murmurs, not to tame it but to give it shape. “Then we’ll do it like we do everything. Slow when it needs slow. Fast when it’s earned.” “Tell me something true and small,” you say, settling closer. “Something I can use.” He thinks for half a beat. “If you tape your wrist over the sleeve next time, the brace will bite less in jump three,” he offers, shy about the tenderness of it. “And-” he swallows- “and I sleep better when your braid’s on my shoulder.” You huff a smile into his shirt. “Both useful.” He kisses the pale crescent on your knuckle. You don’t pull away. “Another?” you ask, eyes half-lidded now, warmth moving through your voice like honey through tea.
“Amy’s never going to stop calling you Aunt Cricket,” he says. “And my mother already has a cupboard with your favorite mug. You name lived in my house since you were ten and in my heart for just about the same time.” Your throat works. You tip your face up and kiss him again - soft, grateful, certain. The stars burn through. When the night finally leans cool, he tucks the blanket tighter around your legs. You thread your fingers with his and set your joined hands on his chest like a stake in the ground.
“In,” you murmur, because habit, because home. “Out,” he answers, and the word rings easy and enormous and right. He holds you there in the quiet where truth doesn’t have to raise its voice, where a life can start by naming what’s already been true for years and promising to keep choosing it, breath by breath, until the sky runs out. The night settles over the cottonwoods like a blanket someone’s been mending for years. The fairy lights dim to a hush. The quilt holds your heat. You and he make a narrow country out of the truck bed: two pillows, one folded arm, your leg hooked over his like you planned it that way in another life. Wind ghosts the rails. Cattle breathe somewhere beyond the trees. You listen to the small sounds a body makes when it stops bracing: the way his chest slows; the way your wrist brace crinkles when you shift; the soft click of his teeth when a thought finds a place to land.
He speaks first, quiet so the stars don’t eavesdrop. “That night on Perry’s truck bed,” he says, “at the Flats - you with a split lip, grinning like the sky was your accomplice-” He huffs once, shaky and fond. “I thought I had never seen anything prettier. Every day since you have been back, you show up and challenge that view.” You turn your face against his throat to hide what that does to you. He keeps going, a little steadier now that the first admission is out. “You bite and claw,” he says, reverent as a prayer that doesn’t ask for anything. “At the world when it needs it. At fear when it shows its teeth. And I am in awe when you are.” You slide your palm up his ribs until your hand rests over his heart. “There will be times I will bite and claw at you,” you warn, even, honest. “Not because you deserve it. Because the habit has teeth.” His breath catches against your cheek. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck,” he says, and the vulgarity lands like a vow - rough-edged, simple. “If it’s me, I’ll take it. I’ll wait out the storm. I’ll still be here when your jaw unclenches.” You go very still, then softer than either of you thought you could be. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “You won’t,” he says. “And if you do by accident, we’ll fix it. That’s the job.”
You laugh into his shirt; he soaks the sound up like rain on old ground. He turns and kisses your knuckles in the dark, finds the small crescent scar by feel alone. “Tell me something you’re afraid of,” he asks, not pushing, just offering a place to set it. You swallow. “Slowing down,” you admit. “Finding out that if I stop moving fast, I won’t know who I am.” He tightens his arm around you just enough to register. “Then we’ll slow down together on purpose sometimes,” he says. “So it’s a choice, not a punishment.” You breathe that in. “You?” “Wasting time on almost,” he says. “I’m done with that. I want the whole thing.” The night tilts toward sleep. You kiss the corner of his mouth, lazy, certain. “You have it,” you tell him, and you feel the promise settle like a fence post finally sunk deep enough.
Later - half-dream, half-waking - you feel him brush your hair back from your face with careful fingers, like he’s checking a horse for burrs. You press closer; his hand slides to the nape of your neck, a steadying weight that says here. You sleep. He does too, eventually, counting with you by habit until the number becomes the kind of quiet that keeps.
Dawn shows up gentle. The fairy lights look sheepish in it. Mist hangs low over the pasture; the truck roof clicks as the air cools it. Birds clear their throats in the hedgerow. Your calf is asleep where it crossed his thigh; you wiggle it back to life and he groans like a man discovering new uses for pain. “Morning,” he says, voice wrecked and happy. “Morning,” you say, stealing the first kiss because you can. You stretch, wince at the brace, and he pretends not to notice while he shifts the quilt so it doesn’t bite. You sit there a minute, both of you, watching the day admit itself.
“When we go in,” you say, eyes on the cottonwoods so you don’t get spooked by his face, “I want you to tell everyone I’m yours.” His head snaps toward you. You keep going, steady. “We were quiet about this for too long,” you say. “No more. I will kiss you in front of the cameras, and I will kiss you in front of your family-” you glance at him now, a quick, bright strike of a look- “because that means more.” For a second he just looks at you like the sun came up twice. His mouth opens; nothing smart comes out. He blinks hard. He laughs once, breathless, and you hear the edge of a man trying very much not to cry. “You just made me the happiest man on earth,” he says, voice thick enough to plant something in. He cups your jaw, thumbs careful on your cheekbones like he’s memorizing warmth. “God, you did.” You tip forward until your forehead meets his. “Good,” you say, satisfaction and promise in one syllable. “Let’s go make it official.”
He kisses you - nothing showy, just sure - and then hops down to the grass, turning to lift you like he always meant to. You let him, because letting someone love you is work too, and you’ve decided to do it. You straighten your hat. He smooths the line of your braid. The fairy lights flicker out in the growing day. Together, you walk toward the house where coffee and noise and family wait.
The back door gives its soft old sigh as you step in together. Morning has already spread through the kitchen - coffee, toast, the low hum of people who know where everything lives. Cecilia looks up first. Her eyes take in the distance - or the lack of it - between you and Rhett, the way your hands are still linked like you forgot to stage it. Her smile arrives like sunrise. “Oh, honey,” she says, crossing the tile in three steps. “You were always part of this family.” Royal stands, chair legs scuffing. He doesn’t make speeches; he just sets his big palm on your shoulder, squeezes once, and nods to Rhett like a man co-signing a deed. “’Bout time you two quit wasting daylight,” he rumbles. Then, gentler to you, “Coffee?”
“Please,” you say, and the word lands like home. Amy rockets in from the hallway wearing your too-big promo tee and a ponytail that means business. She plants herself in front of Rhett, hands on hips, face serious as a judge. “Uncle Rhett,” she says, “don’t mess this up.” “Amy,” Rebecca warns, fighting a laugh. “No, she’s right,” Perry says, appearing with a jar of jam and a grin that should have its own warning label. He points the spoon at Rhett. “Because if you do, we’ll kick you out of the family and she’ll move in. I will help her hang shelves. I will repaint your room. I will reassign your chores.” “Perry,” Royal says, not quite hiding his amusement. Rhett raises both hands. “Message received.” You lean into his side, bumping him with your shoulder. “I like the shelves,” you tell Perry, deadpan. “And the room.” “See?” Perry crows. “Consensus.”
Rebecca slips a mug into your hand like she’s been saving it for this exact moment - the blue one with the hairline crack no one lets go of because it’s perfect anyway. “You take the corner by the window,” she tells you, quiet and conspiratorial. “Best light.” You tuck against Rhett’s hip and sip. The coffee tastes like home and family and love. Cecelia brushes a crumb from your cheek with the same absent tenderness she uses on Amy. Royal pulls another chair to the table without asking who it’s for. Amy threads herself under your free arm and stays there, proprietary and proud.
Rhett clears his throat, suddenly shy. “We were gonna-” He glances down at you; you tip your chin, go on. He squares up, hand warm at your back. “We were quiet. Too long. So, uh - this is me telling everyone. She’s mine. And I’m hers.” Cecilia’s hand flies to her throat; Royal’s almost-smile becomes the real thing. Amy squeals and claps like a firework in a small room. Perry slaps the counter. “Announced like a gentleman,” he declares. “No notes.”
You turn your face up and kiss Rhett in the kitchen, soft and sure - nothing to prove, everything to keep. Amy spins in a circle like she’s going to take off. Rebecca whoops. Perry stage-whispers, “Somebody get the good jam, it’s a holiday.” Royal murmurs something that sounds a lot like finally and pretends to be very busy with the kettle. Cecilia pulls you into a hug that smells like flour and safety. “You were always ours,” she says into your hair, then leans back to look at both of you. “Now you’re yours, too.”
Amy tugs your sleeve. “Aunt Cricket, can we make pancakes with chocolate chips?” “We can try,” you say, eyes bright, voice steady. “You’re on stirring duty.” “Uncle Rhett,” Amy adds, squinting at him. “Still - don’t mess it up.” “I won’t,” he promises, and the room believes him.
Perry claps his hands once. “Team picture around the griddle,” he commands. “Royal, smile like you own the place. Cece, wield the spatula of destiny. Rebecca, grab the plates. Widow - sorry, Aunt Cricket - apron up. Rhett, get the syrup and try not to cry on it.” Rhett flips him off with the gentlest expression anyone’s ever worn. You catch his hand, lace your fingers, and tug him toward the stove. “C’mon,” you say. “Let’s feed our family.”
The kitchen swells into motion - chairs scoot, butter hisses, laughter sticks to the walls like steam. Rhett looks around at all of it - at you, at your smile going easy, at Amy’s shirt, at his mother’s soft triumph and his father’s quiet pride - and thinks he could live right here forever, in this bright ordinary, with your hand in his and the whole noisy proof of being loved filling the room.
description: in which the feelings you've been running from finally catch up to you one frigid morning
w/c: 7.7k
pairing: thomas keefer x f!reader
warnings: 18+ only, some angst, mentions of grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms (basically: sex as a coping mechanism), minor injuries, mentions of rough sex, unprotected p in v sex, creampie
notes: this is an idea that i used on my old fandom blog, so if you used to follow me there and this fic feels familiar, that is why, lol
🕷️ part of fictober 🕷️
—fictober masterlist | consider supporting me on ko-fi !
It was a glorious winter morning. The cool air bit into your skin the moment you stepped out onto the porch that was connected to the cozy cabin you'd been tucked into for the night. The sun had barely begun to rise, leaving the sky an odd pinkish hue.
Your breath came out before you in white plumes, curling into the air and disappearing thereafter. With a shiver, you leaned up against the sturdy wood railing, woolen blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you gazed upon the beautiful landscape.
It was like something out of a story book. Sparkling snow stretched as far as the eye could see, coating the branches of evergreen trees, creating a fairytale feel. To anyone else, a trip like this one was a fairytale. A romantic tale of two lovers, living a life safe and warm in their quaint little cottage.
But the truth was, this was no fairytale, and you were not in love.
At least, that's what you kept telling yourself.
You weren’t in love with the man currently asleep in the bed you’d spent the night in. In fact, you weren't together at all. You didn't like to dwell on it, for it only gave you a headache and left a bad taste in your mouth. You weren’t supposed to address your feelings, because feelings weren’t meant to be part of the equation.
Months ago, you’d met Lieutenant Thomas Keefer of the US Navy. At the time of your meeting, neither of you had been in a very good place. He was grieving the loss of his father. You were grieving the loss of a long-term relationship that you had been certain would result in marriage.
Two wounded souls found each other one night at a Navy bar. You never frequented such establishments, but your friends had coaxed you to go with them in an effort to lift your spirits. They hadn’t intended to set you up with anyone, so meeting Thomas was purely coincidental. Perhaps it was a cruel twist of fate.
He was at the bar when you came up to order another drink for yourself. A handsome man, sandy brown hair combed neatly to the side, features angular yet soft at the same time. Wide, observant eyes that followed your movements.
Anyone that knew him, knew him as sharp and overconfident. A man who was well aware of his own intelligence, and wasn’t afraid to gloat about it. Yet, now, as he sat hunched over the bar, he looked less than confident and sharp. In fact, he looked just plain sad.
You were drawn to him, against your better judgment. He was a flame, and you were a moth, drawn to the light. One thing led to another, and you were soon telling your friends that you would seek alternative transportation home.
The night ended in Lieutenant Keefer’s bed.
In an attempt to numb the ache, you'd fallen into the sheets together, bodies joined as one. He fucked you hard as fast, and made you forget your own misery, if only for a little while. It should have only been a one-night stand, and at first, it was.
But the day after your night together, you noticed something. He’d sneakily put his number into your phone. And that awakened something within you. All self-control went out the window when it came to him, and you found yourself going against all rational thought as you shot him a text.
You were tangled in his sheets again the following week. And the next. And the next. It wasn’t long before it became a regular thing. You found some sort of fucked up solace in one another. The sex wasn’t kind of gentle. It was rough, intense, the two of you taking out your pain on the other in a deliciously satisfying way.
An attachment had begun to form. Or maybe it was an addiction. For those few short hours spent together, you felt whole again.
Thomas lit you on fire, and the burn was so delicious, you couldn’t get enough. You craved it, lived for it. And so did he. The amount of passion and intensity he experienced with you was unlike anything he'd ever felt in his life. What started as an unbridled lust turned into so much more, and after nearly three months of sleeping together, he found himself developing feelings for you.
That realization was a jarring one, because, as a rule, Thomas didn’t catch feelings. Girls threw themselves at him, and he entertained their advances, spending a singular night with them before he sent them on their way.
For whatever reason, you were different. And you’d made him reconsider his playboy behavior. How could he turn you away like all the other ones? There was something about you that made an odd sort of protectiveness well in his chest.
He didn’t want to hurt you. And certainly not after you had been through so much.
Of course, there was also the comfort he found when he was with you. The sharp, violent ache of grief lessened. It was still there, of course. But it was more bearable. And, foolishly, he leaned into that, and allowed himself to develop a fondness for you.
But you'd told him in the beginning that feelings weren't meant to be caught, that you couldn't deal with another relationship, and if feelings began to form, you would immediately walk away so they couldn't go any further. So, for fear of losing you, Thomas kept his feelings to himself. You were the only thing that made him feel whole, how could he lose you?
You continued on just like you always had. Seeking solace in one another. Nights spent in the warmth of his bed, memorizing one another’s bodies. This went on for quite some time. Months, even. And then, all at once, things came to a halt.
Thomas had to leave. A new deployment, he said. He would be gone for quite some time, which ultimately put your arrangement on hold. You told yourself you were fine with it. That you would be able to deal with it, no problem. He wasn’t your boyfriend, you had no reason to mourn his absence.
And yet, tears streamed down your cheeks as you stood on the docks and watched his ship sail away. Angrily, you wiped them away with the back of your hand. What the hell was wrong with you? Why on earth were you grieving him as if he was your actual partner?
Those months that he was away proved to be the hardest few months you had to go through. And that was certainly saying something, because you had been a mess after the loss of your previous relationship.
His absence made you realize something that terrified you: you were falling in love with him. And try as you might, you couldn’t shove those feelings away any longer. I should have told him. What if he dies out there and I never see him again?
That was your main fear while he was gone. How would you know if something happened to him? You weren’t listed as his emergency contact. You weren’t next of kin. You weren’t anything more than a fuck buddy.
In your heart of hearts, you knew that if he did return from this deployment, you couldn’t let yourself continue this way. Either you had to end things, or admit you were in love. The question was, would you have the courage to do either?
To your relief, he did return home a few months later. A little more weathered than you remembered him, but just as strong and handsome as ever. When he showed up on your doorstep one afternoon, you threw yourself into his arms and held him close.
What followed was the most intense sex you'd ever experienced in your life. It wasn’t rough or punishing, like it had been in the past. No, this time, it was gentle, passionate, beautiful. And you hardly knew how to process it. Clearly, Thomas’s time overseas had rattled him. It had reminded him of what was important to him.
And that night, while you lay in bed, covers draped over your figures as you basked in the afterglow, he felt the need to show you how important you were.
"Let's go somewhere," he spoke into the quietness of the room.
"What do you mean?" Came your inquiry.
"There's a cabin," he continued, "in Colorado. It belongs–belonged– to my dad. It’s pretty nice, he took good care of it. I was already planning to head there because I go on leave here in a couple weeks. Just thought I’d invite you to come."
You looked up at him from where your head rested on his naked chest. "I don't know..."
"It's not like we're moving in together," he continued, "it's just a little getaway. Something we both need."
He was right, after all. You hadn't slept well while he was away. And the thought of a little break from everyday life seemed rather appealing. So, after considering his offer, you decided to accept. "Sure, why not?"
His mouth curved into a pleased smile. “Alright. I’ll take care of plane tickets. You just worry about bringing your pretty little self.”
And so, it was settled.
Two weeks later, you were cozy and warm inside a rental car, the radio playing softly as Thomas drove the long, winding roads. It was late winter, and there was day-old snow covering the ground, sticking to the branches of the trees that lined either side of the road.
When you arrived at the cabin, it looked a lot like something out of a Currier and Ives painting. Entirely unexpected, because when you heard the word cabin, you’d pictured something more primitive. This was not primitive whatsoever.
Once the car was in park, Thomas turned to you, rifling through the keys on his keychain before presenting one to you. "Here," he stated, "you can unlock the house, I'll get our stuff out of the trunk."
You obliged, climbing out of the car and scurrying up the driveway, snow crunching beneath your shoes. Once you reached the porch, you stopped at the heavy wooden front door, sliding the key into the lock and turning it with a satisfying click.
You were met with a quaint, cozy looking interior. A large living room with comfortable furniture, a stone fireplace, an open kitchen off to the side with lots of counter space. You shuddered at the draft running through the house when you stepped in, tugging your coat closer to your body.
Already, you were imagining a warm, roaring fire in the fireplace, creating comforting warmth.
The heavy scrape of boots alerted you to Thomas coming up behind you, bags held in his hands. "Bedroom is this way," he told you, nodding his head in the direction of the large staircase that branched off from the living room.
You quietly followed after him, letting him lead you up the stairs. "We don't have to sleep in the same room," he said, though you both knew you'd end up in the same bed more often than not.
Nonetheless, you put your bags in a separate bedroom, meeting Thomas back in the hallway. His rosy lips curled into that of a smile, and he offered his arm to you. You took it with ease, allowing him to guide you towards the stairs.
"We're gonna have to do some cleaning," he mused, "the house hasn't been used in a while so it needs some TLC."
And so the day commenced. The two of you setting about cleaning the house from top to bottom, keeping one another company. Thomas had dug out a record player that had been stowed away in the closet, placing a vinyl of Talking Heads under the needle.
You were comfortable with around one another, as if you were merely two friends having a good time. But Thomas couldn't help but steal glances at you when you weren't looking. He silently marveled at how beautiful you were. How at ease you looked.
God, he was falling in love with you.
The way you sang along softly to the words of each song, swaying your hips slightly in rhythm with the music. You were busy dusting the fireplace mantle, standing on your tiptoes, your shirt riding up to expose a sliver of your tummy.
Thomas's chest ached as his mind played a sudden image of you bustling around the home you owned together, happy and content. Here he was, already thinking of spending the rest of his life with you. He was in over his head.
In the beginning of this all, he never could have imagined how far this would go, how you would change his life. He'd been the worst version of himself at that time. Plagued with grief, a shell of the man he once was. Inviting you into his bed had been a coping mechanism. An unhealthy one, at that.
For a while, sleeping with you was something to ease the pain, like a drug he’d been prescribed. He kept coming back for more, spending most of his nights wrapped around your body. You made him feel whole, you quelled the emptiness in his bones.
How could he not fall for you?
And now here he was, staring at you with eyes so full of adoration. He had to look away, pushing those thoughts out of his head. What good were they if he couldn't express them to you?
Instead, he forced himself to be in the moment, enjoying your company instead.
Later that afternoon, he took you to the nearest town, where you bought groceries together. A domestic task that made things feel too real. As if he could pretend you were really in a relationship.
Upon arriving back at the cottage, a simple dinner of pasta was made, paired with glassfuls of wine and a roaring fire burning in the fireplace. Warm and half-drunk, you fucked on the floor atop fur rugs, slow and deep, Thomas covering you with his entire body, safe and protected from the outside world.
By the time you were finished, sated and warm, you barely made it up to the bedroom–Thomas’s bedroom, not the bedroom you’d placed your things in–before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. And that's what brought you to the present moment, basking in the dawn of the next day, blanket wrapped around your shoulders as you breathed in the frigid mountain air.
Thomas was still sound asleep last time you checked, passed out in bed with the blankets strewn across his bare body. You'd snagged his shirt from the floor, pulling it on along with your own pants and snow boots, draping a heavy blanket over yourself before stepping outside.
You relished in the alone time, clearing your head and gaining your bearings. Yesterday had been quite the day. You'd spent more time around Thomas than you were used to, and you were overwhelmed.
It wasn't that he made you uncomfortable. Oh no, far from it. In fact, he made you feel safe. He made you feel wonderful. And that was what scared you. You had not felt this way for a long time.
You had sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t get involved in another relationship after the way your last one ended. You needed to spend time on your own. But Thomas was causing you to reconsider that, and you didn't know how to feel about it.
You still had that nagging fear that if you let him in, you would end up hurt and alone again. And you weren't sure you could endure that again.
As you warred within yourself, your deep thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. You turned, finding Thomas standing in the doorway, two cups of coffee in hand. He'd slipped into clean clothes, sweatpants and a waffle knit shirt. He stood there with a broad smile on his face, holding a mug of coffee out to you.
Returning the smile, you stepped towards him, taking the cup from him. "Come inside," he said, "it's freezing out here."
"It's not so bad," you replied with a shrug, though your body betrayed you with a shiver.
"Just get in here," he continued. "I'll make French toast."
“The illustrious Lieutenant Keefer can cook?” You asked in disbelief. In all the mornings you’d spent together, you’d always been the one who made breakfast. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
He grinned. “There are a lot of things I can do. Now, are you gonna come inside or not?”
You shrugged. "I can't say no to French toast." At that, you returned into the warmth of the house, realizing he’d started another fire in the fireplace, which cast an inviting warmth through the cabin.
You took a seat at the island while Thomas sauntered into the kitchen. He set his coffee down before he began rifling through cupboards, in search of ingredients.
“Let's see...where'd you put the cinnamon we bought?” He questioned.
“The spice drawer next to the sink.”
He turned, pulling open the drawer to find that it was indeed there. “Thanks,” he murmured.
A comfortable silence fell over the room as you watched him move about, throwing together ingredients with ease. He looked so beautiful and carefree, in his own element. And in your sleepy state, your mind began to drift, thinking of how he'd be if you were really in a relationship.
“Where's your pretty head at?” Thomas asked when he found you staring off into space.
“My pretty head is thinking about how hungry I am.”
He smirked at that. “Get some plates out of the cupboard, then.”
Happily, you stood, flouncing over to the cupboard that contained all the dishes. Quickly, you retrieved two plates, which you placed on the island. Forks and knives followed, set neatly beside each plate.
“Step aside, ma’am” he spoke up, a pan of French toast in hand. You moved out of his way, letting him plate breakfast up as you took a seat back in one of the barstools. Moments later, the two of you sat with plates full of syrup-soaked toast, powdered sugar dusted on top.
“I was thinking,” Thomas stated after swallowing a sip of his coffee, “we could go on a hike after we eat. I used to hike these woods with my brother when I was little. I think I remember some of the paths we used to take, though I'm betting a lot of it is overgrown by now.”
"I'm up for an adventure," was your reply. It beat sitting in this cabin, being forced to think about your feelings.
At that, he grinned. “Good. Make sure you layer up so you don't freeze.”
You returned the smile. “You bet I will.”
As the morning carried on, and the sun rose further into the sky, you finished breakfast, taking time to clean up the kitchen together before you went your separate ways to change. You bundled yourself up from head to toe, looking rather like a marshmallow than a human.
When you made your way to the front entryway, Thomas paused to laugh, at which you pouted. “You told me to layer up!” You protested, almost falling over yourself as you attempted to put on your boots.
“Hey, I didn't say a word,” he replied, holding his hands up in defense.
“But you were thinking it.” You jabbed a finger in his direction, squinting at him in mock suspicion.
He shook his head. “Come on, let's go, little marshmallow.”
You playfully slapped his arm before you followed him out the door.
Off you went, trekking through the snow. Quite a few inches had fallen the night before, and everything was pristine and bright, fluffy snow mounds just begging to be jumped in. You followed Thomas like an eager child, taking in your surroundings with wide eyes as you ventured into the woods.
From then on out, he recalled stories from his childhood, shenanigans that he and his brother would get up to as they hiked these trails. He grew animated as he told the stories, eyes wide with laughter and nostalgia. He had you laughing along with him, putting you right at ease.
For a few hours, you forgot about your problems. You let yourself relax, enjoying the company of the man beside you. You went on for several miles, across snow and ice, having the time of your life.
“Look,” Thomas suddenly said, stopping you in your tracks and causing you to slam right into him. You looked up at him in annoyance, but he was pointing in front of you. So, you turned your head, catching sight of a beautiful river that sliced through the land.
There were trees dotting its shore, and right between them was a family of deer. A mama and her two fawns. Your lips curled into a smile as you gazed upon the sight. As you shared that quiet moment, Thomas gazed upon you, taking in the way your eyes sparkled in wonder.
You were so beautiful, even now, bundled up to your ears in your winter gear.
And there it was again, that overwhelming ache in his chest. He was falling in love with you. No, not falling. He was in love with you, plain and simple. And he couldn’t deny it any longer.
The words came from his mouth before he could stop them. “I'm so in love with you.” Raw and vulnerable. Now it was out in the open.
But you said nothing.
You’d heard him. Loud and clear, in fact. But instead of replying, you stood there in silence, tensing beneath all the layers of clothing. The quiet was growing deafening, and soon, Thomas sucked in a breath, slowly turning towards you. “I know you heard me.”
You looked down at the ground then, suddenly finding your shoes very interesting. “Yeah, I heard you.”
“Then say something.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I don't know. Maybe say it back? Or tell me how you actually feel?”
“You know how I feel, Tom.”
“Actually, no. I don't. Why don't you enlighten me.” His voice had taken a sudden sharp tone, and you winced, slowly turning to face him.
“In the beginning, I told you I didn’t want feelings getting between us. This isn’t a relationship.”
“But we're as good as in one right now. Taking a vacation together, doing things that couples do like making dinner together and going grocery shopping.”
“It still isn’t a relationship. We're friends with benefits, and nothing more. And don't tell me you love me, because you don't.”
Thomas's eyes widened then, and his mouth came open, irritation darkening his features. “You...you're telling me how to feel?! I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that you could just decide my feelings for me.”
“The last person who told me that ended up leaving in the end. Who's to say you won't be any different?”
“I'd never–”
You held a hand up. “What? 'I'd never hurt you'?. Bullshit. My fiancé said the same thing, and look how that turned out.”
Thomas waved his hands in exasperation. “I’m not him.”
No, he wasn’t. “Tom...I just can't handle another relationship. Not after all I've been through. I...I don't have any more pieces of my heart left to give.”
A look of hurt washed over his face, and you felt a little guilty. “Please.” His voice was soft, uncertain. You weren’t used to seeing him like this. "I never thought I'd be able to feel again. But then you came along, and you changed everything. I want to be with you, to try and make this work. If you give me your heart, I promise I’ll help you put it back together.”
You shook your head at him. “No. I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I'm not ready, and I don't think I'll ever be.” You turned away, readying yourself to begin the trek back to the cabin.
“That's it? You aren't even gonna give me a chance?”
“I said I was sorry.”
Sighing in exasperation, Thomas rushed after you, boots crunching against snow. "But-"
“I want to go home,” was what you finally said, quickening your pace. "This trip was a bad idea. I can't stay here anymore.”
Thomas paused for a split second before dashing to catch up. "Wait!" He exclaimed.
You ignored him, marching away, even as he continued to call after you. So wrapped up in your own emotions, you didn’t realize you were on uneven ground. Before you even realized what was happening, your foot slipped out from under you, and you were free-falling.
A yelp of surprise ripped from your throat as you continued to fall, sliding right down the hill that led into the river. Ice hid beneath the snow, preventing you from stopping your fall, and you had no choice but to let it happen.
The shock that washed over you was immediate and harsh, ice shattering to give way to freezing water beneath. Plunged into the river, your system barely had a chance to register what was happening, bewilderment clouding your brain as you fought to push yourself back to the surface.
The sound of shouting reached your ears, and suddenly, a pair of hands were gripping your arms, yanking you out of the icy depths. “I’ve got you!” Thomas. He’d immediately come to your aid, half stumbling, half sliding down the hill, desperate to get to you.
Moments later, you were sprawled against the frozen riverbank, breathing hard, staring up at the cloudy sky as your lungs fought to suck in oxygen. Thomas’s face appeared in your line of sight, eyes wide, expression frantic.
“Jesus, is anything broken?!” He asked.
Barely able to feel your cold extremities, you replied, “I-I don’t think so.:
“We need to get you home.” There was a frightened edge to his tone. Soaked to the bone, you were in grave danger of developing hypothermia.
He managed to pull you to your feet, and the two of you somehow managed to trudge back up the snowy hill. The cold had already begun to set in, cruel and vicious. Your teeth chattered.
“C’mon, I’ve got you. Just hold onto me, alright?” The raw fear in his voice unsettled you.
The cabin was two miles away, which wasn’t a long trek under normal circumstances, but right now, you were racing against time. He had to get you there.
It was an arduous hike, and with each whimper of pain you let out, Thomas felt his heart breaking. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t opened his big mouth, you wouldn’t have stormed off and ended up plunged into a frozen river.
“C’mon, baby. You can do it, we’ll be there soon,” he urged you, allowing you to rest your weight entirely on him.
“I-I’m so co-cold,” you barely managed yo gasp out. You couldn’t think of anything else but the bitter chill wracking your body, your shivers so violent that they physically hurt. It was unbearable.
“I know. But you gotta keep going.”
By some miracle, you made it back to the cabin, and Thomas practically had to drag you through the door. The moment he had you inside the warmth of the house, he scrambled to get your wet clothing off you.
Yanking his gloves off with his teeth, he set to work, yanking the zipper of your coat down, tossing the offending fabric aside. Then came your gloves, boots, multiple layers of pants, shirt, and, finally, your underwear.
“I’m here,” he promised, “I’ve got you.”
You barely registered him stepping back to grab a blanket off the couch, but seconds later, the warm wool was wrapped around you. Thomas then ushered you toward the living room, guiding you to sit on the couch. Your shivering continued as he hurried to stoke the embers in the fireplace, replenishing them with several logs until the flames grew high once again.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he kept murmuring, quick to yank off his own outer layers, leaving him in his wool sweater and sweatpants. He reached for your face, hands pressed to your cold skin.
“Look at me.”
When you did, he searched your face. “Just stay right here, alright? I’m gonna make you some tea.”
For good measure, he draped another blanket around your shoulders before he rushed into the kitchen to prepare the tea. As he worked, he kept an eye on you from a distance, making sure your condition didn’t worsen. The nearest hospital was thirty minutes away. If he couldn’t get your body temperature regulated, he was going to have to risk the trip into town, and he worried you wouldn’t fare well.
He couldn’t let himself spiral into what-ifs. What if you got worse? What if the damage was already irreparable? What if, what if, what if?
Instead, he threw his focus into making the tea, and a few minutes later, he was at your side again, this time with a hot cup of peppermint tea. He handed it to you, guiding your hands around its warmth.
“There you go. Drink it slowly,” he coaxed as he settled into the couch, directly next to you.
Your body temperature was already slowly beginning to rise, though the bone deep chill you felt was still very present. The tea was a welcome warmth on your tongue, soothing your throat, warming your chest.
When you felt Thomas slide a protective arm around your tense, blanket covered shoulders, you didn’t pull away. In fact, you leaned into him.
He felt absolutely terrible that this had happened, and only wanted to make it better. Holding you was part of that. For several minutes, the living room was silent, save for the sound of the fire crackling and the noise that came from the chattering of your teeth.
Once you’d finished the tea, you leaned back against the couch, haggard and miserable, still shivering.
“I’m going to go look for a hot water bottle, alright? Just sit tight.” When he moved to kiss your temple, you let him.
His search for a hot water bottle was futile. Either there wasn’t one in the house, or it was shoved into a box somewhere in the cellar. He knew the doors would be hopelessly frozen shut, so he didn’t even bother to go outside and check.
Without a hot water bottle to help warm you up, he had to get creative. There was another heat source that would help. Body heat.
Without a word, he rounded the couch once again, resuming his seat beside you. “Couldn’t find a water bottle. Are you alright with some skin to skin? I think it’ll help warm you up.”
Your nod was immediate. At that point, you would do anything to be warm again.
Thomas wasted no time in stripping down to his bare skin, and the second his clothes were discarded, he was pulling you into his lap, parting the blankets so he could wrap them around you both. He gasped softly at the chill of your skin, but remained steady as he tucked you into the warmth of his own body.
“There you go, I’ve got you,” he soothed.
Seeking comfort, you buried your face against the side of his neck, and let him hold you. The whole ordeal had left you shaken and disoriented. The steadiness of his body beneath you was what grounded you.
You stayed like that for a long while, sharing body heat. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat brought you back to yourself, providing immense comfort..
Lovingly, he rocked you back and forth. And after nearly ten minutes had passed, your shivering had stopped almost completely. By that time, you were simply enjoying the feeling of your bare skin against his.
Silence had lingered between you since he’d wrapped you in his body heat, but now, as you regained your composure, and reflected on the events that had led up to this moment, you felt the need to apologize.
“Tom...I'm sorry,” you whispered hoarsely.
He hesitated a moment before gazing down at you, eyes so full of emotion. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that bomb on you. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“No, I overreacted. You were being honest with me, and I should have been respectful of that instead of just walking away.”
Thomas sighed softly. “I overreacted too.”
“Guess we both did, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He fell silent, your bare body still pressed against his, warmth blossoming between you, chasing away the cold. When he spoke again, his voice was wavering and full of emotion. “I meant it when I said I’m in love with you. I know we said we wouldn’t catch feelings when we started all this, but I did. And maybe that means I’m going to lose you, but I needed you to know how I feel.”
A beat passed before you leaned back to look at him fully. “You’re not going to lose me.”
“I’m not?” Hope softened his features.
“No. Because I’m in love you, too.”
In the time that you’d known Thomas Keefer, you had never seen him cry. Yet here he was, eyes welling with unshed tears, disbelief in his expression. “Really?” He breathed, mouth parting slightly.
“Yes. I’ve been in love with you. And I realized it the day you left for deployment. I should’ve said something sooner, but I was scared, I guess. Scared to let myself love again.”
“I get it,” he murmured. “You went through a lot. But I mean it when I say I want to make something out of this. I want to be in a serious relationship with you, if you’ll have me. But we don’t have to rush into it, we can start slow. No pressure, y’know?”
At that, you let out a soft breath, partly in relief, partly in exhaustion. “What if…what if we’re not a good match? We both have awful coping mechanisms, and used each other to get through our own forms of grief. What if that–”
“Don’t start spiraling on me, okay? I’ll say this: I’ve never met anyone like you before. You changed me. I used to be so careless when it came to relationships, I could never commit to anything. But for the first time in my life, I want to commit to something. To you. I think something good can work here. All I ask is for your trust, and I’ll prove to you that I’m in it for the long haul.”
For a moment, you were silent, allowing his words to settle in. There was something so safe about this moment. Here, wrapped in his warmth, with the fire crackling in the fireplace, you were suddenly struck with a moment of clarity.
You needed to give him a chance, but more importantly, you needed to allow yourself a chance to love and be loved again.
You looked into his big, round eyes. So deeply blue, you could drown in them. They were filled with hope and tenderness, and something else. Something precious. Love. That's when you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, sealing your fates together in a delicate kiss.
This was right, this was good. Thomas was offering himself to you, promising to love and cherish you. And somehow, you knew that he was going to keep that promise.
When the kiss was broken, you rested your forehead against his, breathing deeply. Your body trembled all over, but not from the cold this time.
That's when you uttered the word that would change everything. "Okay.”
His face melted into a relieved smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I want to try a relationship with you, and see where things go from here.”
With a low hum, he leaned forward, nose brushing against yours. “I want that too, more than anything.” This time, your kiss held far more passion than the first one. A display of love and desire, warm and intense in all the right ways.
You were suddenly very aware of just how naked you were against him. The intimacy of skin to skin was a beautiful thing, and before this moment, it had not been sexual in nature. But now, something had changed. There was a flame that had been ignited between you.
Now that your feelings were out in the open, your souls bared to one another, there was nothing to hold you back.
Breathlessly, you gasped into his mouth, "make love to me, Thomas."
His hands, big and warm, yet gentle as could be, came to rest upon your hips. “Are you sure?” He didn’t want to overwhelm you after all you had been through that morning.
“Yes. Take me right here, on this couch.”
The desperation in your voice broke what little self-control he had remaining. When he brought you closer, chest pressed against chest, his arms wrapped around your torso, enveloping you entirely. He handled you with a tenderness that hadn’t been there before.
Something had changed between you. This was no longer about chasing a release, or needing a distraction. This was real and raw and vulnerable.
The rhythm of your breath was rushed, chest rising and falling against his as you breathed his name against his mouth. It took great restraint to keep himself composed, forehead pressed against yours. He’d never taken the time to pause and drink you in. Nights spent fucking you in the dark of his bedroom were never like this. Now, you were illuminated by the morning light pouring in through the large living room window, and he swore you looked like an angel.
The look in his eyes was something you’d never forget. Pure, unadulterated reverence, as if he was beholding something holy. You were here, pressed against him, emotion pooling in your eyes.
He kissed you again, slower now, tongue delving into your mouth to taste you. His hand wandered down, fingertips light against the softness of your abdomen. When those same fingers pressed carefully into you, already slick for him, he took pause, searching your face for any sign of hesitance. When he found none, he continued, middle and ring fingers stretching you slightly as they entered in.
The stretch made you gasp, sharp and broken. His body drew taut as he froze, eyes wide and full of concern. Such a contrast to how rough he’d been with you in the past. How rough you’d begged him to be.
“Keep going,” you urged, reassuring him that you were okay, that you wanted this.
His fingers slotted deeper still, curling slightly, until they brushed against that deliciously pleasurable spot inside you that sent you shivering in his arms. Head thrown back, you gasped, and as his fingers moved within you, your hips began to rock against him, eager for more.
Your beauty was breathtaking as you writhed above him, unashamed of your pleasure. He knew he couldn’t draw it out much longer. He needed to be inside you.
When he slid his fingers out of you, you whined lowly at the loss, but he kissed your protest away. “Hold on, baby. I’m gonna give it all to you.”
And he did.
Carefully, he maneuvered you both so that you were on your back, still cocooned in blankets. Hovering over you, his eyes glimmered, mouth curving into a fond smile as he leaned down to nuzzle his nose against yours.
Then his hand was snaking down between your bodies, hand wrapping around his hardness, aligning himself with you.
When he pushed inside, your mouth fell open, lashes fluttering at the feeling. Unlike the stretch his fingers had caused, this was different. More breathtaking. The slight pinch of your anatomy accommodating him was a welcome sort of pain.
He shuddered, breathing ragged as he inched into you little by little, until he was fully seated inside you. The intimate closeness, the press of skin against skin, stole the breath from your very lungs.
Time passed by, slow as molasses, but he didn’t move. Not yet. He merely held you to him, his forehead pressed to shoulder, breathing in deeply as he gave you time to adjust around him. When you finally shifted beneath him, urging him to move, he groaned open-mouthed against your skin and finally, finally, began to move.
It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, even, careful. The steady push and pull took your breath away as his hips rolled into yours. Pathetically, you moaned into his mouth, tongue tasting him as your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer.
You were one. One body, one soul, tethered together.
Brokenly, he sighed your name into your mouth. His control, his poise, was gone. He trembled above you, nearly losing himself. When his hand sought yours, you let him hold onto it, bringing it to pin above your head. Not harshly. His grip was light, you could pull away from it if you wanted to. But you didn’t.
“Oh, oh Thomas, you…you feel so good,” came your whispered confession.
His response was a deeper, more deliberate thrust that sent you crying out into the heady warmth of the room.
Your chest heaved against his, breath coming out in short bursts, heart racing within your chest. Instinctively, your body arched into his, molding against him like a missing piece to a puzzle. Your hips bucked, and you tightened around him.
His body trembled with the effort of keeping himself under control.
Crescents were pressed into his skin as your free hand found purchase against his shoulder, and you saw stars as he thrust deeper. “Please stop! Don’t ever stop!” You wailed, entirely gone, pleasure clouding your brain, stealing away all coherent thought.
Thomas groaned openly, eyes nearly rolling back in his head. “I won’t. Oh, god, I won't,” he rasped.
The kiss was filthy, salacious. Tongue and teeth, wet and hot, smearing across each other’s mouths. You drank each other in, swallowing moans and gasps, committing each other to memory.
When his free hand came down between your thighs, it was to press his fingers against your swollen little bundle. You whimpered, a pitiful sound that he adored.
“I can feel you. You’re so tight, baby. You gonna come for me?” He coaxed, though his voice trembled.
Dumbly, you nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“That’s it. Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over me.”
Perhaps it was his command that did it. Or maybe it was everything, all of him, all at once. Either way, the release hit you so hard and fast you hardly realized it was happening until it was upon you.
It vibrated through you, searing, all-consuming, robbing you of your breath as you clawed at his back. Mouth open, head thrown back, you convulsed in his arms. It was too much and not enough, all at once.
Thomas gasped, mouth falling open at the feeling of you clenching around him, so tightly he could barely move. But he didn’t let that stop him. Determined, he shunted his hips against you, harder, faster, deeper, even as you cried out beneath him, still trembling from the aftershocks of your own release.
“Hold on, I-I’m almost there,” he soothed, kissing you deeply.
And then he was done for. The sound that ripped itself from his throat was raw and broken, his rhythm stuttering as he pressed into you as deeply as he could go. The warmth of him seeped inside you, release flowing freely. So much so that it soon began to spill out around the edges of his cock, surely creating a mess.
Twitching weakly, his body soon settled against yours, his chest heaving, mouth hot and open against the hollow of your neck.
For quite a while, neither of you moved. He remained within you, softening slowly, your shared releases dripping slick and viscous. As you both came down, settling into the afterglow, your hand moved to his hair, fingers threaded through honeyed strands, nails gently scratching at his scalp.
A strange, but welcome, sense of peace washed over you both, even as the realization of what had just happen settled between you.
When he lifted his head, his face hovered above yours, eyes shining with unspoken emotion. You met him halfway, lips capturing his in a sweet, loving kiss that took his breath away.
When he eased himself out of you, he soothed your quiet whimper, soon settling beside you, pulling you toward his chest. He was increasingly grateful that the living room couch was so spacious. It gave him ample room to cradle you close.
The winter chill had long since been chased out of the room, replaced by a delightful warmth that bore the faint scent of sex. Blankets surrounding you both, you found yourself curling into him, sated and at peace.
“I’m sorry we didn’t resolve things sooner,” he finally spoke, breaking the silence. “Could’ve saved ourselves a lot of heartache.”
But you only shook your head, leaning in to brush your nose against his. “We weren’t ready yet.” But you were now. Ready to let him in, ready to love and be loved.
With a quiet hum, Thomas reached out, knuckles brushing over your warm cheek. There was something in his eyes. Soft and open, unguarded. “When you fell into the river…it scared me more than I want to admit. It made me realize that I don’t want to go another day without loving you. Life’s way too short not to be honest with the person you care about.”
Your head came to rest within the slope of his neck. “Well here I am, all yours to love.”
His lips pressed against your temple, warm and soft. “All mine. I like the sound of that.”
A soft yawn passed over you as you nuzzled further into his warmth. “Yeah. Me too.”
In the late morning light, exhausted from the ordeal you had endured, you began to drift to sleep. Thomas held you fast, steady and secure, your bodies wound together, until sleep claimed you both.
You were his. He was yours. And you were finally ready to take that step of faith and let yourself experience love again.
Summary: You and Rhett have been friends with benefits ever since the both of you drunkenly hooked up one night after a few too many drinks, but when you start becoming the failsafe when other girls cancel on him, and you begin to feel used, the friendship starts to crumble.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst (lot’s of it), Miscommunication Trope/Unspoken Feelings Trope?, Alcohol Consumption, Friends with Benefits to Lovers trope, Rhett and Reader are both emotionally constipated as well, and Rhett is depicted to hookup with a lot of women (though we do not see it, it’s mentioned)
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk, Spitting/Drool, Biting, Scratching, Marks are left, Nipple/Breast Play, Choking (lightly), Hair Pulling (light), Semi-Public Sex, Rhett is kind of dominant in this, Praise Kink, Grinding, Handjob, Spanking, Use of Good Girl
Author’s Note: Good God, writing this partly on the bus was a god damn nightmare lol but I hope y’all enjoy! <3 Sorry for the late update, it was chaos today!
Word Count: 17,384
It started with a rainstorm and a pack of beer.
You and Rhett had planned for a night out–the easy kind that the both of you typically gravitated towards. A couple of bars, maybe some horribly executed pool games with jukebox music humming under the buzz of your conversations. But halfway to picking you up, the weather had decided to flip those plans on its head. The first drops tapped at his windshield like a warning, and within minutes, the sky cracked open. The rain came in thick pelting sheets, blurring the world into smears of gold from the street lamps, with water gushing along curbs, and wipers scraping at full speed to keep the glass clear–even though there really wasn’t any use.
You had never liked going out in weather like this–not out of fear of course, it was just a little bit of rain, but it was more because of the mess that came afterward. Damp jeans, boots caked in mud, soaked hair, and sticky skin. And the inevitable guilt of calling Perry to haul Rhett and you home if the both of you overdid it. Which often happened when the both of you went out together, because there was something about being in each other's company that made the hours slip away unnoticed and the beer refills blur into a haze of multiple glasses.
So when those first droplets hit glass, Rhett didn’t hesitate to pivot your plans. He turned off the main road and ducking into a nearby gas station, with the rain hammering the tin awning above the pumps. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old coffee and freezer coolant. He had grabbed a six-pack from one of the fridges, the cardboard cold and slick against his palm as he paid and rushed back to his truck to make his way to your place. He had checked his phone to see if you had messaged but there wasn’t anything from you, or from any of his girls that assumed his night would be free for him to come over–which was a relief.
He drove slowly down the rain-slicked road, with the tires hissing against the water that pooled in shallow dips along the asphalt. The wipers kept their steady, rhythmic scrape, but the storm blurred the world into shifting shadows and the soft gold that scattered over the droplets from the streetlamps that he drove beneath.
Your street curved off from the main road, it was narrower and lined with a few old trees that bowed under the weight of the downpour, their leaves trembling with every gust of wind. The gravel driveway to your place was a little muddy, with puddles gathering in the ruts, but as he eased the truck in, the headlight steeped over the pale shape of your bungalow–small, a little weathered, but warm-looking against the storm.
The siding had been painted white years ago, but in the rain it gleamed silver, beads of water were chasing each other down toward the flowerbeds you’d let go wild this season. A single porch light glowed amber, catching the slick shine of the wooden steps and the faint sway of the two mismatched rocking chairs you had thrifted from a yard sale last spring that you had begged Rhett to carry. The porch roof kept the worst of the rain off them, but he couldn’t help but smell the damp scent of wet wood, and warmed soil.
Rhett parked beside the steps of the porch, killed the engine, and grabbed the six-pack from the passenger seat. The cardboard was already damp from the rain, but the cold glass of the bottle bit into his fingers as he exited the cab and jogged up the steps. The sound of rain on the roof almost deafening him now that he was up close. He gave three quick knocks before pushing the door open, knowing you never locked it–which was something he had given you grief over more than once.
”Y/N! It’s just me,” He called, stepping inside.
The shift in temperature was immediate, as the warmth of your place wrapped around him like a blanket. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and butter–like something had just been baking recently–layered over the softer, constant scent that he could only describe as you…Sweet cotton, almost close to candy, he never could put his finger on what it was that you used that made you smell this way, but he knew that you carried it everywhere you went. The living room opened right from the door, cozy and mismatched which always made him feel like he had stepped into somewhere safe. The honeyed wood floors creaked faintly under his boots, a faded quilt was tossed across the back of the corduroy couch, and the coffee table you owned was scattered with paperbacks and a couple of half-melted candles that you lit whenever someone was over. The rain outside made the light inside feel richer, and the golden glow from your floor lamp pooled warmly across the room.
From the kitchen, he heard the faint clink of glass on your counter before you appeared. Your oversized t-shirt hung loose over your frame, the thin cotton dipping off one shoulder and brushing high on your thighs. Beneath it, he caught the outline of soft, pale shorts when you moved. Your hair was a bit messy, and your skin had a slight sheen that told him you had been near the heat of the stove–or you were washing dishes.
When your eyes landed on him, then on the six-pack in his hand your mouth curved into that slow, easy smile he had always liked a little too much.
”Oh, you know me so well, Abbott,” You complimented, padding toward him, your bare feet sticking against the hardwood, “And…You got my favourite.” You joked, taking the pack of beer from his hands. The cardboard bent against your nimble fingers, as beads of condensation began to run down over your knuckles, dripping onto the floor. Rhett’s grin deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
”I knew you wouldn’t have wanted to go out,” He commented, voice warm and low over the soft percussion of rain against the roof, “So I figured we might as well make the most of it…And we won’t have to call Perry.” You huffed out a little laugh as you turned back toward the kitchen, hips swaying a bit, drawing Rhett’s eyes to the hem of your shirt, right where the skin of your thighs disappeared beneath the fabric.
“That’s true. I don’t think he would be a happy camper if he had to drag his ass out of bed to come get us in this weather.” You replied, while ripping open the cardboard. Rhett shrugged out of his jacket and hung it carefully by the door, the thud of his boots following closely behind as he stepped out of them, placing them on the mat so the water wouldn’t bleed into the wood. Droplets of water still clung to the ends of his pushed back, light brown hair, darkening it slightly, while a few of them tracked down the line of his neck and disappeared into the collar of his shirt.
You walked over to him, handing one of the dark brown bottles over, keeping one for yourself. You clinked glasses.
”To staying in,” You said, and the corners of his mouth twitched again–like he liked the sound of the idea more than he should’ve.
The evening settled into the easy cadence you’d known for years. The couch’s corduroy fabric was warm beneath you, the quilt tucked around your legs as the two of you swapped stories about the week. Every so often, you’d glance at the window, the rain blurring the outside world into shadow and streaks of light.
At some point, you flipped through the channels until you landed on a movie you’d both seen before. By then, you were each three beers in, the bottles standing like little sentinels on the coffee table. You shifted closer to him, drawn by the heat rolling off his body, and the faint scent of cedar and rain that was still clinging to him, creating this nice little bubble of warmth around him. His arm slipped over your shoulders easily–without a hint of discomfort–the weight of it was solid and familiar, but the slow drag of his thumb against your arm wasn’t–at least not in the way it felt tonight, especially with how it made you feel like he was causing heat to spread all over your skin any time he moved.
About halfway through the film, something between the both of you shifted. You couldn’t pin down what it was or how it happened–maybe it was the low buzz of alcohol, or the fact you hadn’t been touched in a month, or the way his laugh seemed to curl low in your stomach tonight, making it do somersaults in on itself. Whatever it was though, it coiled in the space between you, threading heat into every brush and every breath either one of you took.
You shifted against him slightly, a subtle movement that felt like more than just comfort-seeking. It was as if your body was testing the limits of how close you could get without it being obvious–though Rhett noticed, even if he didn’t catch on right away.
Your eyes began to wander, becoming hyperaware of him in a way you hadn’t been in years–maybe ever. Beneath the thin white cotton of his t-shirt, you could see the shadowed shape of his dark bull rider tattoo pressed faintly against the fabric, the ink stretching and shifting with each slow breath he took. The shirt clung in places where the rain from earlier still lingered in the fibers, outlining the lean muscle earned from long hours of ranch work–shoulders that rolled easy when he leaned back, and arms corded with slight definition from roping, hauling, and riding.
His chest rose and fell with the kind of measured slowness that came when he was comfortable, but you could see the faint tension in his posture now, the way the muscles along his side pulled under his shirt. Your gaze drifted downward almost without your permission, catching on the pale stretch of skin peeking out from where his t-shirt had ridden up throughout the night. It was warm-toned from the summer sun, faintly freckled, with a few light brown hairs that stopped just above the waistband of his jeans. The sight made something in your stomach pull tight, and your fingers itched with the ridiculous urge to touch it–just to see if the skin there felt as warm as it looked.
While you were busy taking him in, Rhett was doing the exact same to you. His gaze kept dropping to your mouth, lingering there longer than he should have, tracing the curve and fullness of your lips like he was memorizing them for his dreams. Then his eyes flicked lower, catching the edge of bare skin where the wide neck of your shirt had slipped further down, exposing the slope of your shoulder and the soft line of your collarbone. His thumb brushed over your arm again, and this time he noticed–really noticed–the smoothness of your skin under his fingertips, and the way it seemed to almost hum with heat.
Something in him twisted hard, and he didn’t know what to call it. Lust, maybe. Or the realization that he had wanted you far more than he had ever let himself admit, and now the moment was just…Here, pressing itself into the quiet space between you.
For half a second, he honestly wondered if he had fallen asleep during the movie and was dreaming the whole thing. Because you–warm against him, smelling faintly of that sweet cotton scent he could never quite place–felt too much like something he had made up in his head on long, restless nights. And if it was a dream, then it was cruel in how vivid it was–the heat of you seeping into him, the soft give of your body under his arm, the subtle weight of your hair brushing his shoulder…It was tortuous in a way.
Your fingers had begun to trace lazy, aimless paths over the soft cotton of his shirt, following the dips and curves of his ribs without really thinking about it. But when your gaze slid up, locking on his face–so close now you could count every little faded freckle, and every dark lash that framed that impossible shade of blue of his irises you knew the air between you had truly changed for good.
The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, heavy with the yeasty smell of beer and a very light tracing of mint–something that was distinctly Rhett in every way, and it made your pulse stutter in your throat. You’d never been this close to him without some joke between you, without the shield of playful distance, but now…Now there was nothing to hide behind. It was just the two of you with the movie echoing in the background and the pelting of rain echoing throughout the room.
His eyes flicked down to your lips–it was quick, but enough to be noticeable and send a hot flush racing up the back of your neck. Your throat went dry, and the words you had been half-forming crumbled before they could escape out between the both of you.
He didn’t seem to be having the same problem though. His voice broke the thick, molten silence, low and edged in silk–something that was unmistakable, “What’re you lookin’ at with all that lust?”
The deep rumble of his words vibrated under your hand where it rested against his chest, sending a little shiver through you. And when his other hand found the small of your back, rough fingers splayed wide and warm through the thin cotton of your shirt, it felt less like an idle touch and more like a quiet claim. Your lips parted, and the simplest truth slipped out before you could second-guess it.
”I’m looking at you…” You replied. His brow twitched, not in disbelief, but like the words hit somewhere just beneath his sternum, kick starting his heart, making it thump just a little harder. The corner of his mouth lifted slowly, and his thumb began to lazily drag against your back, each stroke coaxing you closer without actually pulling you toward him.
“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in just a hair, enough that his nose nearly brushed yours, “And what exactly do you see, hm?” You swallowed hard, the golden lamplight catching in his hair, throwing warm glints over the drops still clinging there. You didn’t answer right away–maybe because you were still trying to remember how to breathe, or maybe because you were thinking about how easy it would be to just close the space and press your mouth to his.
His tongue swept slowly over his bottom lip, the subtle movement catching the lamplight in a way that made your throat tighten, and your stomach turn. You followed the motion without meaning to, your eyes locked there as if you could feel the damp trace from across the breath of space. His hand left your back, his warm fingers trailing upward until they curled gently around the back of your head, fingertips disappearing into your hair. The weight of his touch was deliberate–not forceful, nor hesitant–just enough to keep you a mouth away.
A small, crooked smirk tugged onto your lips, and you lifted your head ever so slightly.
”I see a cowboy who looks like he’s about to kiss me,” You murmured, you sounded so daring in those moments even though your mind was screaming at you to retreat. You didn’t understand what was coming over you, but when you heard him let out a low, amused huff, you thought he was going to pop the bubble of sweetness and flirtation, to reveal the truth of what was happening. But then he smiled a bit.
”Guess I shouldn’t keep you waitin’, then.” Before you could say another word he leaned in, closing the final inch of space with a slow, certain press of his lips to yours. It was small, almost tentative at first–like he was tasting the moment before fully committing–but the warmth of it seeped into you instantly, stealing the air from your lungs. His lips were soft but sure, the faint drag of stubble brushing your skin, and the heat of his breath spilled into the little space between kisses as he pulled back just far enough to search your face for any sort of hesitance. Your lips parted, your chest rising and falling faster than you wanted to admit.
Your gaze broke from his briefly, as you swallowed, the motion tight in your throat, and then surged forward again–closing the gap on your own terms this time. Your lips met his more firmly, your nose brushing his as you shifted closer, the fabric of your shirt whispering against his when your body pressed to his chest.
His hand at the back of your head flexed slightly, deepening the kiss, and you felt a low, involuntary sound rumble out of him–half a groan, half a sigh, muffled between your mouths. The sound alone made your skin prickle with heat. You moved without thinking, your knee brushing his thigh as you shifted until you could climb onto his lap. The couch dipped under the change in weight, your thighs bracketing his hips. The position pulled you closer still, the press of your bodies aligning so that you could feel every slow inhale he took.
The kiss turned molten without either of you meaning to–it was still slow, but deeper now, lips parting slightly, the faint taste of beer lingering as your tongues brushed in a fleeting, electric touch. His thumb stroked the nape of your neck as he kissed you again and again, each one lingering just long enough to make the next feel inevitable.
Your hips rolled in a slow, deliberate drag against him, the rough denim of his jeans catching just enough against the center of your shorts to make your breath stutter. Beneath you, you felt him–hardening against the press of your body–and the small, needy sound that escaped you was matched perfectly by a low groan from his chest. The two of you broke apart for just a second, panting lightly against each other's lips. His blue eyes locked on yours, heavy-lidded and heated, before his mouth curved in a knowing smirk.
”You like how that feels?” He murmured, you breath hitching in your throat as you reached up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing lightly along the warm stubble on his cheeks, feeling the subtle flex of his jaw beneath your touch, “You like what you’re doin’ to me?” He added, his words edged with that lazy, dangerous drawl that always managed to tangle something deep inside you.
Before you could answer, he leaned up, pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw–right where your pulse jumped against him. Your breath caught, and your spine arched as you tilted your head back, baring your neck to him in a wordless invitation.
”Didn’t know I wielded so much power over Casanova Abbott,” You teased, your voice breathy despite the playful lilt. You felt his lips curl into a smile against your skin, the faint tickle of his breath before his teeth grazed you with a teasing nip at the column of your throat.
”I’m a simple man,” He mumbled into you, his words vibrating against your flesh. A soft laugh escaped from your mouth, though it dissolved into a shiver as your fingers slid into his light brown strands of hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. You rocked your hips forward again, harder this time, pressing yourself more firmly against him. The friction made both of you gasp, his hands gripping your hips for a moment as if to steady himself before they began to wander.
His mouth trailed lower, following the path your shirt left bare–placing kisses that were wet and slow, lips brushing over the slope of your shoulder before dipping lower to catch the top edge of your collarbone between his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. He licked over the spot to soothe it, the heat of his mouth branding your skin as his hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.
His calloused fingertips grazed your ribs first, feather-light, tracing upward until they flattened against the warm skin of your back. He pulled away just enough to meet your gaze, the heat there flickering with something softer–checking in, giving you the chance to stop this if you wanted to. Thinking that maybe you would come to your senses.
”Can I take this off?” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. You didn’t hesitate, nodding immediately.
”Yeah,” You breathed. His hands squeezed your sides, before shimmying the shirt upward with slow, careful movements, his knuckles grazing the sides of your breasts as the fabric rose. The way his gaze never left your face made the air feel even heavier between you.
The shirt cleared your head in one smooth motion, the soft cotton tossed carelessly to the side. His eyes dropped instantly, and for a moment, he just looked at you.
The warm lamplight painted your bare skin in gold, making the gentle curves and lines of your body look almost unreal. His gaze caught on your breast–supple and full, the cool air in the room having already drawn your nipples tight. They strained for attention, and the sight made something low in his throat break free, a sharp swallow following as if he was trying to find a little bit of self control before touching you.
His hands came up first, broad and calloused, tracing lightly over the soft swell of each breast. His fingertips skimmed over the sensitive peaks, just enough to make goosebumps race across your skin. You shivered, arching subtly into the warmth of his touch, a quiet hum escaping you as his thumbs brushed slowly back and forth over your hardened nipples.
”Rhett…” You breathed.
”That’s it…” He murmured, the praise almost to himself, “Lookin’ so fuckin’ perfect for me.” He slid his hands down from your breasts to your hips, his palms heavy and warm as they settled just above the waistband of your black cotton shorts. His thumbs pressed in gently, coaxing your body forward. You obeyed without thinking, rolling your hips against him, dragging yourself over the thick ridge in his jeans. The movement pulled a deep groan from him, his eyes flicking back up to yours with a heat that made your stomach tighten.
Then he leaned in.
His tongue swept slowly across one taut nipple, warm and wet, and the sudden contrast from the cool air made your breath catch. His mouth closed over you fully, sucking deep until his lips pulled at you with an obscene wet sound. A soft gasp escaped your throat, your head tipping back slightly as his tongue worked against you, swirling and lapping before dragging over the peak in slow, deliberate circles. When his teeth caught gently, nipping just enough to send a quick sting through you, you jolted and gripped him tighter–one hand tangled in the back of his hair, tugging until he groaned around you, the other anchoring at the strong side of his neck.
“Fuck–” He breathed against you, hot and wet, “ Could stay here all night.” His voice vibrated through your chest as he sucked again, harder this time, pulling another sharp gasp from your lips. His spit was already slicking your skin, drooling past the swell of your breast as he pulled off just to lick it back up. Then he moved to the other, his mouth closing over it immediately, sucking until his cheeks hollowed. The wet sound was filthy in the quiet room, made filthier by the faint moan that broke free from your throat.
“Look at you rockin’ against me like you can’t help yourself,” He rasped between sucks, guiding your hips with firm pressure from his hands. “Gettin’ me harder with every fuckin’ move.”
You ground into him harder, hips rolling in a rhythm he set with the push and pull of his hands on your sides. His mouth never stopped–licking, sucking, letting his spit drip and smear until your nipples were slick and shining in the lamplight. Every time he nipped, he soothed after, lapping gently with his tongue, murmuring low, ragged praise against your skin. Your grip on his hair tightened with every wave of heat that shot down your spine, and his head tilted into your pull like he craved it, groaning into your chest.
His hands slid down from your sides, palms spreading wide as they cupped over the curve of your ass. The hardness of his grip was almost searing, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. He squeezed then shifted you against the unyielding line of his cock again. The movement wrung a sound from you that was half gasp, half moan, your thighs tightening instinctively around his hips. The rough denim caught against you in just the right way, sending little shocks up your spine.
“Rhett…” You breathed, but it came out sounding more like a plea than you intended.
He groaned low in his chest, still working you over him with steady pressure, his mouth dragging hot and wet over the tops of your breasts before he pulled back just enough to look at you.
Something bold sparked in your voice before you could stop it–words spilling out in a low, breathless tone. “If you’re trying to ruin me, cowboy, you’re doing a damn good job.” His brows ticked up, the corner of his mouth curling into that dangerous, knowing smirk you’d seen when he was about to win a bet. He gave your ass another squeeze, leaning in so his voice hit low against your ear.
“Is that what you want? Hmm?” He murmured. You nodded immediately, not trusting your voice, the need clawing up your throat too strong to disguise. That was all it took. He stood, shifting his weight so easily it was like you weighed nothing, then adjusted until your back hit the couch cushions. The quilt beneath you bunched slightly, the fabric warm from where you’d been sitting together.
Rhett’s gaze dropped as he reached down between your legs. The heel of his hand pressed first, then his fingers followed, rubbing over the damp patch already soaking through your shorts. The contact made your hips jerk without permission, your breath hitching hard.
“Didn’t know you were so sensitive…” He drawled, his voice low and edged in heat. His fingers worked a little harder over the wet fabric, the friction maddening. “You always get this wet when I’m close to you? Or is this all from grindin’ on me like the needy girl you are?” You arched your back a little more, your head tipping back into the cushion as heat pooled hot and insistent between your legs with the pressure he was placing against your core.
“Don’t tease me, Rhett…” You shot back, your voice breaking just enough to make his smirk widen.
That toothy grin appeared, wicked and smug, before he murmured, “Whatever you say.”
In one swift motion, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugged them down, peeling the fabric away from your thighs before tossing them off to the side. The cool air hit your skin, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the molten weight of his gaze.
He shifted lower, pressing his broad shoulders behind your thighs to push them up and open until you were spread wide for him. His eyes drank you in–every inch, every detail–like he’d been starving for the sight.
The first kiss landed just above your hipbone. The next pressed into the soft skin of your inner thigh. He worked his way in with maddening patience, his mouth warm, lips soft but purposeful. Every place he touched was everywhere but where you needed him most. Your hips shifted restlessly under him, trying to angle yourself toward his mouth, chasing the heat of his lips. When he still didn’t give you what you wanted, your hand slid down, threading into his hair with a firmer grip.
“Rhett…” You warned, tugging until his head tipped back just enough for your eyes to meet. “I said don’t tease.” He let out a small, breathy laugh, the kind that sent a ripple of anticipation through your body.
“Okay…Okay,” He said, voice dipping into something rougher. “I won’t tease anymore.” The moment the words left his mouth, Rhett sank lower, dragging the heat of his breath over the bare skin between your thighs before pressing his mouth to you like he’d been starving for it. There was nothing tentative about it–his lips sealed over you, tongue pushing deep through your folds before flattening and dragging upward in a slow, filthy stroke that had your hips jolting up from the couch cushions.
“Fuck…” You hissed, your voice sharp and breathless as your fingers fisted in his hair.
Rhett groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your swollen clit as his tongue swept another hard circle over it, then dipped down again to lap messily at the slick heat pouring out of you. He didn’t care about finesse–he wanted you to soak him, wanted to drown himself in your taste. Every wet lick and suck came with a deep, hungry noise that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were.
“Goddamn, you taste good,” He rasped against you before sealing his mouth over your clit again, sucking until your thighs twitched against his ears. “Don’t you fuckin’ move–lemme eat you like I’m supposed to.” Your hips had a mind of their own, rocking up into his face, chasing the obscene slick sounds between you. He met you with equal force, tongue pushing harder, nose brushing your mound as he buried himself deeper, one arm locked under your thigh to keep you open for him. His other hand pressed firmly into the top of your hip, guiding your rhythm so you ground against his mouth exactly how he wanted.
You could barely get the words out between shaky breaths. “Rhett…Fuck…You’re so good at that–oh, my god–” That earned you another low, pleased groan that thrummed against your clit, his tongue circling and flicking with a fervor that had your vision hazing at the edges. Your hand clenched tighter in his hair, pulling, but he only groaned louder, sucking harder like your desperation was the fuel he needed.
Then his free hand left your hip, sliding down between your legs. Two thick, calloused fingers pressed to your entrance, stroking through the mess he’d made before pushing into you, slow but firm until you clenched around the intrusion.
“Jesus–look at that,” He muttered against you, his voice rough and muffled by your skin. “So fuckin’ tight for me, drippin’ all over my face. You like that? Like my fingers inside you while I eat your pretty pussy?” A choked moan ripped out of you as he curled those fingers just right, his tongue still working relentless circles over your clit. Your hips rolled up helplessly into him now, the wet slap of his mouth on you obscene, your arousal slicking down his chin and over his knuckles as he pumped into you. Your thighs started to tremble. Your breath came in sharp, high whines. You were twitching under him, barely able to keep your body still.
“Rhett…Holy fuck, I’m gonna cum,” You gasped, your voice breaking as your nails dug into his scalp.
“Yeah, you are,” He growled, sucking harder and curling his fingers again, stroking deep and fast as your body seized up around him. “Cum for me, make a fuckin’ mess all over my mouth.” It hit you fast, heat detonating in your core before ripping outward, your back arching off the couch as you cried out. Your thighs clamped around his head, but Rhett didn’t slow–if anything, he groaned into you, dragging his tongue through the pulsing ache and sucking you through every aftershock.
When you finally started to come down, shaking and gasping, he didn’t stop until he’d licked up every bit of slick he could get from you. His mouth was wet and shiny, chin slick, lips swollen as he pulled his fingers free and shoved them between his own lips. He sucked them clean, groaning low in his throat at the taste.
“Been missin’ out on this the whole time?” He murmured, smirking as he licked his bottom lip. “Should’ve done this sooner.”
You didn’t even think–you reached straight for his belt, yanking it open with a clink, dragging the zipper down as his cock strained visibly against the dark denim. He helped, shoving his jeans down his hips with quick, impatient tugs, and peeled his shirt over his head in the same movement.
The lamplight caught on his skin, painting lean muscle in gold. You’d seen him shirtless before, but not like this–not with his chest flushed and rising fast, freckles scattered across his shoulders, the deep shadows of muscle carved from work and riding. Your eyes dragged lower, catching the obscene outline straining against his boxer briefs, and your mouth went dry with want. All you wanted was to get your hands on him.
He leaned over you, bracing one palm beside your head as the other cupped your jaw, his lips brushing along your neck in a slow, hungry trail. His mouth found yours again, wet and deep, his taste mingling with your own as you slid your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.
You wrapped your fingers around him–hot, thick, and pulsing hard in your palm–and felt him groan into your mouth, his hips jerking forward into your grip like he couldn’t help it.
Your hand worked around him in a slow, deliberate stroke, your palm fitting perfectly around the thick weight of him. He was hot and hard, the velvet skin stretched tight over his erection, pulsing faintly in your grip. You felt him twitch when you tightened your fingers just a little, your thumb grazing along the ridge before gliding up to smear the bead of pre-cum over the flushed tip. Rhett broke from your mouth on a groan, his forehead tipping briefly to yours.
“Not fair that you get to tease and I can’t…” He breathed, voice gravel and heat. You hummed in mock sympathy, letting your lips brush his in a soft, teasing kiss.
“It’s payback, actually.” Your voice was low, almost smug, even as your hand gave another languid twist at the top, thumb dragging in slow circles across the sensitive head. His jaw flexed, his breath hitching when you squeezed him again.
“You’re fuckin’ killin’ me, Y/N.” You let the teasing drag on for one more slow stroke before your fingers hooked under the waistband of his boxer briefs. You pushed them down over his hips, the elastic snapping lightly against his skin before he took over, shoving them the rest of the way down and kicking them off. They landed somewhere on the floor with his jeans, forgotten.
His erection pulsed, the head red and swollen like it was begging to be seated inside you. He was huge, and you were kind of pleased that the rumors were true, even though you never really paid attention to them. Rhett had got around with a lot of people who mingled within your social circles, so it wasn’t much of a surprise seeing that he was this big.
He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the armrest above you, while his other cupped your jaw again, kissing you deeply–open-mouthed and messy, like he couldn’t get enough. While his tongue slid against yours, he released your jaw and let his hand drop between you, curling around his cock to guide himself.
You felt the blunt, hot head drag between your folds, the slick heat of you coating him instantly. He moved slowly at first, gliding along your clit before dipping down to your entrance, pressing in just enough to make you gasp before sliding back up to tease you again. Your eyes locked on his, your breath catching when he did it a second time
”Rhett…” You breathed, your voice somewhere between a plea and a warning. He smirked faintly, his forehead pressing to yours.
“You’re so fuckin’ turned on,” He rasped, dragging through your one more time before lining himself up properly, “Want you to look me in the eyes while I’m inside you, Y/N.” You held his gaze, feeling the stretch start as he pushed in. He sank deep in one slow, steady thrust until his hips met yours, filling you completely. The heat and size of him stole your breath, your nails already digging lightly into his shoulders.
“Fuck–” You gasped, your voice breaking. “You feel so good, Rhett…Filling me up like this.” He groaned low in his chest, his arm sliding beneath your neck to cradle you, holding you close as he pulled out and thrusted back in hard. The sound of your bodies meeting echoed under the steady drum of rain outside, joined by the mingled moans spilling from both of you.
You scratched down his back in a slow drag, your nails leaving faint, stinging trails that made him grunt against your ear. His mouth found your collarbone, biting down just enough to make you gasp before sucking over the sting, his breath hot against your skin.
“Take it, Y/N.” He muttered, his voice rough and uneven as he thrust into you again, deeper this time, “Take all of me.” Your thighs tightened around his hips, pulling him closer, forcing him to bottom out with every snap forward. The pressure built fast, his pelvis grinding against your clit with each deep stroke, the slick sounds between you growing wetter and filthier.
“Rhett…God, don’t stop,” You moaned, your hands gripping him harder, one sliding up to tangle in his hair and pull his face back up to yours. You kissed him messy, breathing into his mouth between moans. “You’re perfect…Fuck, you’re so perfect.” He groaned into the kiss, thrusting harder now, the couch creaking beneath you as his arm under your neck tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you.
“Gonna make you cum for me…Feel you squeeze around me.” Your head tipped back, your voice breaking on his name as the pleasure surged up and spilled over. You clenched hard around him, your back arching into the support of his arm as your orgasm hit–hot, intense, and unrelenting.
Rhett cursed low and harsh, his hips snapping faster, harder, chasing his own release as you pulsed around him. A moment later he groaned deep in his chest, shoving himself all the way in and holding there as he came, spilling into you in hot, thick waves.
He stayed buried inside you, breathing ragged against your jaw, his weight pressing you into the couch as the last pulses of pleasure worked through you both. You felt him dripping out of you almost immediately, the slick heat of him sliding down you.
Neither of you moved for a long moment, but you had known that everything had changed between the both of you.
————————
The morning after your hookup, Rhett had cooked you breakfast. You remembered distinctly because you were expecting him to have slipped out before sunrise to get back to his place so that he could start the day’s ranch work with his father like nothing had happened. You knew his routine, he had told you that’s what he normally did with the girls he hooked up with, so you thought you were going to get the same treatment.
Instead, the quilt from the couch was still draped around your shoulders when you stirred awake, with faint clatters and the low scrape of a spatula echoing through the living room. You pulled the quilt against you as your legs swung over the edge of the couch, hunting blindly on the floor for your shorts and t-shirt. The soft cotton felt cool when you pulled it over your head, the familiar shape grounding you as you padded barefoot toward the smell of bacon and coffee.
The air was warm and thick with the scent of eggs, smoky meat, and–faintly under it all–the cinnamon sugar of the leftover buns you’d made two days ago, the same ones Rhett had devoured like they were his last meal. Now the smell mingled with that golden morning light, sunlight pouring hard and bright through the east-facing kitchen window so that you had to lift a hand to rub the grit of sleep from your eyes before you could see him clearly.
”What’re you still doing here?” You asked, your voice scratchy from the dryness in your throat, curiosity knitting through your words. When your vision finally adjusted, you had to pause. He was standing at the stove in nothing but his jeans, the button still loose at the waistband, bare back and shoulders catching the light. Every freckle, every line of muscle, every fresh mark you’d left last night–faint red crescents of your nails along his shoulder blades, the bruise-dark bites at the curve of his neck–were on full display. He glanced over his shoulder at you, a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Just makin’ you some breakfast,” He said, flipping the last strip of bacon onto a paper towel-lined plate. “Thought we could also talk about last night as well.” You let out a groan–not entirely from exasperation, if you were being honest it was more from the dread of the impending conversation that was coming–and made your way to the table. Sitting down slowly, your thighs and hips still sore from the way he’d driven into you, each step last night’s heat ghosting faintly through your body.
“What do you want to talk about?” You asked, leaning back against the chair as you watched him work. Rhett didn’t answer right away, focused instead on plating up breakfast. He divided the eggs, bacon, toast, and cinnamon buns with a precision that almost felt deliberate, then set one plate in front of you and one in front of himself. The silverware clinked lightly as he handed you a fork and knife before sinking into the chair across from you.
“Well…” He started, eyes flicking from his plate to yours, then finally settling on you, “I just wanted to make sure we’re still okay. I know sex can make friendships awkward and stuff, and I wanted to check in.” His tone was careful, almost tentative, but there was weight behind it–like he was bracing for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted.
You picked up a piece of bacon from your plate, the warm strip still glistening faintly with grease, and took a quick bite. The salt and smokiness bloomed over your tongue, rich and satisfying, before you chewed and swallowed.
“We’re fine…” You said at last, your tone casual even though your fingers were idly fiddling with the strip of bacon like it was buying you time. “It was really good, actually.” Rhett let out a little laugh at that, a smile breaking across his face as the faintest blush spread over his cheeks. The sunlight from the kitchen window caught in his hair, giving him that warm, haloed look you hated noticing.
“Yeah? You liked it?” He asked, his voice pitched somewhere between cocky and genuinely curious. You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair with a shake of your head.
“Don’t let that boost your ego. You already knew this, I’m pretty sure.” He shrugged like the admission still pleased him anyway, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
“I did,” He agreed, spearing a forkful of eggs and shoving them into his mouth, chewing slowly, “But it’s high praise comin’ from you.” You took another bite of bacon, letting the crunch give you a moment before arching a brow at him.
“Why?” You asked.
He hummed around his next bite of toast, swallowed, then replied, “’Cause you’d tell me the truth if I wasn’t. Most of the girls I get with just don’t wanna be mean, and while they probably aren’t lying you couldn’t know for sure. Y’know what I’m saying?” You nodded, the faintest smirk pulling at your lips. A beat of silence passed between you, the only sounds were the faint clink of silverware against ceramic and the low hum of the fridge. The quiet wasn’t awkward–more like it gave your thoughts too much room to move around. Inevitably, they drifted back to last night: the weight of his body pressing you into the couch cushions, the way his mouth had claimed yours like he was starved for it, the easy way his hands had guided you wherever he wanted you.
The memory of his voice in your ear–low, rough, coaxing you apart for him–lingered like an echo in your bones. How careful he’d been at the start, how quickly it had shifted into something hotter, heavier, until you were sure the two of you had crossed a line that neither of you could walk back from.
Rhett Abbott, for all his recklessness, had been deliberate with you. He’d read you, adapted to you, made sure every touch was angled toward your pleasure until you were unraveling in his hands. He was…A rare lover. And sitting across from him now, with the smell of bacon and coffee curling through the warm air, that truth felt dangerous in ways you didn’t want to examine too closely.
“You look like you’re caught in your thoughts…Everythin’ alright?” Rhett’s voice cut through the haze in your head, pulling you back into the kitchen. You blinked, your fork still hovering above your plate, and licked your lips before meeting his gaze.
”Just thinking about last night.” You admitted, not bothering to sugarcoat it. The smirk that bloomed on his face was of pure joy–lazy, confident, and just a little smug even.
”…You want to do it again, don’t you?” A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it, the sound light but edged with truth. You sighed, leaning back in your chair.
“Yeah, kind of…Maybe without the beer in my system I’ll be able to give you some constructive criticism if I find anything wrong with what you’re putting down.” He let out a little huff of air, shaking his head a bit.
“Hmm…Okay. I’ll bite. Should I be prepared for this to be a more…Regular thing then? Like a friends-with-benefits arrangement?” You tilted your head, lips quirking up a bit.
”We don’t have to put labels on it…But I guess it would be classified as that.” He nodded once, like he’d just made some private agreement with himself, and took a few more forkfuls of eggs before pushing back from the table. The chair scraped lightly against the floor as he stood, still chewing.
With his mouth half-full, he mumbled, “Let’s do it in the shower, so afterwards we can wash up.”
You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face, nor the way your pulse quickened in anticipation. “What a perfect idea.”
———————
Over the course of time, the arrangement became easier to manage. Easier in the sense that you’d learned the rhythms of it–his texts that came in late, sometimes not until the moon was already high; the way he’d slip into your space with that lazy grin, smelling faintly of cologne and hay and whatever bar he’d been at before ending up here. Easier in the sense that you stopped pretending it was anything more than what it was: a steady outlet for your sexual frustration, a guarantee that whenever you needed to be touched, Rhett would give it to you the way only he could.
But “easier” didn’t mean simple.
Because of course, putting yourself into the situation of consistently having sex with Rhett Abbott only made you want him more. It wasn’t even just the sex–though God, that was enough to ruin you all on its own–it was the way he moved through your space like he belonged there, the casual little acts that felt almost domestic if you looked at them sideways. Stealing sips from your coffee. Grumbling at your leaky faucet before crouching down to fix it. Turning up your porch light without being asked when he left late at night.
You’d known going into this there was a risk your feelings would grow teeth. You’d known, and you’d told yourself you could control it. And maybe you did, for a while. You came to terms with the fact that this–half-warmth, half-distance–was all you could get from him. That he wasn’t yours to keep.
It didn’t mean you weren’t jealous, though.
Especially when you’d see him leaning against the fence at the rodeo, smiling at some girl you didn’t know, or when he’d disappear for a week with vague excuses as to why he couldn’t come over to hook up. You swallowed it down, every time, because that was the deal. No questions. No claims. Just a friendship with sex involved.
That was until everything came to a head one night.
You were sprawled across your bed, body still loose and heavy from the second round Rhett had wrung out of you–and himself. The sheets clung damp to your skin, the scent of sweat and sex clinging to the air. He was stretched out beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling in that slow, sated rhythm you’d grown addicted to.
That was when his phone buzzed.
It was nothing at first–just the vibration against the nightstand. But it kept going, the screen lighting up and catching the corner of your vision. You weren’t even trying to look, not really, but your gaze caught on the preview of the message anyway.
“Had so much fun with you on our date. Can’t wait to do it again.” Followed by a winking emoji.
Your body went ice cold.
You stared at the words until they blurred, the crack in your chest starting small and splintering deeper with each beat of your heart. You’d known–of course you’d known–that he had other women. But seeing it there, stamped in glowing letters beside another girl’s name while you were still catching your breath from letting him have every inch of you… That was different.
It made your lungs feel too tight.
You turned yourself away from him before he could lower his arm and see your face, before he could read the flicker of hurt you couldn’t quite smother.
Your eyes fixated on the darkened window. The moonlight bled pale through the thin curtain, just enough to catch the reflection of your own face–flat, unreadable if only because you were trying so hard to keep it that way.
Behind you, the mattress dipped as he rolled onto his side. You heard the faint scrape of his palm over the nightstand, then the muted thump of him finding his phone. A swipe, the soft buzz of a new notification opening, and then the light, rhythmic taps of him typing. Your stomach sank with every one.
The sound of it–his thumbs dancing over glass like it was the most natural thing in the world–felt louder than your own heartbeat. Louder than the blood rushing in your ears.
You stared harder out the window.
A quiet click announced the phone locking again, followed by the low sigh that escaped him, unbothered, almost lazy. The same sigh you’d heard after he finished, like the evening was tying itself up neatly in a bow. Except now, all you could think about was how he couldn’t even wait to be away from you to message her back.
The truth hit sharp and cold–you’d truly become this outlet for him. A body that would take him in, no questions, no claims, no hesitation. And maybe that had been fine when you told yourself you were in on the deal, but now…Now it felt like something uglier. Something that stuck to your skin, that settled like grit in your chest.
You thought about the other girls. The ones who had been just as warm in his hands, just as breathless under his weight, before being shuffled off into the quiet blur of his past. You’d told yourself you were different–your friendship, your history, it gave you a leg up. But that shame crept in anyway, curling tight in your ribs, whispering that you were just another name on his list. Another warm body to fill the space until someone else caught his attention.
You were still deep in that spiral when you felt the shift in the bed. The rustle of sheets. Then the slow, inevitable slide of his arm across the mattress until it curved around your waist, drawing you back toward him. His chest pressed to your spine, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.
You groaned–not from comfort–and rolled your shoulders forward, trying to ease his arm away without saying anything. He hummed, amused, like it was a game.
“Hey…What’s wrong? You don’t want me to touch you now?” His voice carried that joking lilt, the kind that usually made you smile. Tonight, it grated.
He moved in again, trying to mold himself against your back, but you pushed forward once more, muttering, “Stop, Rhett.” Something in your tone made him freeze. The lightness bled right out of him. You could feel the pause, the way his body went still behind you.
“What happened?” He asked after a beat, quieter now, no tease in it. “What did I do?” His voice was careful, but there was a weight in it–like he already knew the answer wasn’t going to be something he liked. You bit your lip hard, trying to swallow the sting building in your throat, but it broke anyway, your voice quiet and unsteady.
“I think we need to end this.” The words hung there, heavy and bitter. The bed shifted almost immediately as Rhett’s arm slid off your waist. The absence of his touch left a strange cold along your skin.
“What?” His voice was sharp in its disbelief, like he was sure he’d heard you wrong, as he leaned over you. “Wh–Y/N…Are you crying?” You clenched your eyes shut, swiping your palms over your cheeks quickly, like it would erase the heat there.
“No,” You lied, your voice breaking on the single syllable.
“Bullshit.” His weight shifted again, and you felt the dip of the mattress as he sat up fully behind you. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling instead of meeting his eyes, your chest tight enough to hurt.
“I just…I can’t do this anymore.” Rhett’s jaw worked, his brows pulling together.
“Do what anymore?”
“This,” You said, waving a hand vaguely between you. “The sneaking in, the sneaking out. Pretending it’s nothing.”
“That’s the deal we made,” he shot back instantly, like that settled it.
“Yeah,” You replied, sitting up now, the duvet slipping from your shoulders. “But I didn’t think the deal meant you’d be answering other girls while you’re still in my bed.”
His expression flickered–guilt, then irritation–but he recovered fast, his voice taking on an edge, “You knew I wasn’t just with you.”
“Knowing and seeing it are two different things, Rhett,” You snapped, heat rushing to your face. “Seeing it while I can still feel you inside me basically is–God–it’s humiliating.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re makin’ it sound worse than it is.”
“Worse than it is?” Your laugh was sharp, humorless. “You want me to spell it out? You fuck me and then text her. Right after. Like I’m just–just some stop along your route before you move on to the next one.”
“That’s not fair,” He muttered, but it didn’t have much bite.
“No, what’s not fair is you acting like I’m supposed to be fine with it. Like my feelings are something I can just turn off because you don’t want to deal with them.” He straightened at that, some of his frustration bubbling up to the surface.
“I never promised you more than this, Y/N. You agreed–hell, you were the one who said no labels.”
“I know what I said,” You fired back, “But maybe I thought I could handle it. Maybe I thought we meant more than you treating me like a convenient lay.” His jaw tightened, and for a second he almost looked hurt–but then it hardened into something defensive.
“You’re twistin’ it. You think I just show up here because I’m bored? You think I’d keep comin’ back if it was just about gettin’ off?”
“Wouldn’t you?” You replied back without missing a beat. “Seems to be working out pretty well for you.” He shook his head, standing now like he couldn’t sit still under the weight of the conversation.
“You’re puttin’ words in my mouth.”
“I’m putting reality in front of you,” You snapped, matching his rise by getting onto your knees, letting them dig into the mattress, “You can’t have it both ways, Rhett. You can’t keep me here, keep touching me, fucking me, and then act like I’m nothing to you the second you leave.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, pacing a step toward the dresser before spinning back toward you.
“Then what do you want me to say, huh? You want me to say I’ll quit seein’ other people? That I’ll just…Stop my whole life ‘cause you caught a glimpse of a damn text?” The heat in your chest spiked.
“No, Rhett. I want you to admit that this isn’t just nothing to you. That maybe I’m not just another name on your list.” He froze at that, like you’d landed a hit–but then he blinked, shut it down, and looked away.
“I can’t do that,” He said finally, voice low, guarded. You stared at him, the answer slicing through what little hope you had left.
“Right. Because that would mean risking something real.” You scoffed.
“That would mean messin’ up what we already got,” He corrected, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it now, throwing in the towel, knowing that he couldn’t save this.
“What we’ve got is already fucked, Rhett. You’re just too scared to admit it.” His eyes snapped back to yours, anger flaring now, masking whatever was underneath, trying to bury the feelings that were laid on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out from his mouth.
“And you’re too damn stubborn to take what’s in front of you. I’m here, aren’t I? I keep showin’ up. Doesn’t that mean somethin’?”
“Not if you’re showing up for everyone else, too.” That landed, and you saw his jaw flex hard, his mouth opening like he was going to say something–something that might’ve cracked this whole thing open–but then he shut it again, exhaling sharp through his nose.
“Fine,” He said at last, voice clipped. “If you want to end it, we’ll end it.” You blinked, your throat tight.
“Just like that?” You asked in complete disbelief. He shrugged, but his eyes were too bright, too restless for it to be casual.
“Just like that.” The silence after was suffocating. Everything seemed to be louder in those moments, the sound of your breathing, the humming of your porch light outside, the sound of your heart beating in your ears–everything was amplified. He grabbed his jeans off the floor, yanking them on quickly, and putting his shirt on.
”Guess that’s settled, then.” You said, without looking at him. He stood there a moment longer, like he might change his mind, like he might say something–but instead he just grabbed his phone and shoved it into his pocket before heading for the door.
The slam rattled the frame.
And just like that, you were left on your own
——————————
After the argument, you and Rhett didn’t see each other for two months. You didn’t text. You didn’t call. Sometimes you’d pass by each other in town–at the feed store, in the grocery aisle, out by the rodeo grounds–but you didn’t so much as nod in each other’s direction, and it was mostly you enforcing that, Rhett practically went along with it and didn’t even try.
Perry had called once, asking what was going on, his voice carrying that brotherly mix of concern and curiosity. You’d given him vague answers, just enough to keep him from pressing too hard, but not enough to hide the truth. He was able to piece it together anyway–just from the way you dodged his questions, the way your voice thinned when Rhett’s name was even hinted at.
To say it was hard not seeing Rhett would be an understatement. Beneath the lust, beneath the sex, it had been your friendship that paid the steepest price. That quiet, unspoken thread of companionship between you had been ripped clean in two, and the absence of it was something you felt in the marrow of your bones, and throughout your days you spent without him.
You didn’t go out much during those two months. Not because you couldn’t face him–though the thought made your stomach churn–but because you weren’t ready to see him smiling at someone else the way he used to smile at you. You stayed in, buried yourself in work, let the nights pass you by in the same quiet humdrum rhythm.
But one evening, something in you snapped. Or maybe it wasn’t a snap–maybe it was just a slow, stubborn decision to stop sitting in your own self-pity. You showered, pulled on a pair of jeans that hugged your hips just right, a black corset shirt, and your cowgirl boots, and decided you’d go have a drink somewhere that wasn’t your kitchen.
That’s how you ended up at The Iron Hide.
The Iron Hide wasn’t much to look at from the outside–just a squat, weather-beaten building on the edge of town, with a faded sign that swung slightly in the evening breeze. The neon beer light in the window flickered like it was tired of doing its job, and the front steps sagged a little in the middle from years of boots stomping their way inside.
But inside…Well, inside was a different kind of world.
The air was warm and smelled of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and the faint tang of spilled beer that had seeped into the old wooden floorboards decades ago. A low hum of conversation rolled through the dim space, punctuated now and then by bursts of laughter or the crack of pool balls colliding from the back corner. The walls were lined with weathered photographs of rodeo champions, autographed in fading ink, alongside crooked shelves stacked with trophies that had long since lost their shine.
The bar itself was a long, scarred stretch of oak, its surface etched with the ghostly rings of a thousand drinks past. Behind it, bottles caught the warm amber glow from the overhead lights, their glass faces glinting like treasure. A jukebox near the dartboard played something slow and old–steel guitar sliding lazily through the speakers–and it set a kind of syrupy pace to the night.
It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t trying to be. It was the kind of place where people came to drink without pretense, to let their voices get loud and their boots scuff up the floor without caring. The kind of place where you could disappear into the noise and the shadows if you wanted to, and that’s exactly what you planned on doing.
You asked for a gin and tonic without hesitation, craving something sharper than beer, something that would bite back when it slid over your tongue. The bartender–broad-shouldered, with hands as steady as a surgeon’s–had nodded and reached for the bottle of Tanqueray without a word, the faint clink of ice tumbling into the glass followed by the bright fizz of tonic. He topped it with a wedge of lime and slid it toward you with a practiced ease.
“Open a tab?” He’d asked, his voice a low hum against the background chatter.
“Yeah, thank you,” You’d replied, fishing your debit card from the worn leather of your wallet. His fingers brushed yours briefly when he took it, not lingering, just enough to let the cool air close in again as he stepped toward the register. With your drink in hand, you turned on your heel and took in the room. The air had that electric warmth of a bar in full swing–a rolling hum of voices layered with bursts of laughter, the clatter of cue balls from the pool table in the back, the jukebox murmuring a different song that sounded like the other guitar ballad you heard when you walked in from somewhere near the wall. Boots thudded against the scuffed floorboards, denim brushed denim as people moved past one another, and the glow of low lights made the amber in whiskey glasses gleam like honey.
You’d barely taken a sip of your drink when you caught the movement out of the corner of your eye–a man stepping out from the cluster by the dartboard.
He was cute in that easy, boyish way, with sun-browned skin and light brown hair that curled just slightly at the ends just where it met his shoulders. His jaw was square but softened by the warmth in his smile, a smile that revealed the faintest crookedness in one of his front teeth–something that only made him look more approachable. He had that same cowboy posture you knew too well: shoulders broad, stance loose but balanced like his boots had been worn into the earth a thousand times. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened when he smiled at you, a little lopsided and genuine. He looked like an off brand version of Rhett, and maybe that was what made you enamoured by his approach.
“You play?” He asked, nodding toward the dartboard.
You laughed softly into the rim of your glass. “Not well.”
“That’s alright,” He said, tipping his chin toward the board again. “I could use a partner, good or bad…What do you say? Wanna play?” The gin fizzed pleasantly down your throat as you smiled back at him.
“Sure.” He led you over, the space by the dartboard tucked into a cozy corner of the bar where the light hit warmer, pooling golden on the wood-paneled wall. A few empty beer bottles lined the narrow shelf nearby, and the floor was marked with the faint scuffs of boots pivoting toward the board. He handed you a dart, his fingers brushing yours as he did.
“Alright, so…Show me what you’ve got.” You squared your shoulders, set your feet, and took aim. The dart wobbled pitifully through the air and landed nowhere near the center. You let out a groan, laughing despite yourself.
“Yeah…That’s about what I expected,” You said, shaking your head. He chuckled, stepping in closer.
“You’ve got the aim of a drunk raccoon. Here, let me show you.” You smirked, feeling the faint warmth of the gin starting to loosen you.
“Be my guest.” He moved behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back. His hands were warm when they settled lightly over your hips, guiding you a half-step into what he clearly thought was a better stance.
“Feet a little farther apart,” He murmured, voice low but easy. One hand slid along your arm, fingers curling gently around your wrist as he lifted it into position. “Elbow up, eyes on the bullseye. Don’t overthink it–just breathe and let it go.” You let him guide you, your back brushing his chest every time you adjusted your weight. His palm lingered on your hip a second longer than it needed to, but you didn’t mind–it was light, teasing, and you weren’t in the mood to swat him away.
“There you go…That’s much better,” He said when you released the dart. It landed closer this time, and you let out a pleased hum.
“Guess you’re a good teacher,” You teased, glancing at him over your shoulder. He gave you that crooked smile again, the kind that lit his eyes from within.
“Guess you’re a good student,” He replied.
“Well, if you’re this good at teaching,” You said, voice dropping just enough to lace the words with suggestion, “I can only imagine what else you’re good at.” It made his grin widen, his teeth flashing under the golden light, and he leaned in just a touch–close enough that the faint scent of leather and whiskey clung between you. You laughed softly, taking a step back toward the shelf lined with empty bottles, your hips brushing his briefly as you reached for your drink. The lime caught your bottom lip on the next sip, tart and fresh over the lingering gin.
And that was when you felt it–the prickling sense of being watched.
From across the bar, in the amber haze of everything, Rhett’s eyes were on you. He was watching from his place at the far end of the bar, half in shadow, his eyes followed every inch of you with an intensity that made your skin warm even before his gaze traveled lower. He took in the black corset top–how the lace trim framed the curve of your chest, how the snug boning hugged your waist like it had been made for you. His stare lingered at the bare strip of skin it left when you shifted, then dipped down over the dark denim painted over your hips, the way the seams clung and pulled perfectly over the swell of your ass when you bent slightly to retrieve a dart.
It was enough to make his jaw tense. His throat went dry, and the only cure he could think of was the burn of a beer. He ordered one without taking his eyes off you, lashes lowering briefly when the bottle hit the counter in front of him. He took a long swallow, the bitter, cold liquid doing little to cool the heat thrumming through his chest.
The laughter–that damn laugh–cut through the bar’s chatter, threading past the clink of glasses and the hum of the jukebox like it was the only sound in the room. He’d heard it a thousand times before, always up close, always with him being the reason for it. It hit something raw in him to hear it now, spilling out for someone else.
God, he’d missed it.
He’d missed you.
Missed the easy way you used to lean into him without thinking, the subtle curve of your smile when you were trying not to let him see he’d made you happy. Missed the little things–the smell of your honey shampoo, the way you curled your fingers around the neck of your beer bottle, the softness in your voice when it was just the two of you. He’d spent two months pretending he could live without it, without you, and now here you were, a few feet away, lighting up for somebody else.
His lashes fluttered in frustration as his fingers flexed loosely around the bottle neck. Every instinct in him bristled watching the guy step closer behind you, his palm ghosting over your hip to adjust your stance, his mouth tipping toward your ear as if he had the right to get that close. Rhett could feel the muscles in his shoulders tighten, his pulse pressing hard against his collar.
The guy tossed another casual comment in your ear, earning himself another laugh, and Rhett’s grip on the bottle tightened. The jealousy wasn’t just a flicker–it was a slow burn, thick and choking, something he could taste as bitter as the beer in his mouth. He wanted to shove the guy back, plant himself in his place, and remind you–remind both of you–exactly who used to be the one making you look like that.
When you finally glanced up from the dartboard, scanning the bar as you reached for your drink again, your eyes landed on his.
The noise of the room faded in an instant.
Your chest stilled mid-breath. His hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
The air between you seemed to thicken, the distance suddenly too small and too wide all at once. His gaze locked onto yours–blue and sharp, but undercut with something deeper, something unguarded.
It wasn’t just jealousy there.
It was longing.
And the second your eyes met, you both felt it–like a wire pulled taut between you, humming with everything unsaid, everything you’d tried to leave behind. Rhett’s fingers flexed once more around the neck of the bottle before he lifted it, his gaze still locked on you as he took a long, slow pull. When he set it back on the bar, it wasn’t with the kind of idle patience that let things slide. No–this was the deliberate, measured sort of movement that said he’d already decided to act.
He pushed off the barstool, boots heavy against the warped floorboards, and made his way through the press of people without once breaking eye contact. He moved the way he always had–shoulders squared, head tipped just slightly forward, like there was nothing in his way worth slowing down for. By the time he reached you, that boyish curl to his mouth had been replaced by something sharper, tighter.
The dartboard guy straightened slightly, like he could feel the shift in the air before Rhett even stopped beside you.
“Didn’t know you have taken up darts, Y/N,” Rhett drawled, his voice warm in tone but edged like a blade. His eyes flicked over you, from the corset top to the way your hand still curled around the lime-studded rim of your glass, before landing on the man beside you. “Guess you’ve got yourself a teacher.”
The guy gave a polite little grin, clearly trying to keep things easy. “She’s a quick learner.”
“Mm.” Rhett’s gaze didn’t leave him now. “She’s always been good with her hands.” It was subtle, but the air seemed to pull tighter between the three of you. Your pulse kicked hard in your throat. The man’s smile faltered just slightly, his eyes darting between you and Rhett like he’d stumbled into something he hadn’t been warned about.
“Uh…Do you two know each other?” Rhett’s jaw ticked.
“Yeah. We know each other.” The weight in those four words was impossible to miss, and from the way the guy’s brows lifted just a fraction before smoothing back down, you knew he’d caught on.
“Well,” He said after a beat, stepping back a half pace, “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His gaze flicked to you–apologetic–before returning to Rhett. “Or step on anyone’s toes.”
“You didn’t intrude on anything, nor did you step on anyone’s toes…Right, Rhett?”
Your words came out smooth, but the steel underneath was unmistakable. You tilted your head just enough to let the glare catch him head-on, the kind that forced him to meet it or back down.
He didn’t back down–not right away. His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, like the drawl on his tongue was already curling into something sharp. But then…You saw it. That fractional change in his eyes, the stormy blue softening just slightly, the crease at his brow easing. He knew. Knew he’d stepped over a line. Knew this wasn’t his territory anymore–not in the way it used to be. A faint sigh slipped from him, barely audible over the clink of glasses and low hum of the bar.
“Yeah… yeah. No, man, you weren’t stepping on anything,” Rhett said finally, the words clipped but not unkind. “I just came by to say hello. Haven’t really seen her in a while, so…Y’know, thought I’d pop in.” The dartboard guy smiled, catching none of the barbed edges that passed between you and Rhett.
“Oh, you guys should catch up then! I gotta go back to my friends anyways.” He hesitated a moment, then turned to you with that easy grin. “Could I get your number before I go though?” Your stomach tightened–not because you didn’t want to, but because you could feel Rhett’s gaze burning into the side of your face, like heat from a stove. You flicked your eyes toward him, just long enough to see the muscle in his jaw tighten, before you turned back with a smile that was just a little too sweet.
“Yeah, sure.” He dug his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to you. You typed your name and number slowly–deliberately–the screen tilted just enough for Rhett to see the letters appear. His eyes followed the movement like every tap was pulling something taut inside him. The guy took the phone back with a grateful nod.
“Thanks. I’ll text you later. Night, Y/N. Night, man.” Rhett gave a short nod, but his eyes didn’t leave you, even as the guy disappeared into the crowd. You took another slow sip of your gin, set it down on the shelf, and finally turned fully toward him.
“Well,” You started lightly, “If you wanted to ruin my night, congratulations. You nailed it.” Rhett’s brows pulled together, his jaw ticking as he stepped closer, the smell of cedar, wood and the faint bite of beer threading between you.
”Didn’t come over here to ruin your night.”
“Could’ve folded me,” You shot back.
“I just wanted to talk, Y/N. That’s all.” His voice dropped low, but the heat in it still crackled. “And he was here…So I got defensive.” You crossed your arms tight across your chest, nails biting into your skin.
“See, this is where I point out that you have absolutely no fucking right to be defensive over anything that involves me. Especially with everything that happened the last time we saw each other.” Rhett let out a sharp scoff, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you.
“What? Like when you decided you wanted to call our arrangement off and then cut me out of your life completely? Huh? Is that it?” Your jaw clenched, pulse pounding in your ears.
“Don’t twist this around on me–”
“I’m not twistin’ anythin’!” His voice was rising now, enough to catch a few curious glances from nearby tables. “You ended it. You walked away.”
“And you let me!” You fired back, heat rushing into your face. “You didn’t even try, Rhett. You just allowed it to happen like it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothin’!” His hand shot through his hair, restless. “Goddamn, it was never nothin’ with you.” The air between you was so tight it felt like if you moved wrong it would snap. The crowd, the music, the clink of bottles–it all blurred, just the two of you locked in the push and pull.
“Then why didn’t you say something?” Your voice cracked on it, but you didn’t care. “Why didn’t you fight for me?” Rhett’s eyes darted away, his throat working.
“We’re not going to argue about this here…” He muttered, already stepping back, “Let’s go outside.” You hesitated for a moment, then followed.
The cool night hit your skin as soon as you pushed through the door, the muffled thump of the jukebox fading behind you. The gravel crunched under your boots as Rhett led the way toward the side of the building, away from the yellow porch light spilling over the entrance. It smelled like a mix of flowers and cheap cologne that many of the patrons probably sprayed on before entering the bar. It was almost headache inducing.
Once Rhett got you to the parking lot area on the side of the building, he turned then, with his jaw tight, and his hands flexing open and closed like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“You want the truth? You wanna know why I didn’t fight for you that night?” His voice was rough, too low for anyone passing to hear but sharp enough to cut through the thick air between you.
“Yes,” You said, the word hitting the space like a dare. “I do.” He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could see the strain etched deep into his face.
“Because I was afraid.” His voice cracked–not much, but enough to make your chest pull tight. “Afraid that if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. That you’d think I was just sayin’ whatever you wanted to hear so I could keep sleepin’ with you.” Your breath caught, but he didn’t stop, he just grew more emotional and shaky.
“I’ve had feelin's for you for a long damn time, Y/N,” Rhett said, each word landing heavily against your chest. “Long before we ever crossed that line. You’ve been in my head, in my life, in everythin’ I do, and I didn’t know how to handle it without screwin’ it up. I figured if I asked for more, if I told you how bad I wanted you…You’d realize you didn’t feel the same and that’d be it. No friendship and no you…” The gravel crunched as he shifted closer, his voice dropping further, rawer.
“So I settled. I took the friends-with-benefits deal because it was the only way I could keep you close without riskin’ losin’ you completely. I told myself it was enough, even when it wasn’t. Even when every time I left your place I had to fight the urge to turn back and tell you I wanted all of it. Not just the nights we spent together. Not just the sex. All of you, Y/N.” You wanted to say something back, but it was as if Rhett couldn’t stop everything that was coming out of him, it was like he was talking as if it could be the last conversation the two of you would ever have and he needed to get everything out on the table.
“That night you ended it…I was gonna tell you. I’d been sittin’ on it for weeks, workin’ up the guts. But you were already hurt. You were lookin’ at me like I’d wrecked somethin’ important, and I figured if I said it then, you’d think I was lyin’ just to fix what I broke.” His eyes searched yours, raw and open and glazed over with a film of tears. “I didn’t want my feelings for you to sound like some cheap apology…”
You stood there frozen, staring up at him, the night air tightening against your skin while his words sank in. Two months of silence and hurt sat between you like a canyon, but you couldn’t find your voice to answer him. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, your throat locked up around all the things you’d wanted to say but never had the chance to.
Rhett’s jaw flexed, his gaze dropping briefly to the gravel at your feet before he dragged a hand across his eyes, quick and rough, as if to scrub the shine away before you could catch it.
“Y’know what…” His voice was low, splintered. “I’m sorry. I’ll just–” He gestured vaguely toward the bar, like he was already pulling himself back together, “I’ll just go back inside and you can go–”
“Fuck it,” You cut in, sharp and breathless. Before he could blink, you grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down to you. Your mouth crashed into his with months’ worth of pent-up frustration and want, the kiss hot, greedy, messy from the start. His answering groan rumbled straight into you, and then he was kissing you back like he’d been dying for it–because he had.
His hands found your face first, thumbs pressing to your jaw as his mouth moved over yours with a hunger that left no space for air. Then he stepped in, crowding you back, every line of his body fitting against yours until the rough brick wall of the bar pressed firm against your spine. The cold bite of it only made the heat between you flare brighter.
You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle there as his hips pressed flush to yours. He broke from your lips just long enough to drag his mouth along your cheek, his breath ragged, before finding your mouth again in another bruising kiss. Between them, his words spilled against your lips, warm and desperate.
“So…Does this mean…You feel the same?” You let out a quick, breathless laugh, your forehead tipping to his as you caught his bottom lip between your teeth in a playful nip.
“Yes,” you said, the word low and certain. “I feel the fucking same.” That grin–God, you’d missed that grin–flickered against your mouth for half a second before his lips were on yours again, deeper this time, his hands slipping down to grip your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or pin you right there forever. You kissed him back until your lungs ached, then pulled away just enough to pant against his mouth, your voice still heated but edged with warning.
“But if you ever fucking do this to me again,” You breathed, your hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close, “I’m going to roundhouse kick you to another planet, Abbott.” His laugh came low and rough, warm against your lips.
“Fair enough…” He murmured–right before claiming your mouth again. The kiss turned messy fast, teeth clashing softly, tongues sliding, every drag and pull dripping with all the times you’d almost reached for your phone and didn’t. His breath mingled with yours, fast and uneven, his chest rising hard against you. One broad hand braced on the wall beside your head while the other slid down the curve of your back, fingers pressing in as though he was staking claim. When his mouth tore from yours, it was only to trail down your jaw and into the hollow beneath your ear, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.
“Missed this…Missed you,” He muttered against your skin, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. His lips dragged lower, finding the slope of your neck, sucking deep enough to make your knees soften under you.
You clung harder to his shoulders, rolling your hips forward without thinking, chasing the friction like your body had been starved for it. His answering groan vibrated through you, and then both hands were on your hips, rocking you against him in a slow, filthy grind that made the wall at your back feel even hotter.
Your breath hitched when his palm skimmed under the hem of your top, calloused fingers brushing your bare skin like he was already memorizing it again.
“God, Y/N…” He breathed, kissing you again–deeper this time, like he could swallow every sound you made. The heat spiked between you, sharp and consuming, and you knew if you let this go on against the wall you’d lose every shred of control. With a sharp inhale, you broke the kiss, your lips swollen, your breath ragged.
“Take me to your truck,” You said, the words low but edged with command.
His eyes–bright, wild, and blown dark with want–searched yours for a beat before the corner of his mouth lifted, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”
His fingers found yours, rough and warm, threading between them tightly. He pulled you away from the wall, cutting a direct line through the gravel lot, boots crunching with each long, unhurried stride that belied just how tight his grip was. The yellow spill from the bar lights faded behind you as he led you toward the darker stretch of the back lot, where the silhouettes of a few trucks loomed in the shadows.
His was waiting at the far end, the familiar dent in the fender catching the faint light. He yanked the handle and swung the door open for you, his hand steady at your back as you climbed in. The second your boots cleared the step, he was right there–shutting the door behind him with a muffled thunk–already reaching for his belt.
You were ahead of him, fingers flying to the button of your jeans, tugging the zipper down with the kind of urgency that made your knuckles brush the hard plane of his stomach when he leaned in. The leather strap of his belt slid free with a sharp hiss as he shrugged out of his shirt in the same motion, tossing it blindly into the back seat. His jeans followed, pooling around his boots until he shimmied out of them, leaving him in nothing but his dark boxers–already tented and straining.
“C’mere,” He murmured, reaching for you before you could shove your jeans all the way down. His big hands gripped the waistband and dragged them over your hips, taking them completely off you, leaving you in just your black lace underwear, then his hands slid up, curling over the edge of your corset.
“Let’s get this fuckin’ thing off,” He muttered, voice thick with want, his fingers working fast at the tiny hook-and-eye closures down your back. “Been thinkin’ about takin’ it off since I laid eyes on you tonight.” You could feel the heat of his breath against your neck as each clasp came undone, slow enough to make you squirm, until the last one slipped free. The boning eased against your ribs, and he shoved it down your arms with a quick, hungry tug. The corset landed somewhere in the backseat with his shirt, forgotten instantly.
His gaze dropped, and he swore low under his breath like the sight of you bare made his knees weak.
“Goddamn…” His voice was rough as his hands came up, palms cupping your breasts with a reverence that didn’t match the hard throb of urgency in him. “Missed these…Missed the way they feel in my hands, in my mouth…” He ducked down, his mouth already on you before you could respond. The first kiss landed high on the curve of your left breast, hot and lingering, followed by another, and another, his stubble scraping deliciously over your sensitive skin. He worked his way in slow arcs, peppering kisses that grew wetter, more urgent, until his tongue was circling your nipple.
“Perfect…Fuckin’ perfect,” He whispered against you, the heat of his mouth sucking one peak deep while his other hand kneaded the other breast in his palm. “God, I dreamed about you… woke up hard thinkin’ about this mouthful.” You tipped your head back, a shaky breath escaping when he sucked harder, letting his teeth graze you just enough to make you gasp. He groaned at the sound, like it poured straight into his blood.
“Yeah…Missed those little noises too,” He rasped, dragging his lips across your chest to worship the other breast, his tongue swirling in slow, filthy circles over the tightened peak before sucking deep again.
“Oh my god…Rhett.” You gasped. His free hand left your breast and dropped lower, tracing down the slope of your stomach until his thumb hooked into the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t ask this time–he just slipped his hand beneath the lace, his knuckles brushing your mound before his fingers found you hot and slick.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” He breathed, his forehead briefly pressing to your sternum as if he had to steady himself. “Missed this even more… Missed feelin’ you like this, all ready for me.” His middle finger slid through your folds, parting them before circling your clit slow and deliberate. The heel of his palm pressed into you while his finger dipped lower, sinking inside with an easy push. You clenched around him instantly, and he let out a low, guttural groan.
“That’s it… that’s my girl,” He said, curling the finger just right before sliding another in to join it. “Grippin’ me so tight, like you’re tryin’ to keep me.”
”Fuck Rhett…I missed your fingers so fucking much.” You moaned out, your hips rolling into his hand, chasing each curl and thrust of his fingers. The pleasure made you bolder, as your own hand slid down between you until you found the thick, hot outline of him. Your palm cupped him through the heat of his boxers, and you felt the way his breath hitched, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he recovered–fingers curling inside you with more purpose, like he needed to remind you who was setting the pace.
“Mmm…You’re already so fucking hard for me,” You murmured, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Just from feeling me around your fingers, huh? Not even inside me yet and you’re leaking for it.”A low, ragged laugh rumbled out of him, his head tipping against your shoulder like the words hit deep.
“You think I haven’t been fuckin’ hard since the second I saw you tonight?” Your hand flexed over him, giving a slow, teasing squeeze that had his hips pushing into your palm without him even thinking about it.
“Maybe I like watching you lose it a little,” You whispered, dragging your nails lightly along the length before rubbing your palm over the wet patch forming at the tip. “Maybe I want you messy before I even let you inside me.” His jaw clenched, a low groan spilling out against your neck as his fingers worked faster, the wet sound between your thighs making your toes curl.
“Careful, baby…You keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna flip you over and fuck you until you forget your own name.”
“Mmm,” You hummed, your hand sliding along his shaft again, slower this time, just enough pressure to make him twitch. “Big words for someone who’s about to make me come all over his hand.” He chuckled darkly against your skin, his thumb pressing harder into your clit, circling in tight, deliberate strokes.
“Oh, you’re gonna do that whether you like it or not,” He rasped. “Gonna soak my fingers just like you used to…God, I’ve missed feelin’ you gush for me.” Your breath caught on a sharp moan when he curled his fingers again, hitting that perfect spot deep inside, your hips rolling harder into his hand.
“Rhett…Fuck…Right there…”
“That’s it,” He coaxed, his voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Come on, pretty girl. Show me how bad you missed me. Mess me up.” The heat coiled tight in your stomach, and with a few more strokes, you broke–your thighs trembling as your climax ripped through you, wet heat spilling over his fingers. You gasped, clutching at his shoulder with one hand while the other squeezed him reflexively through his boxers.
“Jesus Christ,” He growled, slowing his fingers just enough to let you ride the aftershocks. Then he pulled them free, holding them in front of your face for a heartbeat, watching your chest rise and fall. “Look at that,” He murmured, his voice thick with heat. “Drippin’ for me like no time’s passed at all.” Before you could catch your breath, he brought those glistening fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan that made your pulse spike all over again.
“Goddamn…I needed that taste,” he said, licking the last of you from his knuckles, “I’m gonna eat you out when we get back to your place…But right now? I need to fuck you.” Your hand stilled on him, your thumb still resting against the thick head under the fabric. His words sank deep, and the look in his eyes–hot, wild, certain–made it impossible to think of anything else.
“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” You breathed.Rhett’s grin was slow and dangerous, a glint in his eyes like he’d just been handed the exact thing he’d been dying for. His big hands slid down your hips, curling under the lace at your hips before tearing them down your legs. The delicate fabric caught briefly on your thighs before he ripped them away and tossed them blindly into the dark backseat. He didn’t even watch where they landed–his eyes were locked on the glistening heat between your legs, his jaw working as if he was holding back from devouring you right then.
“Fuckin’ perfect,” He muttered, his thumbs brushing over the tops of your thighs before pushing his own boxer briefs down. They hit the floor in a heap, freeing the thick, flushed length of him–veined, heavy, slick at the tip. He wrapped a hand around the base, pumping once as he looked at you with that molten, knowing stare.
“C’mere,” He said, low and rough. “Come sit on my lap.”
You didn’t hesitate. Your knees braced against the seat, your palms flat on his shoulders as you swung a leg over, straddling him. The heat of his bare cock brushed your slick folds instantly, pulling a shudder from both of you. His hands clamped hard to your hips, holding you there, making you feel him before you even sank down.
“That’s it…My girl,” He rasped, tilting his head back to drink in the sight of you above him. “Look at you–wet and ready to fuckin’ take me.”
You leaned in close, your breath hot against his mouth, and let a slow trail of spit drip past your lips into his. He groaned deep, catching it with his tongue, swallowing like it was the only thing he’d been starving for. His fingers dug into you harder.
“Jesus Christ,” He growled. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.” You grinned, tangling your fingers into his hair and giving a sharp tug. His groan cracked into something darker, his eyes blowing wide as you used the leverage to tilt his head back and press your mouth to his. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, sloppy and devouring, your hips already starting to rock against him.
He broke away just long enough to guide you down–one hand still gripping your hip, the other steadying his cock at your entrance. The stretch as you sank onto him was obscene, every inch forcing your thighs wider until you were fully seated, your clit flush to the coarse hair at his base.
“Ohhh, fuck–” You gasped, your nails dragging over his shoulders.
“That’s it… Take all of me,” he murmured, his palm sliding up from your hip until it wrapped gently but firmly around your throat. The pressure was enough to make you swallow hard, your pulse thrumming against his thumb. “So fuckin’ tight…You were made for this.” You rolled your hips once–slow, grinding–and his head fell forward against your shoulder with a guttural groan. His hand on your throat squeezed just a hair tighter, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you aware of exactly who had you like this.
“Fuck…You feel perfect,” You panted, pulling back just enough to slam down on him harder. “God, Rhett–been thinking about this every fucking night, fuck all I’ve wanted was you.” That lit something feral in him. Both hands clamped to your ass, and the sharp crack of his palm meeting your skin made you gasp and clench around him.
“Yeah?” He rasped, spanking you again, the sound filthy in the confined cab. “You like that? My good girl likes it when I spank her?”
“Mhm—” You moaned, biting your lip before leaning forward to spit into his open mouth again. His tongue met it halfway this time, swallowing with a low, filthy laugh before kissing you deep, his hips thrusting up into you so hard the truck rocked on its shocks.
“Goddamn, look at you ridin’ me like you own me,” He groaned, his hands guiding your hips to slam down faster. “So fuckin’ gorgeous–so fucking deseperate, but only for me, hm?”
“Only for you,” You gasped, your hand sliding back into his hair, pulling hard enough to drag another groan from deep in his chest.
“Good girl,” he panted, his mouth latching to your neck, sucking until your skin burned. His hand returned to your throat, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as you bounced on him, the wet slap of your bodies and your mingled moans filling the cab.
“Rhett…I’m so close,” You whimpered, your nails biting into his shoulders.
“Then cum for me, baby,” He ordered, his voice molten and ragged. “Wanna feel you gush all over me–make a mess, pretty girl. Let me have it.” His hips drove up harder, faster, his free hand spanking you once more, and the heat in your core snapped. You came hard around him, your vision sparking, every muscle trembling as you cried out his name. He cursed, slamming you down onto him as his own release tore through him, spilling hot and deep inside you.
You stayed there for a long moment, your breath hitching against his mouth, your pulse still pounding from the aftershocks. The truck smelled like sex and sweat, the windows fogged so thick you couldn’t see the parking lot lights anymore. Rhett’s forehead rested against yours, his breaths hot and uneven, his hands still holding you like he wasn’t ready to let go.
You lifted one hand, threading your fingers into the damp hair at his temple, then smoothing your palm along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped softly against your skin, grounding you. You tilted his face just enough to see him fully–the flushed cheeks, the blown pupils, the sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Fuck…” Your voice cracked, raw and quiet in the small space. “I missed you so much.” Something in his expression flickered–like your words landed somewhere deep and tender. His jaw worked once, but instead of speaking right away, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as though your hand was the only thing keeping him steady. When he opened them again, the heat was still there, but softer now, laced with something he didn’t bother to hide.
“I missed you too,” He murmured, voice rough. “More than I ever thought I could.”
His thumb traced over the back of your hand where it cupped his face, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the feel of you there. You leaned in and kissed him again–gentler this time, lingering–before resting your forehead to his. The quiet between you was warm, unhurried, almost fragile, but it didn’t feel empty.
After a moment, Rhett gave a low, steady exhale and let his hands slide up your back, holding you tighter against him.
“Let’s go back to your place,” He said softly. “I don’t want to waste another second not havin’ you close.” You nodded, still cradling his jaw as if you could keep the moment right there with your touch, before finally shifting off his lap. Even as he started the truck, his hand stayed on your thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles like he needed the reassurance that you were really there again.
Briefing: You swore you couldn’t stand him—arrogant, infuriating, always pushing too far. Todd made it his mission to get under your skin, and you gave it right back, each fight only sharpening the edge between you. But somewhere between stolen dares, late nights, and secrets you didn’t mean to share, the hate started to crack. Now he’s in your bed, in your space, in your thoughts, and it feels less like an accident and more like the one thing you’ve been running from all along.
Words: 14k (I couldn't stop)
Warnings: Smut, filth, rough sex (light choking, spanking, other roughness), enemies to lovers, Mentions of SA nothing actually explained or detailed, frat parties, Greek Life politics and such, loneliness, unprotected sex, just beware okay??
Author note: Thank you for reading and reblogging and leaving a comment. Much love! Inspired by a tag on a post by @trelaney
The long oak table gleamed under the fluorescent lights, papers and half-empty coffee cups scattered along its surface. You smoothed your notes into a neat stack, pen aligned perfectly at the top, before sitting straighter in your chair. The monthly Greek Council meeting was tedious at best, but tonight was worse. The agenda item circled in red across your planner — Greek Week planning — was bound to set off fireworks. Greek Week was only a few months away.
The door opened behind you. Late, as usual.
Todd Stevens strolled in like he hadn’t kept a room of sorority and fraternity presidents waiting ten minutes. His Kappa Nu Alpha brothers trailed after him, but Todd moved at his own pace, dropping into his chair with a grin that looked both lazy and calculated. His collared shirt was untucked, tie nowhere in sight, dark hair pushed back like he’d run a hand through it five seconds before entering.
“Nice of you to join us,” you said without looking up from your notes.
A few chuckles rippled down the table.
“Traffic on Greek Row’s a killer,” Todd drawled, leaning back in his chair, arms spreading along the backrest like he owned the room. “Don’t worry, I’m here to save the night.”
Your jaw tightened. He always did this — pretended charm could excuse his lack of professionalism.
The faculty advisor cleared her throat. “Let’s get to the main item — Greek Week. We’ll review proposed events.”
You were ready. You’d drafted a proposal outlining philanthropic activities, inter-house competitions, and, yes, controlled social events that wouldn’t draw the kind of scrutiny Greek life had been under the last few years. Before you could begin, Todd spoke up.
“KNA wants to host the kickoff party,” he announced, voice casual, confident. “Full send, no half-measures. Live band, open invite, get everyone hyped for the week.”
Of course.
“That’s not on the agenda,” you said, finally lifting your gaze. He was already watching you, a smirk curling like he’d been waiting for the pushback.
“It’s Greek Week,” he replied. “We’re supposed to have fun, right? Don’t think anyone’s dying to start the week with another canned food drive.”
A few fraternity reps laughed. Your sorority sisters shifted uncomfortably beside you, waiting for your response.
You folded your hands on the table, controlled. “Greek Week is about showcasing responsibility and unity. Not about throwing the biggest liability event you can imagine.”
“Responsibility’s overrated.” Todd tilted his chair back, balancing on two legs like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Ask around — people want a party. We give them one, attendance doubles across the whole week.”
“And when someone ends up in the ER?” you shot back. “Whose name goes on the incident report then?”
“Mine,” he said smoothly, flashing a grin. “And I’ll take it.”
You stared at him, pulse spiking, not with flustered nerves but with irritation so sharp it almost felt good. He was reckless, arrogant, and far too aware of how easily he could get under your skin.
The room had gone quiet. You could feel everyone watching the volley like a tennis match.
“I’m sure you would,” you said, voice even, icy. “Since you clearly think Greek Week is all about you.”
Todd leaned forward suddenly, chair legs thudding back to the ground, arms braced on the table. His eyes caught yours, the smirk fading into something sharper. “No, sweetheart,” he said low, just for you. “It’s about everyone else. You just don’t know how to let people breathe.”
Your chest tightened — with anger, you told yourself. You matched his lean across the table, refusing to break eye contact. “And you don’t know how to lead without hiding behind a party.”
The faculty advisor cleared her throat loudly. “Enough. We’ll table this for later discussion.”
You forced yourself back against your chair, smoothing your notes as if you hadn’t just been rattled. Todd, of course, leaned back again, arms spreading wide, grin lazy like he’d won. But you saw the glint in his eyes — sharp, interested, almost hungry.
The meeting droned on. You pretended to take notes, but every time Todd’s voice chimed in — casual, joking, always undermining the seriousness of the discussion — you felt your spine stiffen. You didn’t look at him again, but you could feel his gaze flick to you, testing, like he was daring you to crack.
By the time adjournment was called, your temples ached. You slid your papers back into their folder, ready to escape into the night air.
“Great notes tonight,” a sorority sister teased softly as you stood. “You and Stevens gonna kill each other or finally hook up?”
Your head whipped toward her, sharp. “Not funny.”
But Todd was already across the room, laughing with his brothers. When he caught your eye over their shoulders, he raised his brows, gave a mock salute, and walked out without a word.
You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together.
This was going to be a long semester.
---
The quad was alive with the kind of early fall bustle that made campus feel like its own small city. Tables lined the brick walkways, banners bright against the sky as sororities and fraternities tried to outdo each other for attention. Flyers fluttered in the breeze, music pulsed from a portable speaker, and the scent of grilled food from one fraternity’s booth mingled with the crisp air.
Your sorority’s table stood neat and polished. A row of trifold boards displayed upcoming events, your chapter’s philanthropic initiatives, and photos of last year’s Greek Week service projects. The centerpiece — a carefully arranged vase of sunflowers in your colors — caught the light like a trophy. Everything about it was intentional and professional.
And then there was Todd Stevens.
Kappa Nu Alpha had set up two tables down, and where your presentation looked like a corporate pitch, theirs resembled a carnival. Loud music, neon flyers slapped together, guys in backwards caps tossing footballs over the crowd to get attention. Todd himself leaned against the table like it was his throne, sunglasses perched on his head, a megawatt grin aimed at anyone passing by.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen,” he called, voice pitched to carry. “Kappa Nu’s throwing the only Greek Week kickoff party worth showing up for. Free beer, live music, bad decisions guaranteed!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly.
“Don’t,” one of your sisters murmured at your elbow. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
But then a group of freshmen wandered past, pausing between your table and his. You plastered on your best welcoming smile.
“Hi! We’ve got sign-ups here for tutoring partnerships and volunteer hours,” you said brightly. “We pair first-years with opportunities all semester long. Great way to meet people and make an impact.”
The girls smiled, reached for your clipboard—until Todd’s voice boomed over the music.
“Or,” he said, swooping in with effortless timing, “you could skip homework for one night and come actually have fun. Free cover if you say Todd sent you.”
The freshmen giggled, glancing at each other before drifting toward his table.
Your smile thinned to a line.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.
Todd, of course, caught your eye. He raised his brows in mock innocence, then winked.
Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Not embarrassment — fury. You straightened, smoothing your blazer. If he wanted to play games, you could too.
Later that afternoon, you caught your chance. Kappa Nu had hung a banner crookedly, half blocking the fire lane behind their booth. You snapped a picture, emailed it to the Greek Council faculty advisor, and within the hour, campus safety was telling them to take it down.
When you walked by on your way to class, Todd was standing on a chair, wrestling the banner loose while one of his brothers groaned about citations.
He spotted you instantly.
“You’re ruthless,” he called down, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “Could’ve just told me instead of tattling.”
You paused, adjusted your bag on your shoulder, and gave him a look cool enough to chill the sun. “Maybe try following the rules next time, Stevens.”
His grin only widened. “Where’s the fun in that?”
You didn’t dignify it with an answer. You turned on your heel and kept walking, every nerve alive with irritation.
Later that night, sprawled across your bed with your laptop open and textbooks piled beside you, you realized you were still thinking about him. The smugness in his grin. The way he seemed to enjoy the sparring as much as you hated it.
You told yourself it was just a strategy — keeping ahead of him, making sure Kappa Nu didn’t derail Greek Week with their antics. That was all.
But when your phone buzzed with a group chat update and you caught his name in the notification — a stupid meme he’d dropped into the Greek Council thread — you found yourself rolling your eyes with more heat than usual.
Todd Stevens was infuriating.
And, annoyingly, you were starting to suspect he knew exactly how to make sure you couldn’t ignore him.
-----
The conference room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and burnt coffee, the hum of the overhead lights settling into your bones. A long stretch of evening had already bled into night, the last streaks of sunset visible through the narrow window slats.
Stacks of flyers and half-scribbled notes littered the table, a casualty of too many voices arguing over how to balance Greek Week’s events. You sat near the head of the table, pen in hand, blouse crisp, skirt smooth against your thighs. You’d come straight from class, every line of your outfit deliberate, professional — armor against the chaos Todd Stevens seemed to thrive on.
“Alright,” one of the fraternity presidents muttered, rubbing his temples. “We’ve been here two hours. Can we just vote on the damn schedule?”
Another groaned, pushing back her chair. “It’s late. I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”
One by one, they began to trickle out, mumbled excuses and quick waves trailing behind them. Within fifteen minutes, the room had emptied until only two voices remained.
Yours.
And his.
Todd lounged across from you, rolling a pen between his fingers like he had all the time in the world. His tie — if he’d even bothered with one — was long gone, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows. The casualness of it gnawed at you. He treated everything like it didn’t matter, and somehow that only made people follow him more.
You cleared your throat, straightening your papers into a neat pile. “If you’re serious about your house hosting anything during Greek Week, you’re going to have to compromise. Safety, budget, optics—”
“Optics,” Todd cut in, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. His eyes gleamed in the fluorescent light, sharp and amused. “That’s your favorite word, isn’t it?”
“It’s called responsibility,” you shot back.
“It’s called sucking the life out of everything.” He smirked, voice low, edged. “No one gives a damn about ‘optics.’ They care about having a week worth remembering.”
You bristled, the heat rushing up your chest. “And when something goes wrong, who do you think gets dragged through the mud? We do. All of us. You don’t get to just—”
“Relax,” Todd interrupted, his grin widening. “The world won’t end if people have a little fun.”
Your pen snapped against the paper. “You’re impossible.”
His gaze flicked down, caught the tension in your hand, the sharp set of your shoulders, the way your blouse stretched with the rise of your breath. He tilted his head, a smile twisting.
“And you’re wound so tight I’m surprised you don’t snap in half.”
The words landed like a spark on dry grass.
You shoved your chair back, standing, the skirt brushing your thighs as you leaned forward across the table. “At least I take this seriously. You—”
The rest of your sentence died in the air as he stood, closing the space in two steps. His hand pressed flat against the table beside your papers, his body angled into yours, heat radiating from him.
“You really hate me that much?” he asked, voice low, dangerous with amusement.
Your breath caught, not from nerves but from the sharp edge of adrenaline racing through you. “You make it very easy.”
Something shifted in his eyes then, the smirk curving sharper, hungrier.
And before you could move, he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. His mouth crashed against yours, teeth clashing, the scrape of his stubble against your skin. You gasped, shoved at his chest, but instead of pushing him away, your hands fisted in his shirt. The kiss turned brutal, consuming, his tongue forcing its way past your lips like a challenge you refused to lose.
The back of your legs hit the edge of the table, papers scattering to the floor. His hands found your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your blouse as if he could tear through it. You yanked at his shirt in retaliation, pulling him closer until his hips pressed against yours.
He lifted you just enough so he was able to bend you back against the table, the cool surface biting through the thin fabric of your skirt. His hand slid down your thigh, rough, urgent, and you gasped against his mouth, nails clawing at his shoulders.
“Still think I don’t take this seriously?” he growled against your lips.
“This?” You bit down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss. “This isn’t serious.”
He laughed, dark and breathless, before gripping your blouse at the buttons and yanking it open. Fabric strained, one button snapping free and skittering across the floor. His mouth descended to your collarbone, teeth grazing your skin.
You shoved at his shoulder, meaning to push him back, but it only pressed you closer against the edge of the table. His palm slid under your skirt, dragging roughly over your thigh until his fingers hooked the thin band of your underwear and yanked it down to your knees. You gasped, clutching at his shirt as his hand slipped between your legs, two fingers sliding through your wetness before he pressed them inside you without hesitation.
“Fuck,” he hissed, low against your throat, pumping into you with sharp, impatient thrusts of his hand. “Already so wet—guess you don’t hate me as much as you say.”
Your breath caught, not with denial but with another shuddering moan when his thumb dragged hard over your clit. “Shut up,” you snapped, hips rocking against his hand anyway. “Just—do it.”
His laugh was cruel, but it broke on a groan as you fumbled his belt open, shoving at the waistband of his slacks until he swore and took over, jerking them down just far enough to free himself. He didn’t waste a second—dragged your hips to the edge of the table, hooked your skirt up over your waist, and pushed into you in one hard, unrelenting thrust.
You cried out, nails digging into the table beneath you as he filled you, stretching you until your breath trembled. He gripped your thigh, shoving your leg higher against his side, and slammed forward again. The sharp sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the empty office, his pace brutal from the start.
The table shuddered with every movement. You clung to the edge, blouse hanging open, chest heaving as he drove into you. Your head fell back with a groan, your voice breaking on his name before you caught yourself, biting hard into your lip.
His hand slid to your throat, thumb pressing just under your jaw, not choking but holding you there, forcing your gaze on his. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you want it harder.”
Your pulse hammered under his grip, your voice ragged when you finally gave in. “Harder.”
Something dark sparked in his eyes, and he yanked out only to turn you, then shove you down flat on your stomach across the table. Papers scattered to the floor. He kicked your legs apart, grabbed your hips, and rammed back inside you so hard the edge of the table dug into your ribs. You gritted your teeth, fingers clawing at the polished wood as he pounded into you, unrelenting. Every thrust forced a broken sound out of your throat, the pace so rough you could barely breathe.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, snapping his hips against your ass again and again. “Taking me so fucking good.”
Your skirt was bunched at your waist, his shirt clinging to his back as sweat gathered at his hairline, the slap of his hips sharp and steady. You pressed your forehead to the table, half a whimper, half a curse, leaving you with each thrust.
When you pushed back against him, urging him on, he snarled and hauled you up, flipping you onto your back again with reckless strength. You barely had time to catch your breath before he shoved back inside, the angle deeper this time, forcing another cry out of you. His hand slid under your thigh, driving it higher, giving him even more leverage to slam into you.
Your voice cracked on a moan, fingers knotting in his shirt. “Don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop.”
His mouth crashed against yours in a messy, teeth-clashing kiss, all heat and no tenderness, swallowing every broken sound you gave as his hips kept their brutal rhythm.
His pace grew vicious, every thrust hammering into you until your nails scraped red crescents across his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. The table rocked beneath you, squealing against the tile, but neither of you cared. His mouth dragged down your throat, biting, sucking, leaving heat in his wake as his hips slammed mercilessly into yours.
Your back arched, the rough edge of the desk biting into your shoulder blades, but you still hooked your leg tighter around his waist, urging him closer, deeper. The friction built unbearably, every drive of his cock hitting that raw, perfect spot inside you until your moans turned ragged.
“Harder,” you gasped, voice breaking as your nails clawed at his back. “Fuck—Todd—harder.”
He growled low in his chest, grabbing your hips in both hands and driving into you with a new ferocity that knocked the breath from your lungs. The slap of skin against skin was relentless, bruising. Each thrust dragged you higher, nerves sparking, your whole body trembling from the unyielding rhythm.
Your vision blurred at the edges, the knot in your stomach tightening past the point of control. You tried to swallow the sound, but it ripped out of you anyway—a sharp, helpless cry as you came, clenching tight around him. The orgasm tore through you in waves, your back bowing, body quaking as he kept pounding into you, refusing to let up.
“Fuck, that’s it—look at you,” he snarled, his voice ragged as he pushed through your release, hips still snapping forward. “So fucking tight—fuck.”
You rode it out in shuddering gasps, your body pulsing around him, every thrust dragging out the aftershocks until you were half sobbing, half moaning beneath him. He ground deeper, chasing his own edge, the pace faltering only slightly as he lost control.
Your nails dug hard into his biceps, clinging through the relentless drive until his rhythm broke. He slammed into you one last brutal time, hips jerking as he groaned against your neck, the sound raw and guttural. His cock pulsed inside you, hot and spilling, as he thrust through the final waves of his orgasm, buried deep.
For a moment, the only sound was your breathing—ragged, uneven, echoing off the office walls. The table creaked beneath your weight, your blouse hanging open, your skirt rucked around your waist. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his chest heaving against yours, both of you spent but refusing to acknowledge what just happened yet.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. His breath was still ragged against your skin, your own chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. Heat clung to you both, the sweat on your skin cooling in the stale office air.
Then, as if the weight of what just happened hit at the same time, you both shifted. He pulled back first, his cock sliding free with a messy drag that made you flinch. You closed your legs instinctively, tugging your skirt down with trembling hands. He stepped back, shoving his pants into place, fingers jerking at the belt until it clicked.
Neither of you spoke.
You sat up, blouse gaping, one button missing. You smoothed it closed with shaking fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. The papers that had scattered across the floor looked absurd now, like a reminder that you weren’t supposed to be here for this.
He dragged a hand over his face, raking his hair back. His smirk was gone, replaced by something harder to read, but he found it quickly enough—the same armor he always wore. “Guess that’s one way to settle an argument.”
Your head snapped up, glare sharp despite the heat still crawling under your skin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
You hopped off the table, smoothing your skirt into place, forcing your blouse to close as best it could. You snatched your bag from the chair, bent to quickly grab the papers, then slipped the strap over your shoulder like it was a shield. Your pulse still raced, your body still humming from what you’d just done, but you clamped it down, shoved it deep.
His eyes lingered on you anyway, mouth twitching like he might say something else. But he didn’t.
You beat him to it, voice clipped and cold. “This never happened."
For a beat, his smirk returned—lazy, sharp, and infuriating. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. You pushed past him, heels clicking hard against the tile, the office door slamming shut behind you.
But long after you were gone, your scent still clung to the air. And Todd Stevens leaned back against the table, jaw tight, like he’d just started a fight he had no idea how to finish.
—
A few days later, you’re sitting for another Greek meeting. The conference room was too warm, the hum of the overhead lights giving the air a faint buzz that made it hard to focus. You adjusted the neat stack of papers in front of you, smoothing their edges against the polished table while the chatter of the other presidents filled the room.
Todd strolled in late, of course. No apology, just that easy swagger like he owned the place. He dropped into the seat across from you, leaned back with his arms spread along the chair’s edge, and gave you a smirk that was far too casual.
“Nice blouse,” he said, low enough that only you caught it. “Shame about the buttons, though.”
Heat flared across your cheeks before you could stop it. Your blouse was different today, crisp and perfectly buttoned all the way up, but his meaning was clear. You didn’t rise to it—not outwardly. You simply lifted your chin, voice cool. “Try being on time for once. Then maybe your input would matter.”
A few heads turned at your tone, then rolled their eyes. Another round, just like always.
The meeting dragged on, full of reminders about upcoming philanthropy events and rules for recruitment week. But every time you spoke, Todd had something to throw back. Not enough to be disruptive, just enough to needle you.
When you emphasized fundraising goals, he leaned forward, all mock sincerity. “Sure, but you can’t forget morale. People want fun, not just your boring spreadsheets.”
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Some of us value responsibility over empty keg stands.”
That earned a few muffled laughs from the others. One of the sorority presidents across the table nudged her friend and whispered—loud enough to hear—“God, they fight like a married couple.”
Todd grinned, basking in it. You stiffened. “Don’t lump me in with him,” you snapped, quicker than you meant to.
The table went quiet for a beat before chatter picked back up, but you caught the look Todd gave you: smug, knowing. Like he’d won something.
The rest of the meeting passed in the same vein—point, counterpoint, smirk, glare. By the time the council adjourned, you were wound so tight your shoulders ached.
You packed your bag neatly, methodically, while Todd leaned lazily in his chair, watching. You refused to look at him, refused to give him the satisfaction. When you finally stood, you caught his eye anyway.
“See you at the next meeting, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery.
You walked out without a word, but the sound of it clung to you all the way home.
Later, alone in your room, you tossed your bag onto the floor and sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your hands. No matter how hard you tried to focus on the agenda, on the neat rows of notes in your planner, all you could see was the flash of his mouth against your throat, the slam of his hips driving you against the table.
You pressed your palms hard against your eyes, hating that it lingered. Hating him for it. Hating yourself more.
---
The meeting had gone long. Too long. Your laptop screen glowed faintly in the dim room, the only bright spot among the scattered papers and half-drained cups of coffee.
Two of the other presidents sat across from you, leaning back in their chairs. The one from Lambda was still flipping through notes, brow furrowed in thought, while the Phi Kappa president seemed more than ready to call it a night.
You were explaining, patient but firm, how the sponsorship funds needed to be divided more fairly. Not all of it could be blown on the concert alone—events across campus needed support.
To your surprise, Lambda’s president actually smiled a little. “You’ve got a point. If we spread the budget smarter, the whole week runs smoother.”
You nodded, relieved at the support. “Exactly. We need balance if we want it to succeed long term.”
The door creaked open before you could continue. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.
“Am I interrupting?” Todd drawled, leaning casually against the frame. His tie was loosened, shirt sleeves rolled, the look of someone who hadn’t cared enough to fix himself after his last class—or maybe his last drink.
The Phi Kappa president sighed. “We’re just wrapping.”
Todd pushed off the frame and sauntered in, sliding into the empty seat next to you. “Good. Thought I’d add my two cents before everyone makes the wrong decision.”
You stiffened but said nothing.
He started talking anyway. About how the concert should stay the centerpiece, how visibility mattered more than “boring logistics.” To your mounting irritation, Phi Kappa perked up, nodding along.
You cut in, sharper than you intended. “Short-term gains. It’ll crash and burn in a year if we don’t build it right.”
The argument simmered until Lambda’s president finally held up his hands. “Look, you both have points. But it’s late.” He glanced at Phi Kappa, who gave a tired nod. “Let’s pick it back up tomorrow.”
They gathered their things quickly. A few muttered goodnights, a door shutting behind them—and suddenly, it was just you and Todd.
The silence felt thick, heavier now.
You tried to focus back on your notes, flipping a page with unnecessary force. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that infuriating half-grin. “What? Thought we fucked the tension out of you already.”
You froze, lips parting in a sharp breath, nose slightly snarled. “You’re disgusting.”
“Maybe.” He shifted closer, facing you, and before you could react, his hand settled firm and hot on your upper thigh.
You jerked slightly in your seat, eyes darting to his, but you didn’t move his hand away. His fingers flexed slowly against you, testing, deliberate.
He caught that tiny flicker in your gaze—the one you tried to bury—the need you didn’t want him to see. His smirk curved deeper.
“You look like you want me to prove my point.” His voice was low, near your ear, whispering something that managed to crawl under your skin, both irritating and intoxicating.
Your breath hitched, and instead of shoving him off, your knees parted a little more.
He didn’t waste time, scooting his chair as close to you as possible. His hand trailed higher, tugging at your waistband, working open a button with unhurried ease. His fingers slipped beneath, brushing heat, teasing.
At the same time, your hand slid to his lap, feeling the hard line forming beneath the fabric of his slacks. His sharp inhale told you exactly how much he wanted this, too.
He pressed two fingers into you suddenly, no warning, and your head tipped back against the chair with a choked sound.
His mouth found your neck, lips dragging hot against your skin before his teeth bit down on your collarbone. The sting drew a moan from you, unwilling but raw, and it spurred him harder, rougher. His fingers worked deep, curling, steady.
You clutched his arm with both hands, body tightening, warmth spiraling low. He put his unused hand on the back of your chair.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick with heat. “You hate me so much, don’t you? Hate me—and you still take me so damn well.”
Your whole body trembled as he drove you higher, not quite close enough but dangerous, your thighs twitching helplessly under his grip. Heat burned in your chest, sharp with frustration, and you shoved your hand down into his pants, wrapping around him and stroking with the same merciless pace he used on you. His hips jerked, a broken breath slipping through his teeth, but his rhythm on you never faltered. If anything, his fingers tightened, punishing, like he wanted to remind you who was leading.
And then—
Footsteps. A door slamming somewhere down the hall. Voices carrying faintly, growing nearer. You both froze. His hand stilled inside you, your hand still buried in his pants. The voices faded, moving away again. No one came in.
But the spell was broken.
You pulled back first, yanking your hand free, fumbling to fix your waistband with shaking fingers. He sat back, eyes dark, lips parted like he was caught between a curse and a laugh.
Neither of you said a word.
You grabbed your bag, avoiding his gaze, and stood. Your legs felt unsteady, trembling with what almost happened, what nearly consumed you.
You left without looking back, the door closing harder than you meant.
Todd sat there, jaw tight, still breathing unevenly, his hand flexing open and shut against his thigh.
---
The next council meeting should have been business as usual. The room was the same—fluorescent lights humming, papers scattered across the table, presidents trading half-baked ideas like poker chips. But something was different.
Todd was different.
He was there, of course, sprawled in his usual chair with the same loosened tie and careless posture, but the edge was dulled. Normally, he’d cut through conversation with a smirk and some needling remark just sharp enough to get under your skin. Today, he barely opened his mouth.
When someone pitched an idea about expanding the tailgate event, you braced yourself for his inevitable interruption—something about “bigger is better” or “leave it to the pros.” But Todd only hummed, flipping a pen between his fingers and glancing vaguely down at his notes.
You found yourself watching him more than you meant to. His eyes looked darker than usual, shadowed, and when he did finally speak, it came out flat. Not lazy-cocky—tired.
It unsettled you. You told yourself it was only because you weren’t used to the silence.
When the meeting finally adjourned, you left quickly, telling yourself not to linger. Still, you caught yourself wondering.
Later that week, an unplanned party at his fraternity house made forgetting impossible.
Music rattled the windows, laughter and shouts spilling out into the night air as people crowded the porch and the lawn. Your sorority sisters had dragged you along, eager for free drinks and the chance to flirt with frat boys you had no patience for.
You lasted just long enough to make an appearance before slipping away, weaving through the noise toward the exit.
That’s when you saw him.
Todd sat at the far end of the porch steps, alone. No drink in hand, no crowd orbiting him, no grin plastered across his face. Just him, elbows braced loosely on his knees, head tilted slightly down, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.
Smoke curled faintly in the cool night, catching the glow of the porch light.
His expression was blank—not brooding, not calculating, just…gone. The carefully cultivated smirk, the spark in his eye, all of it stripped bare. He looked like someone who’d run out of energy to hold himself together.
You froze, half in shadow near the door. The Todd you knew—the Todd who needled you, pressed you against desks, whispered filth against your skin—was nowhere in sight.
This version of him wasn’t supposed to exist.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly, and you hated that. You hated noticing, hated the tug of curiosity, hated the quiet ache that crept in despite every good reason to ignore it. So you did. You stepped away, slipping into the night without a word.
Still, the image burned behind your eyes long after—the smoke, the sag of his shoulders, the tiredness he couldn’t hide when he thought no one was watching.
You told yourself not to care. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But the crack was there now, and you couldn’t unsee it.
---
Less than a week later, you had business to discuss with Todd. The bass from inside the house rattled through the porch steps as you knocked on the heavy front door, trying not to roll your eyes at the thrum of laughter and shouting spilling out. It took longer than it should have for someone to answer, and when the door finally cracked open, you were greeted by a wide, smug grin.
“Hey there,” one of Todd’s boys drawled, leaning lazily against the frame. His eyes dragged down your thigh-length flowy dress without even a pretense of subtlety. “You look good, baby. You lost? ’Cause I can think of about a hundred better reasons to be at our house than whatever you're here for, starting with me.”
You crossed your ankles where you stood, letting your shoulder rest lightly against the opposite frame; your posture remained cool, even as irritation curled in your stomach. “I’m not here for you. Go get Todd.”
He chuckled, moving far too close to you. “Todd doesn’t wanna talk to you, baby girl. But I’ve got plenty of time, and a room upstairs. You’d like it.”
Your mouth tightened, ready to snap back, when a voice cut through behind him.
“The fuck are you doing?”
Todd appeared in the hallway, his expression like steel. He shoved the guy lightly but firmly out of the way, planting himself in the doorway. His eyes cut to you—one sharp glance that softened into something heavier when he registered your dress. Then, back to his frat brother, his jaw clenched.
“You think I don’t see you running your mouth like that? Go. Now.”
The other guy muttered something under his breath and slunk back into the crowd, throwing you one last leer. Todd didn’t watch him go; his eyes flicked over you again, a quick up-and-down that was more of a performance for the boys still lingering in the hall than for you.
“What do you want?” he asked, voice flat, carrying just enough of his usual bite to keep up appearances. “Besides making my guys drool all over the entryway.”
You tilted your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “That urgent presidents’ meeting? Across campus? My ride bailed, so you’re it.”
His brows pulled together faintly. “Funny, didn’t hear about this meeting.”
A laugh slipped out, sharper than you meant it. “Maybe because you must not check your email like a functioning adult.”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face before turning away. “Christ. Fine. Give me a second.” He disappeared down the hall toward his office. When he returned with keys dangling from his hand, he poked you in the shoulder with two fingers, nudging you off the doorframe. “Move.” You let the touch slide off you like nothing, stepping aside and following him out into the night.
The car was quiet when you slid into the passenger seat, the music from the house muffling as the door shut. He started the engine without looking at you, waiting as you reached forward and keyed the address into his GPS.
His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to the road as he pulled away. The silence stretched. He seemed almost wary, his usual snark subdued. You didn’t say a word.
The tires hissed faintly as Todd’s car rolled over cracked pavement, the echo of rubber bouncing off the concrete pillars. You told him to pull in, to park anywhere. He shot you a look, brows raised, but followed your instruction. His headlights washed over faded yellow lines across the abandoned parking garage before he cut the engine, the sudden silence making the space feel cavernous.
He glanced at you, confusion flickering. “Why the fuck are we—”
You didn’t answer. You just reached over, grabbed his hand, and pressed it against your thigh, under your dress. His palm was warm, his fingers tense until you shifted, guiding his hand higher. Your own slid over the line of his thigh, thumb brushing the ridge of his zipper where he was already straining.
His lips parted, eyes darkening. “What the—”
“Move your seat back,” you said, low and firm.
He stared at you, disbelieving. “Why—”
“Do it,” you cut in, sharper.
Something in your tone snapped through the fog of his hesitation. He exhaled hard through his nose and reached down, the seat groaning as it slid back. Before he could even finish leaning, you shifted, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, your dress falling around your thighs. His hands caught at your hips instinctively, fingers digging in.
“We won’t have to worry about getting caught here,” you murmured, leaning just close enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear.
That was all it took. His grip on your waist tightened, and his jaw flexed. “You’re outta your goddamn mind,” he muttered, but it came out ragged, almost reverent.
You kissed him hard, not giving him room to think. His teeth caught at your lower lip, his breath sharp as his tongue slid against yours. One of his hands pushed up your dress, bunching the fabric around your hips, while the other trailed down your back.
You ground against him, the hard line of his cock thick under his pants, and his groan vibrated into your mouth. He broke the kiss to tip his head back, eyes half-lidded as you undid his belt, your hands quick and sure. He shoved his hand between your thighs, thumb grazing your entrance through damp lace, and cursed low. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”
“Shut up,” you hissed, fumbling his zipper down and sliding your hand inside his boxers. He was hot and hard, twitching in your palm.
“Bossy little—” He didn’t finish. Two of his fingers pushed past the thin fabric and slid into you, burying deep. Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, a sharp gasp tearing out of you as your nails dug into his arm. He worked his fingers ruthlessly, curling just right, his thumb pressing hard against your clit until your thighs shook around him.
You barely managed to get his cock free before he pulled his hand away and grabbed your hips, hauling you up. He shoved your underwear aside with rough efficiency, lined himself up, and in one hard thrust, he filled you. Your cry echoed in the cavern of the garage, muffled quickly by his mouth sealing over yours.
The stretch burned in the best way, his cock thick and deep, and before you could adjust, he was snapping his hips up, slamming into you. Each thrust jolted you, your back hitting the steering wheel once before he yanked you down lower in the seat, keeping you flush against him.
You clung to his shoulders, your nails raking through the thin fabric of his shirt as you rode him, bouncing on his cock. The slap of your bodies filled the car, the windows fogging fast with heat. Soft moans escaped as you take his entire length, biting back the urge to say his name in pleasure.
When your rhythm faltered, breath catching in your throat, he snarled against your mouth and took over. His hands locked on your hips, dragging you down hard as he drove up into you, punishing thrusts that made your whole body jolt.
“Take it,” he gritted out, his voice harsh, sweat dampening his temple.
You bit your lip so hard you tasted iron, your head falling back as his cock pounded into you, your walls fluttering tight around him.
He slapped your ass, once, sharply, and your cry only spurred him. He did it again, then gripped the sting, pulling you down harder, faster, until the seat creaked under you both.
“Look at you—” his words broke into a groan as your cunt clenched tight around him. “Can’t stand me, but you fucking love this.”
You couldn’t even form a retort. Your body was trembling, building fast, his relentless rhythm pushing you higher and higher. His thumb found your clit again, rough, circling as he slammed into you.
Your orgasm ripped through you suddenly and hard, your cry muffled against his neck as your whole body locked around him. You clutched his shoulders, legs tightening at his sides, riding the wave until you were shaking.
He groaned at the way you pulsed around him, but didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, his hips snapping harder, chasing his own edge. Sweat slicked your chest to his, the air thick with heat and breath and the sound of skin on skin.
“Fuck, fuck—” he gasped, his grip bruising on your hips as his thrusts lost rhythm. He buried deep, holding you down against him as his release hit, his whole body jerking under you. He cursed, ragged into your neck, grinding in deep as he spilled inside you.
The car went quiet except for your mingled panting, both of you slumped against each other, the windows dripping with condensation.
Neither of you said a word. Not yet.
You leaned forward, palms braced against the back of his seat, your breath coming in ragged pulls. Your thighs were still trembling where they straddled him, your body pulsing around him even as the sharp edge of release faded. Todd’s chest rose and fell beneath you, heat rolling off him in waves, his hands still gripping your hips like he wasn’t ready to let go.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of breath, skin, the tick of the cooling engine. Then, low and rough, he muttered against the space between you.
“What are we doing?”
The words cut through the fog, quiet but heavy. His eyes locked on yours, unguarded, searching.
You shifted back, ready to climb off him and slip into the passenger seat, but his hand slid down, fingers curling into the lace at your hip.
“Todd—”
The lace caught as you moved. You tried to tug them back into place, but he held on tighter, the delicate fabric giving way under his grip. By the time you’d pulled yourself free of his lap, settling shakily into the seat beside him, your panties were in his hand.
He leaned back, chest still heaving, gaze steady on you. Not smirking, not taunting. Just flat. Certain. As if the decision had already been made: they were his now.
You reached out once, halfheartedly, but he moved his arm away without smirking, without teasing. Not cruel, not playful. Just final.
You didn’t push.
Adjusting your dress, you smoothed the fabric down, your skin prickling from the night air that managed to seep through the cracked windows. Todd shoved himself back into his jeans, tugging the zipper up in one motion, his eyes flicking once to you, then away. No words. No jokes. Just silence thick enough to choke on.
He readjusted his seat back into place. When he turned the key, the engine coughed to life, the low rumble filling the space. He shifted the car into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. His profile was cut in pieces by the passing streetlights as he drove — sharp jawline, lips pressed tight, eyes hard on the road. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, but the mask was back in place.
Almost.
His hand flexed once against the wheel, knuckles pale.
Neither of you spoke the whole ride back. The hum of tires over asphalt, the thrum of bass from parties echoing across campus, the whisper of your own pulse in your ears — all louder than the words you weren’t saying.
At a red light, he shifted his weight, drumming his fingers of one hand once against the leather wheel, while the other hand tightened its grip around your lace underwear. His gaze flicked sideways. For a second, his eyes caught on your bare thighs, the hem of your dress resting high without your underwear. His jaw tightened, throat working, but he didn’t say anything.
When he pulled up in front of your sorority house, he killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening. You reached for the door handle, your voice still caught somewhere in your chest.
Just as you pushed it open, his voice cut through. Low, almost flat.
“Guess we’ll just… pretend this didn’t happen.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The porch light washed you in gold as you slipped out, your legs still shaky against the pavement. You didn’t look back until you were at the steps, hand on the railing.
He was still there. Headlights glowing, his silhouette steady behind the wheel, watching.
Only when you went inside did the car finally roll away, tail lights fading into the night.
---
A week later, you take your friends to a house party at KNA. The music hit you first when you stepped inside — bass heavy enough that it shook the floorboards, laughter spilling over it, the sticky-sweet smell of alcohol clinging to everything. The house was alive, bodies pressed into every corner, drinks raised high, voices pitched louder than the music just to be heard.
For once, you let yourself lean into it. Your friends tugged you toward the kitchen, already shrieking with laughter, and someone shoved a cup into your hand. It was too sweet, some mix of juice and cheap vodka, but you drank it anyway, warmth buzzing in your chest before long.
The night blurred into something easy — a conversation shouted over the music, a familiar song pulling you into dancing, laughter breaking through your usual guard. It was good. Simple. Fun.
Until your gaze snagged on him.
Todd stood near the doorway, red cup dangling from his hand, posture loose in that calculated way he had. The memory slammed into you quick and unbidden — the press of his hips under yours, his hand fisted in lace, the words he’d breathed against your skin: what are we doing?
Your throat tightened. You forced your eyes back to your friends.
Except then he was there, cutting into your circle like he owned it.
“Well, look at that,” Todd drawled, grin already in place. His eyes slid deliberately to you. “Didn’t think you knew how to have fun. Guess you’re not as stuck-up as you look.”
Your friends howled, leaning into one another, delighted. You tilted your head, a smirk creeping in slowly, deliberate and sharp. “I’ll admit it—you nearly managed to walk in without being obnoxious.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest, but the smirk never wavered. “And here I was trying to compliment you.”
Before you could cut him down again, one of your friends leaned closer, liquid courage bright in her eyes. “Todd, she’s not the only one who looks good tonight.” She gave a little grin, biting the rim of her cup. “I wouldn’t mind if you came around more often.”
The laugh that bubbled from the group stung in your chest. You buried it fast, schooling your face into something dismissive, sipping your drink as if it didn’t matter.
Todd’s grin sharpened. He knew. He knew.
“Careful,” he said smoothly, eyes darting back to you before settling on your friend. “You say things like that, I might start thinking you mean it.”
Your stomach twisted. Not with jealousy — you wouldn’t call it that, couldn’t — but with irritation hot enough to burn. At him. At her. At yourself, for caring at all.
Your friend made a show of sighing dramatically, and your other friends laughed, fanning the flames, nudging her shoulders.
You waved him off with deliberate disgust, flicking your wrist. “God, spare us.”
He leaned back on his heels, smirk lazy, and it was like the two of you were speaking another language in front of everyone. “Tragic,” he said, voice pitched just for you. “Guess I’ll have to find someone else who appreciates me.”
Your friends laughed louder, your friend pouted theatrically, and you kept your expression sharp and cool, even as the heat in your stomach refused to fade.
The moment passed. The music pressed back in, conversations picking up again, the party carrying itself forward. You forced yourself to laugh along, even danced when another song hit. For a while, it worked.
But then — the ripple.
It started in whispers, easy to miss over the music. Someone leaning too close, murmuring sharp words. A pair of girls slipping quickly upstairs, tight in the shoulders. Laughter shifted into uneasy glances.
You frowned, pausing mid-sip. “What’s going on?” you asked, but no one answered directly.
The whispers built, passing from group to group, until you caught a thread clear enough to understand: one of Todd’s housemates. A girl from another sorority. Something upstairs.
The sweetness in your drink soured on your tongue. You set it down, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
The music kept going, but the atmosphere shifted — joy tilting into unease, like a party gone stale in an instant.
And then — the sound that cut through it all.
Todd’s voice, sharp and furious, crashed over the crowd.
The bass still thumped, laughter and chatter still rolled, but the edges of the night were fraying. Uneasy whispers darted faster now, cutting through the haze of alcohol and music. You caught another clear fragment — “upstairs,” “his house,” “she said no” — and your chest tightened.
Then Todd’s voice cracked across the room like a whip.
“EVERYBODY OUT!”
The music kept playing, but it didn’t matter — his shout drowned it out, raw and furious in a way you’d never heard. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t posturing. His face was thunder, his voice fire.
“I SAID OUT!”
The living room froze, laughter dying sharp in throats. Cups hovered midair. Then a rush of motion — bodies stumbling toward the door, confusion mounting.
Todd’s frat brothers scattered, panic flashing across their faces. Two bolted for the stairs, others ran from room to room, yelling half-formed excuses, trying to contain whatever had detonated upstairs.
“Shut it down!” one barked. “Turn the music off—fuck, turn it off!”
The music cut with a harsh click, leaving only the sound of voices overlapping, chairs scraping, the slam of the front door as people poured out. The air felt electric, jagged with tension.
And there was Todd, standing at the center of it all, chest heaving, jaw locked tight. His eyes cut across the room, daring anyone to question him. No one did.
“Party’s over!” he roared again, voice cracking with something deeper this time — rage, fear, desperation all tangled into one. “Get the fuck out of my house!”
And they listened.
The crowd broke apart like water, rushing toward the exits, laughter replaced with nervous chatter, with the occasional sharp voice asking what happened? Nobody stayed long enough to find out.
Around you, your friends shifted uneasily. One gave a half-hearted laugh, another mumbled about needing to go, and before you could say a word, they slipped into the current of people flowing out the door, leaving you rooted in place.
You couldn’t look away from him.
Todd’s mask was gone. No grin, no lazy arrogance — just exhaustion and fury, the weight of a house, a name, an entire brotherhood pressing down on his shoulders. For a moment, he looked older, sharper. Broken in a way you weren’t supposed to see.
And then, as the room emptied, he disappeared. One second at the center of the storm, the next gone, swallowed by the darkened hallway at the back of the house.
You stayed standing in the wreckage, chest tight, the sound of doors slamming and footsteps fading into the night.
The house felt hollow once the crowd thinned. Music silenced, chatter gone, only the stray clink of bottles against countertops and the muffled slam of a door upstairs breaking through the quiet. A sticky mix of spilled beer and sweat hung in the air.
You hesitated at first, still near the living room, hands wrapped tight around your empty cup like it was an anchor. You could leave. Slip out into the night with everyone else, let this storm settle without you. That would be the smart thing. The safe thing.
But you found yourself moving anyway.
Down the hallway, past discarded jackets and forgotten shoes, past a door that swung open to reveal two frat brothers in whispered argument before it snapped shut again. Your heels stuck faintly to the floor as you walked, each step carrying you deeper into the house.
You found him outside.
The back porch light was dim, casting long shadows across the wooden steps where Todd sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The noise from inside barely reached out here, just the occasional muffled voice, but mostly there was quiet.
For a moment, you almost didn’t recognize him.
He wasn’t performing. No easy grin. No sharp-eyed smirk. Just a man sitting in the dark, shoulders heavy, the weight of something invisible bowing him down.
You stood in the doorway longer than you meant to, hand curled around the frame, unsure if you should intrude. He must’ve heard you, because his head lifted slightly, eyes catching the weak light.
“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” His voice was low, rough, not cutting but tired. “I don’t need you hanging around. Pretty sure you don’t want to be here either.”
The sting of his dismissal should’ve been enough to push you back inside. But the words slid right out of your mouth before you could stop them.
“Yeah? I never want you anywhere, but you’re always still there.”
His gaze lingered, then—unexpectedly—he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t sharp. It was almost… sad.
Silence stretched between you. The kind that settled heavy instead of awkward, the kind you didn’t know what to do with.
Finally, he exhaled, the sound shaky around the edges.
“You don’t get it,” he muttered, leaning back on his hands. His eyes drifted out over the dark yard, away from you. “Everything they do? It’s on me. Every screw-up, every fight, every party that goes too far. It’s all mine to carry. Doesn’t matter if I was in the room or not. It’s my name. My house. My responsibility.”
His jaw flexed, a shadow crossing his face as he added, quieter:
“And when it goes bad… it always goes bad on me.”
You didn’t know what to say. Words pressed at the back of your throat but stuck there, useless. So you didn’t speak. You just stepped forward, lowering yourself onto the step a few feet away from him. Not touching, not even looking directly at him—just there.
The silence thickened again, but this time it wasn’t empty. It was shared.
He didn’t thank you. You didn’t tell him it’d be fine. Neither of you moved.
But the crack was there now.
The mask you’d thought was unshakable had slipped, and you couldn’t unsee it.
---
The council room smelled faintly of stale coffee and polished wood, chairs arranged around the long table like they’d been waiting for hours. You slid into your seat, straightening your blouse, smoothing the crease of your skirt. Two weeks to Greek Week, and everyone looked just as exhausted as you felt.
Todd was already there, leaning back in his chair with that familiar crooked grin, eyes scanning the agenda in front of him. He caught your gaze almost immediately, and for a split second, you thought he’d flash that smirk directly at you, but he held it, just a tilt of the corner of his mouth, like a challenge.
The meeting started slowly, the other presidents taking turns rattling off final plans. Budgets, event orders, security, music — every detail methodically ticked off. You stayed sharp, responding clearly when asked, offering your own suggestions where needed. Todd chimed in occasionally, usually leaning on humor to soften critique, but you noticed the slight tension in the way he tapped his pen, the way his eyes flicked toward the room’s clock more than once.
He was back to his usual confident persona, but you could feel it — the cracks under the surface, the weariness he’d been hiding since the party. His shoulders stiffened when someone suggested changing a venue; his grin faltered when another president challenged the schedule. For anyone else, it would have been unnoticeable, but you’d seen the weight he carried before.
By the time the meeting drew toward the end, almost everyone was on the same page. Todd leaned over his papers, scribbling a few notes, his expression unreadable, and you quietly gathered your things.
You left first, stepping out into the brisk evening air, the hum of campus life wrapping around you. The tension of the meeting clung to your shoulders like a weight, but you forced yourself to inhale and shake it off.
Behind you, the conference room remained quiet except for the scratch of his pen on paper. Todd lingered, studying the itinerary as if it held some hidden code only he could decipher. You didn’t see him, but you knew he was still there.
You stopped on the sidewalk to text a friend, thumbs moving almost unconsciously. A moment later, you sensed movement beside you.
“I can’t believe you think this schedule makes sense,” a voice murmured.
You looked up, expecting him to be on a call. Instead, Todd was standing there, hands in his pockets, head cocked slightly, looking at you as if you’d grown three heads.
“…What?” you asked, frowning.
He shrugged, expression light, teasing — but there was a glint behind his eyes that didn’t fit the casualness. “Thought I’d check if you were keeping up with the real chaos,” he said casually.
You stared, blinking. “Are… are you on the phone?”
“Nope,” he said, grin widening. “All yours.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and glanced at him again, still baffled. He just tilted his head, hands slipping deeper into his pockets, silent except for that infuriating smirk.
For a moment, you fell into step beside him, neither of you speaking. The air between you was a delicate tension — unacknowledged, but heavy. Your mind briefly drifted back to the car, to the evening that still throbbed under your skin, and then you shook it off, stepping into the rhythm of walking side by side.
Half an hour of silence passed comfortably as you walked without realizing where you were headed. By the time you looked up, the familiar facade of his frat house loomed ahead.
“…How did we end up here?” you asked, frowning.
Todd’s grin stretched, smug and self-satisfied. “Oh, you followed me like the lost puppy you are.”
You bristled immediately, stepping back, feeling the sting of offense. “Excuse me?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning slightly back. “Relax. I’m kidding.”
You stormed a few steps forward, heels clicking against the pavement. “I don’t have time for your jokes—”
“Wait,” he said quickly, voice firm but not harsh. “I’m sorry. Don’t walk away.”
You glanced over your shoulder, eyes narrowed, but something in the vulnerability behind his smirk made you hesitate. He stepped closer, the quiet tension between you deepening, yet still charged with that teasing edge.
“I… I need your help with some Greek Week stuff,” he admitted, softer this time, voice almost pleading beneath the arrogance.
Despite yourself, you exhaled and nodded. “Fine,” you muttered.
The air between you stayed tight, stretched thin, as you weighed whether to leave him standing there with his apology or give in to the softer edge in his voice. You finally exhaled through your nose, shoulders loosening just enough.
“I’ve got all the literature at my place,” you said, tone clipped, like you had to convince yourself as much as him. “We’ll just… go there. Easier.”
Todd’s smirk faltered, then reshaped itself into something quieter—half smug, half relief. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”
The two of you walked side by side down the dim campus sidewalks. Evening settled in, the streetlamps spilling yellow pools of light over the concrete, making the silence between you feel heavier than words. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at you once or twice, but you didn’t bite. Neither of you needed to fill the quiet; it was thick enough.
Your sorority house was alive when you arrived, a low hum of voices drifting from the common areas, laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the hall. No one paid much attention as you pushed open the door and held it just long enough for him to slip in behind you. A couple of sisters glanced up, then immediately turned back to their phones or conversations, too distracted to care who you brought in.
You led him up the stairs, the creak of each step far louder than usual. The closer you got to your room, the more aware you became of his presence at your back—the warmth of him, the sound of his boots against the wood, the way he didn’t say a single word.
Inside your room, you set your bag down, flipping on the lamp by your desk. The soft golden glow lit up the walls, familiar and safe, though the energy in the air shifted sharply with him in your space.
Todd stepped in slowly, gaze scanning the room like he was cataloging everything about it—your books, the blanket folded on the chair, the neat stack of Greek Week folders by your desk. He gave a low hum, like he was trying not to smile.
“You gonna give me the grand tour, or are we straight to business?” he teased lightly, but it didn’t carry the usual bite.
You ignored him, moving to your desk and pulling the folders into a pile. “Sit. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter.”
He chuckled under his breath but obeyed, lowering himself into the chair by the desk, arms folded loosely across his chest. You spread papers out, flipping through them quickly, your voice steady as you started to talk him through deadlines and assignments.
It wasn’t until you looked up mid-sentence that you realized he wasn’t listening. Not even close.
His eyes weren’t on the papers—they were on you.
His gaze lingered, steady enough that it made the hair on the back of your neck rise. You faltered mid-word, flipping through the folder in your hands even though you’d already lost your place.
“…You’re not paying attention,” you muttered, refusing to look at him.
“Not to the papers, no.” His voice was quiet, almost careful, but that ever-present smirk tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.
You finally met his eyes, intending to glare, but the look on his face stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t wearing that cocky armor he loved to hide behind. He just stared, caught in something unspoken, like the room had gone still around the two of you.
Your throat tightened. You set the folder back on the desk with more force than necessary, stepping closer, driven by something you couldn’t quite name. His shoulders tensed as you approached, though he didn’t move.
“Then what are you paying attention to?” you asked softly.
He froze, lips parting just slightly, but he didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.
The air thickened, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. For a heartbeat, you hesitated—then you knelt and reached out, your fingers brushing the hem of his shirt before sliding underneath. His skin was warm, firm beneath your palms, and his breath hitched as you smoothed your hands higher along his torso.
Todd didn’t move at first. He just sat there, caught somewhere between shock and surrender, until you tugged at the fabric like you meant to strip away the last of his defenses. That broke him.
In a quick, fluid motion, he stood, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the floor without care. You stood back up and mirrored him, slipping out of your blazer, then the blouse underneath, until the cool air brushed against your bare skin. His eyes darkened as they trailed down your body, not with the hunger of before, but with something softer, slower, far more dangerous.
The space between you collapsed when you grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled his mouth to yours. The kiss was hot, clumsy at first, both of you hungry but trying not to rush, trying to drag this out as though you both knew what it meant.
He stumbled forward, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You let yourself fall, the mattress dipping beneath you, and he followed, bracing himself over you as the kisses deepened.
Your hands fumbled at his jeans, tugging impatiently at the button, and he answered in kind, undoing yours with steady fingers. You laughed breathlessly against his mouth, helping him shove both pairs of pants down and off, the urgency less about lust and more about closing the distance that had been strung so tight for so long.
When he hooked his fingers into your underwear and slid them down, the teasing smirk was gone. He looked at you for just a moment, like asking permission without saying a word, and when you didn’t stop him, he lowered himself, lips pressing against your thigh before moving inward.
Your head tipped back, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it, your hands threading into his hair instinctively. His tongue moved slow, deliberate, savoring every reaction, every twitch of your hips. It was nothing like before—no rush, no game, just him giving himself over to this moment.
When his lips left you, you nearly whimpered at the loss, but then his thumb slid inside, gentle but firm, and the sound that escaped you was sharper. You clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling yourself, heat flooding your cheeks.
Todd lifted his head, grinning faintly, and crawled back up your body, hovering over you until his mouth found yours again. His kiss was soft, lingering, his thumb slipping free as his weight pressed you deeper into the mattress.
Your chest rose and fell against his, and you whispered his name like you hadn’t meant to let it slip. The sound stilled him, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. He searched your face for a long moment, eyes flicking over every line as though making sure you were still there, still willing, still his to hold.
His hesitation held, his weight hovering just enough that you could feel the tremor in his arms. “Are you sure?” he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.
The question slipped past his usual arrogance, past the walls he carried. It was raw, unpolished. It was Todd, bare in a way you’d never seen him before.
You cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, and nodded. “Yes.”
That was all it took. He kissed you again, slower this time, as if sealing your answer into him. His hand drifted down, steadying at your hip, and then you felt the heat of him pressing at your entrance. He paused, searching your face one last time, and when you didn’t pull away, he eased forward.
The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your throat. He froze instantly, jaw tight, eyes darting back to yours as if afraid he’d pushed too far. You tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him down to you, your lips brushing against his ear.
“Don’t stop.”
His breath left him in a shudder as he pressed deeper, inch by slow inch, until he was fully seated inside you. The closeness stole your breath—his chest against yours, his hands framing your face, the warmth of his body sinking into you until there was no space left.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You just held onto each other, his forehead pressed to yours, your nails biting lightly into his shoulders as you adjusted around him. When you finally shifted your hips, inviting him, he groaned low in his throat and began to move.
The pace was nothing like before. No reckless rhythm, no frantic push for release. He thrust slow, steady, every stroke measured, his lips finding yours again and again between broken breaths. You moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as though to keep him there.
He murmured your name against your lips like it was the only tether he had. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pinning them above your head while his mouth trailed down your neck. He lingered there, sucking gently at your skin until you writhed beneath him, whispering for more.
“Please, Todd…” The words escaped in a trembling plea.
He answered not with words, but with a deeper thrust that pulled a cry from your lips. He adjusted you carefully, sliding a pillow under your hips, coaxing more pleasure from the angle. His other hand cupped your cheek, grounding you as he moved, the look in his eyes more intimate than anything he’d ever said aloud.
Your breath came fast, your body arching into his. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, soft and desperate, matched only by the ragged rhythm of his breathing. When you bucked your hips toward him, his jaw tightened, the effort to hold back plain on his face.
You clung to him, your moans muffled against his shoulder, and begged again. “Don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” he groaned, thrusting harder now, chasing the shudder that wracked your body as you trembled around him.
The release crashed through you suddenly, white-hot, stealing your breath as your nails dug into his back. He gasped at the feel of you tightening around him, his rhythm faltering before he pushed harder, faster, chasing his own edge.
“God—” The word tore from his throat as he spilled into you, his hips stuttering against yours, his head burying into your neck as he groaned your name.
For a long time, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, chest heaving, sweat beading along his temple. Your hand found his hair again, holding him close, grounding him as the weight of what had just happened settled heavy and warm between you.
When he finally pulled back, his face hovered just above yours, his eyes glassy, searching. You lifted your head to kiss him—soft, lingering, not rushed or needy, but enough to say what neither of you had dared voice.
He sighed into your mouth, and you laughed quietly against his lips, the sound breaking the tension. He smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours, before lowering himself beside you.
The air in the room was thick with heat, with the ache of bodies worn through, but you didn’t move. Instead, you curled closer into him, and when his arm wrapped around you, it felt like something that had been waiting to happen all along.
The quiet stretched, comfortable now, broken only by the sound of your breaths syncing against one another. You sat up just enough to tug the nearest shirt off the floor—his—and slipped it over your head, the fabric hanging loose against your skin. Your underwear lay nearby, and you gathered those too, slipping them back on as you eased back down into the bed.
Todd shifted, watching you with that unreadable gaze, before sitting up long enough to drag his boxer briefs back on. Then he moved again, deliberately, slipping down onto the mattress beside you. His arm looped naturally around your waist as he drew you in, his chest pressed against your back, his heat wrapping over you like a blanket.
You sighed, the tension finally draining out of your body. “You’re in the way,” you muttered softly, though your hand was already reaching back, searching for him.
He only smiled, his voice a low rumble against the crown of your head. “This is my side. Closest to the door.”
The statement was casual, offhand, almost—but there was something protective in it too. Something that made your chest ache. You didn’t answer, not out loud, just let your fingers find his. He caught them easily, twining his hand with yours, and you tugged it closer, pressing it to your chest where your heart still beat fast from everything you’d just shared.
The world outside your room went quiet. You could still hear faint laughter and footsteps down the hall, but it felt far away, unimportant. What mattered was the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back, the brush of his breath against your hair, and the solid weight of his hand in yours.
Little by little, your eyelids grew heavier. His grip stayed firm, steady, not letting go, as if this—this closeness, this quiet—was something he wasn’t willing to risk losing.
You drifted like that, the two of you wound tight together, until the pull of sleep finally closed over you both.
Early morning light slipped through the thin curtains, the kind that turned everything in your room hazy and soft. The air was still, the quiet only broken by Todd’s even breaths against the back of your neck, his arm heavy and loose around your waist. You hadn’t moved since drifting off, both of you tangled up the way you fell asleep—his body curved to yours, your fingers still threaded with his against your chest like you were keeping him there.
The knock was so light at first you thought you had dreamed it. Then your door creaked, hinges groaning softly, and a crack of hallway light broke into the room.
“Hey, did you—”
Your sister’s voice cut itself off mid-sentence. You shifted just enough to see her pause in the doorway, eyes flicking to the bed. All she saw was the shape of a man’s back—Todd’s broad shoulders bare, his arm draped over you like it belonged there. She blinked once, realization dawning too slowly, then blurted a startled, panicked, “Oh! Sorry!” before slamming the door shut again.
You froze, heat rushing into your face.
But Todd didn’t stiffen. He half-laughed into your hair, the sound low and still edged with sleep, and murmured, “Guess that’s my cue to climb out the window.”
You turned your head just enough to glance back at him, lips twitching. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
His mouth brushed a smile against your temple. “Bossy.”
“Mm,” you hummed, burrowing back against his chest, tugging his arm tighter around you until you were cocooned again. The moment could’ve turned awkward—should’ve, probably—but instead it folded inward, softened. He kissed the side of your head like it was the easiest thing in the world, and the quiet stretched comfortably between you.
Neither of you moved for a long while. Time slowed in that warm, secret bubble, until you finally sighed and shifted, reality nudging its way back in. Todd groaned softly, rolling onto his back with a stretch, his arm falling away reluctantly. You sat up with him, tugging the hem of his shirt lower towards your thighs. His eyes flicked to it, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
“Pretty sure that’s mine,” he drawled, voice rough with sleep.
You arched a brow but didn’t move, hugging the fabric closer. “Maybe. But it looks better on me.”
He laughed under his breath, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple before gently tugging at the hem. “True, but I kind of need it back if I don’t want to walk out half-dressed.”
Reluctantly, you peeled it off and tossed it at him, slipping into your own clothes, cute but comfortable, while he pulled his shirt on again, slightly wrinkled but passable.
The air felt lighter, but not careless. He was watching you as he tugged his shirt on, eyes lingering longer than they should, quiet in a way you weren’t used to from him. Finally, he exhaled and broke it.
“You know if word gets around…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. Not panicked, not dramatic—just steady, serious. “It’ll be a mess.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder, lips curving faintly. “Relax. My sisters will gossip to each other, sure, but it won’t go farther than that."
He huffed a soft laugh, like he wanted to believe you, and shook his head. “You sound awful sure.”
“I am.” You closed the space between you, brushing against him as you passed, the deliberate lightness in your tone softening the weight of his words.
For a second, his hand caught your wrist before he let it go. He looked at you differently then, quieter, like the edge between you had shifted for good.
The next hour stretched lazily, neither of you in a hurry to break the quiet. You’d both already dressed—him back in the clothes from the night before, you in a casual top and soft jeans that felt more like yourself than the blazer from the meeting. Still, neither of you seemed eager to leave.
You sat cross-legged on your bed while Todd leaned against the edge of your desk chair, one knee bent, his backpack at his feet. Sometimes the talk was about Greek Week—details you hadn’t ironed out, places where your houses overlapped or clashed. Other times it drifted into nothing, easy silences that felt strange only because they weren’t strained.
At one point, you mentioned grabbing lunch later. He raised a brow, smirk tugging. “Might be too soon for me to be seen feeding you in public,” he teased, though there wasn’t much bite behind it.
“Then coffee first,” you countered, smiling faintly. “Play it by ear after that.”
His eyes softened in a way you didn’t want to think about too hard, and he nodded. “Coffee works.”
That small agreement hung between you, delicate and grounding.
When you finally started gathering your things, the spell broke a little. You reached for your bag and glanced at him. “Can I see what you’ve written down for Greek Week? I want to compare.”
“Yeah, hold on.” Todd bent over his bag, rummaging. He pulled out a folder, but as he shifted the rest of his things, something small and dark slipped free and landed on the floor between you.
Lace.
Your stomach dropped before your brain caught up—until recognition flashed sharp and hot. They weren’t just any underwear. They were yours. The pair he’d tugged off in the garage.
“Are those…” You started slowly, voice thinner than you meant. “Are those mine?”
Todd froze for half a second, eyes flicking from the fabric to you. Then his mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite sheepish. “Technically,” he drawled, reaching down to scoop them up, “they’re mine now.”
You stared at him, caught between outrage and disbelief, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t give one. Instead, he fidgeted, running the lace through his fingers, not looking at you directly.
“…Why do you keep them with you like that?” you asked finally.
He shifted, jaw tight, and then admitted low, “I liked having something that reminded me of you.”
The confession landed heavier than you expected. You fought the smile creeping up, trying to keep your expression flat. “That’s weird,” you told him, the words soft, not harsh.
“I know.” His hand twitched as if to hold them out to you. “Do you want them back?”
You watched him a moment longer, then shook your head, reaching to push his hand closed around them. “Keep them,” you said quietly. “If they really mean that much.”
His eyes flicked up, searching yours for a beat. Then he nodded once and tucked them back into his bag with care, sliding the folder on top before holding it out to you. You took it, sliding it into your own bag without a word.
When you finally picked up your things and turned to him, nerves fluttered sharply in your chest. Walking out of your sorority house with Todd would be its own risk. But there he was, slipping his backpack over his shoulder with ease, watching you like he already knew you weren’t going to back out.
“…Ready to get coffee?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.
He gave a small, certain nod, then leaned close enough to brush his lips against your cheek. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Outside, the morning air was brisk, the sun creeping higher. You walked side by side, closer than you’d ever allowed before. At the crosswalk, your hand lifted without thought, catching his arm to steady yourself as you stepped off the curb. You let go once you reached the other side, but the warmth lingered.
At the café, Todd held the door open for you, the kind of casual courtesy that made your chest ache. You ordered together, then waited in silence, standing close enough that your shoulders brushed. Neither of you spoke until you left the shop with cups in hand.
“So,” he asked lightly, “where do you want to meet later?”
“The library,” you said without hesitation. “I’ve got an exam coming up. We can kill two birds.”
He smiled, tilting his head. “Nerd.” But his voice carried nothing but fondness. He nodded in agreement.
Before you could answer, he caught you by the back of the neck, pulling you in. The kiss was soft, deliberate—more tender than any of the heat you’d shared before. You felt yourself smiling against him, your coffee warm in one hand, his other hand anchoring you.
When you finally pulled back, you hesitated, then leaned forward for one quick peck on his lips. He looked at you, surprised but not smug, and you turned away before you could second-guess yourself.
Halfway across the quad, you glanced back. He was still standing there, coffee in hand, watching you like he hadn’t decided if this was real yet. You caught his eye, and only then did he turn toward his own class.
Your heart was full, beating too fast, carrying the dizzy thrill of possibility. Whatever this was with Todd—it wasn’t reckless anymore.
SUMMARY: A collection of firsts with your best friend, Johnny Storm, that led to getting your heart broken by him.
WARNINGS: angst. hurt/no comfort. unrequited love. pining. johnny briefly being in a manipulative relationship. drinking. brief description of reader bring turned on by johnny. pet names (darlin', sweetheart, smart girl, favourite girl, silly girl). implied emotional cheating (reader on her boyfriend). mention of a physical fight. johnny is a genius (obviously). reader has an older brother. johnny being a boy scout. johnny gets his powers at 21. mentions of reader being hyper-feminine.
WC: 13.7K
A/N: very flimsily proofread :/ part two
The first time you saw Johnny Storm was when you were sixteen. On a golf course, as the sun, which beamed down on the grassy terrain, made sweat stick to your forehead. You huffed and puffed the entire time, cursing your brother under your breath for wanting to celebrate his birthday golfing, and for bringing you along, no less. When he knew you never touched a club in your life. You were convinced his birthday wish was to make you humiliate yourself and revel in it.
You were standing on the teeing ground, trying to adjust your stance and your grip, because that was important too, apparently. It felt more like rocket science than something you do as a leisure activity, you thought.
Your swing was off, yet again, prompting low laughs from your brother and his friends.
“This is totally unfair,” you grumbled, a permanent pout on your lips as you moved to try again, hyper aware that the next group was making their way over.
“You guys want to go now? It’ll be a while until the little Miss Professional Athlete finishes,” you hear your brother say to the group, making you hitch your club up, “She had a quadruple bogey on the last one,” he continued, making the other group laugh.
You turned to see the newcomers, chin raised slightly higher than usual due to your flat cap blocking some of your vision.
Which is the moment your eyes land on him. Tall stature, muscular, blonde— handsome. Very handsome.
“Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure we can help her figure it out,” he said, looking over to your group.
“By all means, have at it,” came your brother’s response.
Typical. Nobody even asked you what you wanted. Not that you’d deny a handsome fella trying to teach you, but still! It was the principle of it! You were still a lady—
“So, what do you need help with?” he asked, “I’m Johnny, by the way. Johnny Storm.” he added, flashing you a charming smile.
“Well, Johnny, I need help with just about everything and I don’t even know what I’m doing wrong,” you huffed before remembering yourself, “I apologize, I’m just frustrated.”
Your little lapse of judgment along with forgotten manners made the corner of Johnny’s mouth quirk up in an amused smirk.
“Alright, then. Show me how you do it and I’ll give you pointers.”
You bent your knees and made sure your back is straight before leveling your club with the golf ball.
“And there’s mistake number one,” Johnny alerted “Cross your fingers on the club.”
Your brows furrowed on their own accord as you interlaced your fingers on the grey padding and turned your head to look back at him.
“Like this?”
“Yeah. Swing it. Not too hard, though,” he instructed, eyes trailing over your form as if he was a rule official.
“How hard is not too hard?” you questioned, making him laugh at how complicated you were being.
“A medium strength. Can you do that?”
“We’ll see,” you said, trying to follow his instructions as best as possible.
Fingers intertwined, medium strength. Swing and hit—
“I did it!” you exclaimed, your eyes disbelievingly trained on the hole you managed to finish in just two tries.
“You did,” Johnny said, a smile on his face, “Good job.”
Your group gave their thanks to Johnny, ushering you away and saying something about ‘keeping the gentlemen for too long’. You turned around as they all but pulled you away, gaze locked on him and the self-satisfied smile that graced his face.
“Thank you, Johnny Storm!” you called out, giving him a big grin.
“You’re welcome!”
The first time Johnny Storm made you laugh was the kind of thing that could only happen if you weren’t expecting it in the slightest. Not even in your wildest dreams. Truth be told, he slipped your mind entirely since you met. You had more important things to worry about than a handsome stranger who helped you golf.
So, you were surprised when you saw him while making your way back home from school. Your Mary Janes clicked against the damp pavement, thanks to the summer rain that doused you this morning, your eyes squinted as you tried to assure yourself that the blond in front of you was really him.
Screw it, you thought. Can’t really lose anything.
“Johnny Storm!” you called out, watching him turn. Bingo.
“No way, golf girl?” he asked with a smile, halting his steps to let you catch up to him.
“In the flesh,” you answered as you hurried along to him, tightening the hold on your textbooks.
“Let me help you with that,” he said once you were by his side, taking the books from you, “Physics? You any good?”
“I’m okay at it. Not my favourite thing in the world.”
“Seriously? Physics is fun, though,” he said, making you look at him disbelievingly.
“Seriously?” you parroted back. “Are you a prodigy or something, Johnny Storm?”
He turned his head to face you, opting to not answer your question but instead shoot you a charming smile that told you everything you needed to know. He was some sort of genius prodigy.
“And you can call me just Johnny, you know? No need for the last name.”
“Alright, Johnny,” you hummed, “But Johnny Storm sounds better. Very outta sight.”
“So I should consider going by my full name at all times?”
“Maybe.”
Johnny snickered, shuffling through your books as you walked, clearly taking on the role of following you home without being asked to. Handsome, genius and a gentleman? Too good to be true.
“What’s so interesting about physics anyway?” you asked him, more so just to ask, rather than get an actual answer.
“Solving equations,” he said simply, “And the history behind it.”
“You gonna study physics in college, Johnny?”
“Aerospace engineering, actually,” he said simply. As if it was the most normal thing in the world.
Your eyebrows raised on their own accord, eyes widening a little. Not every day you meet a future aerospace engineer.
“Wow… Impressive. Are you gonna work for ANSA?” you asked, pretending you knew what that fully entailed and not just that it was about space and being smart. But then again, that was the jist of it.
“That’s the plan. And maybe go to space one day.”
“So I’m talking to a future astronaut right now?”
“Possibly, yeah.”
Wow, you thought. Smart— hell, probably a genius if what he’s saying is true, confident, but not arrogant. Johnny Storm seemed like an alien more than anything, really. You knew guys who had nothing going for them but still managed to be arrogant bastards who thought they were God’s gift to mankind.
“Sounds scary. Impressive, but scary,” you concluded.
“Exciting,” he corrected.
“Being in a metal tube that launches you off to space at ungodly speeds is exciting?”
“Precisely. Space is exciting. And fascinating.”
“What are you gonna do in space?”
“Explore. Meet lady aliens,” he said smugly, making you let out a laugh.
No man was perfect and every single one of them had one thing on their mind, clearly. The only difference being that they usually thought of actresses, or models, or the hot girl down the street. But Johnny thought of hypothetical ‘lady aliens’. And for whatever reason that was more endearing.
“Of course,” you said through your giggles, “Lady aliens.”
The first (and last) time Johnny Storm asked for your number was a sunny Sunday, a few days after he walked you home. A soft wind rustled the trees, casting moving shadows across the concrete. You walked outside with a pep in your step, a study session not sounding all that bad if it was happening in your favourite diner with a float and some pancakes. And it was a perfect excuse to doll up and put on your new Go-Go boots.
Your pace was purposefully slower, trying to be present in the moment – enjoy the pleasant breeze which swirled around your dress.
That moment of peace was interrupted, albeit gently, with a soft tap to your shoulder. And you had something to see once you turned around. Blond. Handsome. Strong. Johnny Storm.
“Johnny Storm!” you grinned, “You again?”
“Me again, golf girl,” he drawled, the corner of his lip twitching upwards.
“You know I have a name, right? One that I told you. Or did you forget already?” your smile widened impossibly. The thought of him forgetting your name was more amusing than anything, considering his allegedly genius mind and your run-ins with each other which were just a tad absurd.
“I do remember. I also remember telling you to just call me Johnny and that didn’t happen, did it?”
“It did, actually. A few times, if I remember,” you teased.
“Doesn’t count now that you called me Johnny Storm. Again.” he stated with a faux huff, but his big, baby blues gave him away.
“So you’ll call me golf girl until I stop calling you by your full name?”
“Precisely.”
“Alright, then. From this point on, you’re just Johnny, I swear on it.”
“Alright…” he trailed off, before saying your name with a silky smooth tone, making your smile softer, more real.
“Well, I gotta jet, but it was nice talking to ya, Johnny.”
“Can I ask where you’re going— Or, no, what’s more important than standing here with the person you’ve seen… three times in your life?” he asked, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
“Very funny,” you deadpanned, “I’m going down to the diner on West to get some studying in.”
“Smart girl. Tell you what, why don’t you give me your number, so we don’t have to rely on fate to bring us together?”
Your brows raised slightly at that, not being able to help but wonder just what his intentions were.
“You think our luck’s running out?”
“I mean, we’ve had first, second and third charm.”
“Alright, then,” you agreed, sifting through your notebook to rip out a clean sheet of paper and write your number on it. “Here,” you said, handing him the now neatly folded paper that you scrawled your number across.
“Thank you. I’ll give you a call then, so we can hang out.”
So, those were his intentions. To hang out.
You couldn’t say you minded, really. Johnny seemed like a good friend to have, from the limited glimpses of him you got. A gentleman who’s also smart. Jury’s still out on the genius part though, in your opinion. You’ll believe it when you see it.
You’d just have to stop calling him handsome in your head every time you see him. Piece of cake.
“Alright, you do that,” you said with a smile as you turned to leave.
“Have fun studying!” he called out.
“Bye Johnny!”
And yeah, maybe you walked with an even bigger pep in your step after that, feeling that familiar high of making a new connection bubbling up in your chest, setting your nerves ablaze. It seemed that the day would be kind to you, very much so.
The first time you hung out with Johnny Storm, you were seated in a booth, tucked away in the corner of a cafe, sipping on your drink as he all but devoured his pastries. All under the guise of being famished from the record store you strolled through earlier.
“Y’know, maybe you should’ve gotten actual food if you were so hungry,” you looked at him, amusement dancing in your eyes.
“Tastes better,” Johnny mumbled with a full mouth, making you sigh with a sense of mirth.
Johnny was indeed a good person to have around. That conclusion settled in your mind when he not only let you talk his ear off about the new Etta James vinyl, but actively listened.
“Don’t you think it’s weird how I want to thank you for listening to me talk earlier? I mean, it’s the base level of an interaction, y’know, but ‘s so rare these days. Someone who actually listens, I mean,” you said, pursing your lips in thought.
He hummed around his food, taking a moment to swallow and wipe his mouth.
“Oh, we’re having a sociological debate now?”
“No,” you snorted, “Just expressing my gratitude for you. And concern for everyone else.”
“Yeah, I get that,” he met your gaze, his voice a little softer now. “‘s hard for people to care these days, I think.”
And that’s when you realized that beyond the very broad things you talked about, music, school, food, space, godawful golf — he hadn’t spoken a lot about himself beyond his interests, the thought sending something akin to protectiveness through you, even if it was maybe definitely too early for that.
“Y’know,” you started, “You never told me who you were at golf with that day.”
“Oh, yeah. That was my sister, Sue, and her husband.”
“Her husband doesn’t have a name?” you drawled.
“Reed,” Johnny said simply, going back to his pastries.
“Your sister’s pretty, I remember that. You have any other siblings?” you asked, sensing he didn’t really want to talk about this Reed guy.
“M-m. Jus’ her. You have anyone other than your brother?”
“Nope, just him, too. Blessing and a curse, really.”
“Why?” he asked between bites, reaching over to take a sip of water.
You shrugged at the question, not really knowing how to put the feeling of being a youngest daughter into words. Your eyebrows scrunched as you raked through your brain, before you settled for an answer.
“Just… Would be nice to be taken seriously from time to time, I guess.”
“Yeah, I get that…” a beat of silence. “Me too.”
You settled into a comfortable silence after that, both of you letting your minds wander. And you realized something then. Something only a teenage mind, stubborn and angry, could conjure up.
You’d always take Johnny seriously.
“So, about your whole genius, future-astronaut thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I have this physics project in like… Two months—”
“Yeah, I’ll help,” he butted in, a grin on his face. “What’s it about?”
“Physical optics. Have no idea where to even start.”
“Thought you said you were okay with physics,” his tone was laced with amusement, his smile turning into a knowing smirk.
“I am okay with physics. But why would I turn away from the opportunity of having a genius help me with it?”
“Fair point.”
“I’ll pay you in the form of a Beatles record.”
“I already have all of them.”
“How about Ben E. King?”
“That's better.”
The first time Johnny saw you cry was stupid. So incredibly stupid and downright embarrassing. It wasn’t who you are, you told yourself. You prided yourself in being strong, put together, being able to hold your own and now you were silently crying like a scolded kid, hoping he wouldn’t see it.
You stare at the papers sprawled over his bed, willing your tears away as he stands by the whiteboard, scribbling. Because of course he had a whiteboard in his bedroom, he was a genius, by unanimous jury verdict. The jury being you, crying over your physics notes.
“...Which is basically Huygens' principle, y’know, every point on a wavefront can be a source of new waves…” Johnny continued explaining as you tried to make sense of everything he went over.
Waves, wave motion, sinusoidal waveforms, superposition and now this Huygens guy. You were so unbelievably lost, unable to keep up with his brilliant mind.
“...And the secondary point—” he stopped himself when he absentmindedly turned around, only to see tears on your face. “Are you crying?” he asked, more confused than anything.
“No,” you stubbornly denied, despite knowing it was futile.
Johnny set the marker down, crossed the room in a few long strides and perched himself in front of you on the bed, looking at you with worried eyes.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, ‘m sorry, ‘s stupid,” you managed to croak out, wiping your tears.
“Didn’t ask if it was or wasn’t. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“‘m just frustrated, I guess… I’m not really getting this and it makes me feel stupid and mad and I also feel like I’m wasting your time.”
“Wow, that is kinda stupid,” he said, his eyebrows raised. “Look, you’re not wasting my time, I wanted to do this. And you’re not stupid either, I probably just gave you too much info all at the same time.”
He placed a comforting hand on your knee, his thumb making soothing circles.
“You’re going to make fun of me for crying,” you stated
“Not now, give it a few days,” he smiled. “Let’s just kick back, have some pop. And we can get into this whole thing later ‘mkay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
As Johnny went downstairs to grab your drinks, you tidied up the notes while wiping the last of your tears. You didn’t know why it upset you so much, not really. But you also knew he wouldn’t push for an explanation, especially when you didn’t have one, and you were grateful for that, truly.
“Alright,” he announced when he strolled in, holding way too many things in his hands. “Probably not the same as the float from the diner, but even better because it was made by me,” he flashed you a charming grin, setting the home-made float on the nightstand, a bottle of Coke for himself and an array of Tootsie Rolls and Lemonheads that he dropped on the bed.
“Johnny!” you laughed, “You want us to be sick?”
But the gesture did warm your heart, very much so. You appreciated that he was so emotionally mature, so in-tune. A rare thing for guys your age.
“At least you’d be miserable for an actual, good reason. Can’t have you cryin’ over physics, can I? What kind of host would I be?”
“A horrible one,” you said flatly, reaching over to try the float.
“Better than the one from the diner?”
And you didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t, that he messed up the ratio. Because he made it for you. To cheer you up. So it wins by default, crowned as the best drink ever made.
“Way better.”
“Ha! Knew it!”
“Thank you, Johnny,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “This is really nice of you. All of this, I mean.”
“Anytime.”
The first time you celebrated Johnny’s birthday you were freaking out. Completely, fully in mental breakdown mode for two reasons. Reason number one being that you didn’t know if he would like the gift and reason number two, you’d be meeting his family. Well, officially meeting his family. You felt as if the brief meeting at golf didn’t count. If you could even call it that.
You knew realistically that he would probably love it. It was Johnny, damnit. Sweet, polite Johnny who would be grateful even if he hated it. Which was precisely the problem. You wanted him to actually like it. Really like it. You spent a lot of time thinking how to incorporate Lucky Charms into cookies and a decent amount of money on the Ben E. King vinyl (which you promised him anyway, so it didn’t fully feel like a part of the gift), a book on space casualties and a mug that said ‘world’s best astronaut’.
You clutched the gift bag tightly, knocking on the door, taking a nervous breath in. This was the first time you were ever antsy around Johnny but God, you just wanted to be half as good a friend to him as he was to you.
“Hey, you made it!” he said when he opened the door, a big grin on his face, dressed in a nice, dark button up with a sliver of his undershirt showing.
You pulled him into a tight hug, not wasting a second, mumbling a ‘happy birthday’ into his neck.
“C’mon in,” he said, taking the gift bag from you before you even had a chance to offer and taking a peek.
“No manners, Johnny, seriously,” a faux sigh left your lips as you followed him inside, trailing behind him.
“It’s my birthday!” he protested, as if the fact that it was his birthday gave him the right to act however he wanted. It did. “Sweet seventeen.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s only for sixteen, genius.”
“Let me have my moment—” he cut himself off, abruptly planting his feet onto the floor, unmoving, making you bump into him.
“Jo—”
“Lucky Charms cookies?” Johnny looked over to you, a soft smile on his face.
“Yeah. I mean, among other things that are in there—”
He pulled you in for a hug this time, lifting you up from the ground, a surprised noise leaving your mouth.
“Thank you. This is amazing. All of this, really. You’re gonna make a grown man cry.”
“Well, grown man—”
“What did I say about my moment?”
“Fine, I’ll let you have your moment,” you smiled fondly. “But you still can’t interrupt me just because it’s your birthday.”
“Okay, deal,” he said in an overly serious tone, putting you down.
You didn’t even have the time to feel the nerves of meeting his family before he shouted through the place to Sue and Reed.
“Look what I got!”
You bit back a smile at him getting so caught up in showing off your gift that he forgot to properly introduce you. It was a very Johnny thing to do, you thought.
“Coolest things ever!” he said to them, taking every item out one by one. “And nobody is allowed to drink out of the mug,” he punctuated his words with a sharp glare.
Your eyes darted from Johnny to the couple. Sue seemed warm, fond. Reed on the other hand, was hard to figure out. You had the feeling he was staring through everything and everyone in this room. Weird.
“Johnny,” Sue warned, “Your friend?”
“Oh right, right,” he scrambled to introduce you, a hand on your back as he sifted through the formalities.
“He talks a lot about you,” Sue said to you, as everyone made their way to the dinner table.
“I talk about you a normal amount," Johnny corrected, “I talked about you a lot when we kept bumping into each other. What were the chances of that?”
“Fifteen point four percent,” Reed spoke the first time, the statement making you laugh, but he just furrowed his brows in confusion.
“Oh, you’re serious,” you said, wide-eyed. “Wow. Impressive.”
You made a mental note to ask Johnny if everyone in his family was a genius.
The first time you called Johnny your best friend was an accident. Slip of the tongue, not thinking about your words at all. Yet that’s what solidified them even more. You didn’t need to think about it. Not really. Not at all. Loving Johnny was as natural as breathing. Steady, ever-present.
Your back was against the headboard of your bed, your feet propped up on the side of Johnny’s thigh as you painted your toenails with a baby pink polish, your tongue peeking out the corner of your mouth.
“...And then she told me something about how she’s supposed to be my best friend and how I can’t do that to her, which is just ridiculous. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or somethin’ so I just didn’t say anything but everyone knows you’re my best friend,” you recounted the clash with one of your friends, Lydia, not even realizing what you said.
“Seriously?” he scoffed, “She thinks she’s your best friend? Same girl who ditched you for your boyfriend a million times? She’s lucky she’s your friend at all.”
“Right?! And I mean, not like she would say any of that if he didn’t dump her.”
“Exactly. I don’t know why you bother with her anyways.”
“I don’t know… I feel bad, I guess,” you sighed, making steady strokes with the brush.
“Did she feel bad when she kept ditching you?” he asked flatly.
“No.”
“No,” he repeated.
“I just… I don’t know, Johnny. Feel like, just ‘cause she made me feel bad doesn’t have to mean I have to make her feel the same, y’know? But ‘m not gonna be a pushover and let her pretend we’re best friends now that she doesn’t have anyone to fall back on,” you said, finishing the first coat of the polish, letting your feet rest atop his lap.
“Yeah, I get that,” he said, hand coming to pull at the spongy toe separators.
“Stop that,” came your futile protest. You knew Johnny did odd things just because and you could never bring yourself to actually be upset with him.
“Hey, best friend privileges. Your words, not mine.”
And that’s when you realized what you said. So casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it was. It definitely was.
“Don’t let it get to your head, Johnny.”
“It won’t. You have my word, scout’s honour,” he proclaimed dramatically.
“I always forget you’re a Boy Scout,” you giggled.
“Which is offensive, really. That you forget and that they’re still called Boy Scouts.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, should they be called Man Scouts?”
“Matter ‘a fact they should.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you giggled.
“Still your best friend,” he said, sending you a charming grin, paired up with a wink.
“You just said you wouldn’t let it get to your head.”
“And it’s not. It’s a simple observation.”
You mumbled a ‘nuisance’ under your breath as you moved to do your second coat of nail polish, in hopes that the little time you gave the first one to dry was enough.
“You’re my best friend too y’know?” his tone was more serious now, more soft.
“I know… I’m glad I am, Johnny.”
“Don’t think I say it enough, but I really do love you. You get me, y’know?”
Your heart could’ve broken right that instant, as you always thought it would when he starts repeating his ‘y’know’s’. A nervous habit, as if trying to convince himself and the other person that what he’s saying was widely known, a common knowledge. And it usually was, like right now. And that’s what broke your heart more. His unintentional show of insecurity, his way of saying ‘This isn’t crazy, right? You think this too? You’re listening to me, right?’
“I know,” you said softly. “And you get me too… And I love you too.”
“Even when I’m being really annoying?”
“Especially then.”
The first time you and Johnny cried together happened to be on your ‘sweet seventeenth’, as he so kindly put it.
It was nearing three AM, most of your friends filtered out quite a bit ago, leaving you and Johnny by yourselves, drunk on rum. You stayed upright on your bed, not trusting your brain to not spin your vision if you laid down. Johnny was not much better, sitting on the windowsill, his arm stuck out, feeling the cool night air.
“Y’ liked m’ gift?” he drawled, hooded eyes meeting yours.
“‘Course I did. Best gift ‘ve gotten,” you grinned lazily, making him laugh.
And it was, truly. Between the record, the book and the silly on-brand birthday card, it all screamed him. Johnny. Your Johnny.
“Think y’re not s’posed to say that. ‘S rude to the other people who got you gifts.”
“Yeah, well, you’re my best friend, so… Think ‘m allowed to say that when it comes to you.”
“First time I’ve seen you been rude,” he slurred, letting out a drunk giggle.
“‘m not rude!” you protested, a permanent grin on your face. “‘m jus’ bein’ nice to you, Johnny.”
“At the expense of other people.”
You groaned, throwing your head back, realizing your mistake when the room started spinning and loopily bringing yourself up again.
“I don’t really ‘care ‘f it’s rude. And… Not like there’s anyone else here.”
“‘m glad you like it,” he said, now with an air of drunk seriousness which arguably, was the most serious a man could get.
“‘m just glad you’re here, Johnny. Gift enough.”
He stood up, sluggishly moving toward you to plop himself beside you, an arm around your shoulder.
“You’re gonna give me a huge head. Huuuuge.”
“Yeah, well… You’re the only person ever who actually deserves it.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“You’re you, Johnny,” you slurred, cuddling into him. “Thought you were an alien when we met the first few times. Y’re so smart, Johnny and so… Everything. And you’re still so nice. The nicest.”
“Yeah?
“Mhm… What did you think a’ me?”
“Thought you were… Cool… Opinionated, li’l hothead,” he smiled, ruffling your hair. “Best friend in the goddamn world. Would be lost without you. Dunno how I functioned ‘fore we met.”
“You’re my best friend too,” you said, voice growing higher in pitch, the waterworks threatening to come out. “You’re so patient with me and– and sweet and we never ever fight.”
Johnny looked down at you, his hand moving from your hair to your cheek, softly cradling it.
“And you listen to me,” he added. “That means a lot, ya know? To have someone actually pay attention—” his voice cracked, eyes welling up with tears. “—to the stupid shit I say, to be actually interested.”
Your bottom lip wobbled as you looked at him, your hand clutching at his shirt desperately, the first tears falling from your face.
“I’ll always listen, Johnny. You’re so sm-smart and funny and I love you so much.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.
“I love you so much too,” he cried out, the sound of his broken voice making your hand fisted in his shirt hold tighter.
“You’re not allowed to stop being friends with me, ever, Johnny.”
“That’ll never happen,” he croaked out. “‘m taking New York, I tell you that?”
“What?”
“For college.”
“But Cali—”
“But Cali nothin’. It’s basically the same thing as here. Only you’re here too,” and then a quieter, more choked: “My best friend.”
“You’re crazy,” you sobbed out, holding him tighter, wanting him closer. And he obeyed, hugging you close, holding you more firmly. So you can both cry out your drunken gratitude for each other.
The first time you saw Johnny get sick was absolutely horrible. Downright depressing and objectively, would be annoying to anyone else but God, you were soft for him.
The gloom lifted, birds chirping and flowers blooming. Grass was no longer covered in muddy snow, everything radiated colour again — soulful, happy, projecting a sense of ease everywhere. But, the switch between the harsh winter and a warm spring which was followed by a sudden weather change was not good for anyone’s system. You warned him, one too many times, about the cold he picked up. Told him to stay home, eat some soup and rest a little bit. All to no avail, of course. All met with the protest that he was a ‘strong man’. That he could handle a little cold. ‘A sniffle’ as he called it, while stating how it would be crazy to stay inside when it’s finally so nice out.
All which led to you now being in his room, fretting over him, while he whimpered like he was on his deathbed. Men could be so dramatic, you thought.
You padded across the room, lowering the blinds on his windows in hopes that he would get a decent nap in, maybe sweat the fever out.
“That better?” you asked, only to be met with a grunt in response.
“Johnny, c’mon, you gotta tell me what you need,” you tried. Gently, patiently, not wanting to add onto his discomfort.
“Can you light a candle?” he finally croaked out. “The one you got me… That helps with sleep.”
“Lavender?
“Mm, yeah.”
You moved to the shelf on his wall, cluttered with books and little space figurines, the candle you got him sat untouched in the middle of it. You found a zippo lighter behind said books, making quick work of it and lighting the candle with a flick of your thumb.
Once you brought it over to the nightstand, Johnny wrapped his fingers around your wrist weakly and tugged you down to sit next to his laid out form.
“You still warm?” you asked, hand instinctively moving to press against his forehead. He was definitely still warm.
“You’re like a mother-hen,” he said, giving you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“And you’re acting like you’re dying.”
“I am dying. I feel horrible.”
“Get some sleep, Johnny, you'll feel better.”
“Mm, can’t… Everything hurts.”
“I know, just try though. You need some rest.”
You watched as he closed his eyes, shifting onto his side, his knee trapping you between him and the nightstand.
“Johnny—”
“Jus’ lay down next to me. Please? ‘m dying here,” he whined out his plea. And really, you were powerless against him.
You settled next to him with a huffed out “Only because you’re sick, Johnny.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled, curling up behind you.
You listened to his breathing even out, felt how his arms and legs twitched every now and again.
The smell of lavender spread itself in his room, invading your senses. You let yourself relax, just a smidge, just a little while until Johnny woke up and you had to be in nurse mode.
Not that you minded. Despite his dramatics, you knew he really was sick, even if that translated to acting like a whiney toddler. And you were worried, maybe a bit too much. So you didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to critiquing dramatics.
You just hoped he would feel better once he woke up. For both his sake and yours. You’d rather be in the kitchen for the purpose of making him ridiculously sugary cookies rather than soup, anyways.
Your eyes closed on their own accord, feeling warmth radiating from him, the little content hums he let out lulling you to a half-asleep state.
The first time you and Johnny had a serious talk about the future could be described with one word — somber. It happened, suddenly, unexpectedly, like everything did with you and Johnny. Like impulsively diving off a cliff headfirst.
Sue and Reed were out for date night, so here you were — perched in the living room, eating takeout while Johnny ate Lucky Charms straight out of the box, the display never not making you wonder how he’s still alive and healthy.
But other thoughts gnawed at your mind, too. Slowly at first, then crashing at you with full force.
You’d both be turning eighteen this year. Which meant graduating. Which meant college. Which meant both of you meeting new people. The everlasting ‘what if’ lingering inside your brain.
What if you meet other people who fit more?
What if you stop having time for each other?
What if you start losing interest in being around each other?
What if, in the grand scheme of things, you and Johnny just don’t make sense?
What if, what if, what if.
“Johnny?” you called out softly, mumbling around your food.
“Mm?” he answered absentmindedly, his focus more on the sport’s game playing on the TV.
“We’ll still be friends in college, right?”
His hand stops midway to his mouth, head jerking to face you. His gaze hardened, lips set in a thin line. “What?”
“I asked—”
“I heard what you asked. What kind of question is that?” his tone was terse, like what you said was offensive to his very being.
You placed the cardboard container on the coffee table with a sigh, eyes searching for his.
“I just meant… We’ll both be meeting new people, doing new stuff…”
“So you want us to stop being friends because of that?”
“Wha— No! I’m scared of us not being friends because of that. Big difference, Johnny.”
You swore he could be purposefully obtuse at times because there really wasn’t any other explanation. He was a genius!
“Oh…”
“Yeah, oh.”
“Of course we won’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “We swore on that didn’t we? When we got really drunk on your birthday.”
“Yeah, I know…” your hands seemed to have a mind of their own, pulling and rolling the loose threads of your sweater sleeves. “Just… It’s easy to say that, you know? I don’t want us to stop being friends.”
“And we won’t. We’ll make time for each other,” his hand reached out to grab your wrists and stop your fidgeting. “The worst that could happen is we see each other a little less, promise. I don’t want us to stop being friends either. You know that.”
“Yeah,” you said, the blue mood still not lifting, still swirling around, but you were trying to rid yourself of it. “We can study together… Grab coffee if our schedules end up lining up.”
“Exactly! We’re not letting an academic institution come between us,” he said, the way he described it making you let out a small giggle. Which you knew was the purpose.
You also knew that he probably shared your fears, but was playing them down for your sake, to make you feel better.
“I have another question.”
“Go for it.”
“Like… When we start seriously dating and whatnot… We’ll still, well, be us, right?”
Because up to this point, all your boyfriends were very much put off by Johnny, as were his girlfriends by you. You couldn’t imagine how it would play out in an actually serious relationship.
“Anyone who doesn’t get us isn’t really the right person for one of us, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. So simple, yet so… Soothing and right.
“Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”
The first time you cried for Johnny happened a few months after that conversation. You graduated and Johnny did too, a few days after you.
It didn’t happen right away, not when he walked the stage, not when you felt an undeniable surge of pride and not when you made it a point to cheer the loudest.
No. It poured out of you during a quiet moment, just the two of you, in a jazz bar, riding the high of officially becoming adults.
And maybe a little too much rum, courtesy to Sue knowing the owners. That— rum — seemed to be the pattern for the two of you, you figured in your two years of friendship.
You looked at him, his blond hair not as perfect as usual, a light green, form-fitting polo. Devastatingly genius, tipsy, handsome. Why did that thought just come back?
“Did I grow a second head or somethin’?” his question shook you out of your own head, writing away the thought that just occurred for the first time in a long time to just being drunk and proud.
Proud. God, you were so proud of him. You could be proud of him for just breathing, you realized.
“‘m just proud of you, Johnny.”
“Yeah? I’m proud of you too. Smartest girl in the world,” he said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And it was to him, you knew that. You teased him for being your biggest fan more times than you could count, but right now it just left you overly emotional.
“Yeah, but you’re an actual genius—”
“Oh, no, no, no waterworks,” he said, hand coming to rub your back.
“‘m sorry, I’m just proud of you. And I love you a lot,” came your shaky answer, along with an attempt to reel your tears back in.
“Well, I love you a lot too… And, I mean by that logic you should be less proud of me because me being a genius means high school was pretty easy for me, so…”
“Smartass,” you huffed out with a shake of your head, a small smile gracing your lips.
“And you know, I didn’t know you could get so loud. I’m pretty sure people sitting by you got their eardrums blown out,” he smirked, going right back to teasing you because of course he would. Little shit.
“Hey, I’ll have you know that it’s my right both as an American citizen and your best friend to be as loud as I want in times of celebration.”
“You’re exercising your right to be a sap, is what you’re doing.”
“Like you didn’t scream your lungs out for me.”
“Of course I did, but we're not talking about me, are we? I own being a sap. That’s what makes me a cool one. You, however, are a very sore sap.”
“Sap police.”
“Horrible joke.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny!” you protested with a laugh, a warm feeling settling in your chest as you two fell into a comfortable silence, broken every now and then when he hummed the songs that were playing.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, but I keep forgetting,” you said as the fifth, maybe sixth round of drinks ended up on your table. You weren’t really sure anymore, you’ve lost track after the third one.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Well considering the fact that you turned eighteen not long ago, you’re no longer part of the boy sco—”
“Man scouts,” he corrected with a grin. You knew it didn’t actually bother him, yet he made it his life’s mission to correct you on it.
“Well I was going to ask you if you planned on transitioning from boy scouts to man scouts, but yeah sure. Are you going to transition from man scouts to even-more-manly scouts?”
Johnny chuckled, the sound low and deep. “Mm, I don’t think so. Think I’ll have my hands full between college and you.”
“Me?” your eyebrows raised, looking at him questioningly.
“Yeah, you. Obviously. Gotta make time for my favourite girl.”
You ignored the way heat bloomed in your belly at the words he’s never used before, writing it off to both of you being tipsy. Him, saying it because he was tipsy and you, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush because you were tipsy.
The first time you hated one of Johnny’s girlfriends — Anna, who he met halfway through the first semester of college. God, you don’t think you’ve hated anyone more than you hated her.
Usually, you were understanding. You knew how your friendship with Johnny could’ve looked to other people. Especially when it came to his girlfriends or your boyfriends. Relationships were sensitive, fragile, it was easy to get caught up in things that weren’t there, you told yourself. See things that weren’t there.
But Anna was a whole different ballpark.
You mulled it over your mind a hundred different times, trying to figure out the root of the issue, if you maybe did something wrong. But the issue started as soon as she laid eyes on you.
You remember baking cookies for that day, the kind that Johnny liked, the extra gooey ones, so they could share after you and her finished brunch. But she took the box from you with minimal contact and a slight scrunch of her nose, like you were handing her disease wrapped up in a pretty box.
It didn’t end there, of course it didn’t. Your mere presence was met by comments like:
“Why do you have so much makeup on? I bet you look pretty without it.”
“Isn’t the fashion thing kinda a scam? There’s so many more important things in life than looking pretty.”
“I can’t believe you’d spend so much money on boots!”
“I just can’t stand gossip, I don’t know how you do it.”
None which were outright rude and could be passed off as just a playful jab, but they made your gut churn with a deep sense of rage. You had a feeling she was one of those girls, the kind that put other girls down just because.
Which left you wondering why, in God’s name, was Johnny with her?
And how this was the same woman Johnny sang such high praises about, from her looks to her intellect, when she obviously, in your humble opinion, lacked the latter. Clearly even geniuses could be blinded by love.
So you were careful when you and Johnny had a debrief and he asked you what you thought of Anna. You really didn’t want to hurt his feelings and maybe you were wrong. Maybe your intuition was askew, was what you kept telling yourself. Maybe you were the one seeing things that weren’t there this time.
Perhaps for his sake, maybe for yours too. You really didn’t want to be the person who ruins all the fun.
“She’s… Different from what I imagined,” you said. A tip-toe around the answer.
“What do you mean? Different how?” Johnny raised a brow.
“I mean… I don’t know, I didn’t expect her to be so… Anti-girly stuff.”
“What do you mean?” he repeated. “She’s very girly.”
“Yeah, but… She told me all this stuff about how she can’t stand gossip or can’t imagine spending so much money on boots, y’know, stuff like that.”
“She’s anti-girly stuff because she doesn’t like to gossip and is careful with her money?”
“No!” you huffed, getting a little worked up, rage still simmering. “It was just… The way she said it. Like she was looking down on me. And everyone likes to gossip.”
“Are you sure— Look, I’m not trying to diminish your feelings here, I’ll talk to her about it, but are you sure you just didn’t get a little defensive?” he asked, his tone curious, warm. You knew you were putting him in a tough situation, but you didn’t want to silent your feelings for his comfort.
“No, I mean… It’s not like— Like, we could’ve had an actual conversation about those things, y’know? ‘Cause, yeah, most things she said were objectively true and we could’ve talked about ‘oh, hey, why do you think this is the way it is?’ but she was basically acting like she was better than me.”
“Okay, then, I’ll talk to her about it. I’m sorry she made you feel that way,” he said, bringing you in for one of his bear hugs. “Swear, I never saw her act like that before.”
“‘s not your fault,” you mumbled against his chest.
“I really wanted you two to get along,” his tone was tinged with sadness, disappointment.
“Me too.”
The first time you and Johnny fought after priding yourself in never doing that, vowing you never would do that, was brutal. A hard hit to your steady foundation which was now crumbling.
It was about Anna. Of course it was.
He said he’d talk to her. And he did, apparently, but they’ve been together for seven months now and nothing changed.
No, it only got worse.
Condescending looks when Johnny was around and harsh insults when he wasn’t. Clearly, Anna moved on from being subtle because she knew she could get away with it.
You’ve stopped telling Johnny about it altogether, tired of your words leading nowhere and Johnny looking at you like he didn’t believe you, like you were lying.
So, when he invited you for drinks with the two of them you politely declined and gave a good, half-true excuse. You have to study for an exam you’re retaking.
But Johnny wasn’t happy with that, no.
“What is your problem, anyways? You never want to go out anymore,” Johnny asked, eyebrow raised.
“We went out a few days ago, Johnny,” you sighed, taking a seat on your bed, definitely not wanting to have this conversation.
“But you bail every time Anna’s there.”
“Because she clearly hates me—”
“She doesn’t hate you—”
“I’m not crazy, Johnny, and you’re hellbent on making me feel that way,” you feel anger flow freely throughout your body, chest tightening as it mixed with the hurt that’s been stewing for a long time.
“I don’t know where you got that from! Okay, I talked to Anna multiple times and she said she’s been nothing but civil! And I’ve seen it, too! She’s nice to you!”
“She barely tolerates me when you’re there! And of course she wouldn’t tell you, Johnny!”
“Oh, she wouldn’t tell me? She told me you just up and left when you two were getting coffee! Made her look like an idiot! She cried for hours!”
You bristled at that, standing up abruptly with an intense need to just move. To turn the anger outwards, into some form of energy.
“Because she insulted me! Straight to my face, Johnny! She told me I looked horrible because I wasn’t wearing makeup!”
“Oh— Jesus Christ, c’mon! It’s a figure of speech! She thought you were sick!”
“That makes it better?! We’re definitely not close enough for her to be saying that kinda shit to me and I’m fed up with it! And not like this was the first time—”
“I think you’re just looking for a reason to be upset,” he said, way too calmly for the tone of your conversation. Like it was a fact, like he really believed that.
“What?”
“You’re just upset because I have someone other than you—”
“So, what, you think I’m jealous? Did she tell you that?”
“Yes, because I can’t have thoughts of my own, clearly,” he said flatly. “And you’re doing it again, by the way. Clear as day.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“You’re making shit up! You’re trying to put these thoughts in my head about her being horrible but she’s not!”
You stilled, taking a step back on instinct as you looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. You’re making shit up. The words echoed through your head, bouncing off of every surface just to land where it hurt the most every time. He thought you were lying.
“What?” your voice barely above a whisper and you couldn’t even bring yourself to care that you were practically baring your neck to him. To Johnny. Your Johnny who was looking at you without an ounce of remorse.
“What? You don’t like being called out?”
“So you just… What? Believe her over me? Think I just got up one day and decided to try and sabotage your relationship for no reason when we never had this problem before— God, you actually believe her over me,” you were pacing now, hands going from your hair, to your face and then down to the sides of your thighs to wipe away the sweat forming on your palms, in an attempt to just do something. Anything.
“She’s my girlfriend!”
“I’m your best friend!”
“She just gets me, okay?!”
“I get you, Johnny!”
“Clearly not,” he mumbled, messing up his perfectly styled hair as he ran his fingers through it.
“What?”
“Clearly you don’t get me. Clearly. Fucking— Why are you putting me in a position like this?”
“A position like what? I’m not the one doing anything! She’s the one—”
“No! She’s not the one doing anything! She’s the one encouraging me to not stop being your friend even when you pull shit like this and all you do is badmouth her!”
You stilled. You could’ve sworn everything in the world stilled in that moment, too. All except your heart, which was beating so wildly you could feel it in your throat, hear it in between your ears.
“You want us to stop being friends?”
Johnny was quiet for a moment, before he spoke softly. As if to soften the blow.
“I think… I think I need some time away from you.”
“Well then, by all means,” you spat coldly, angrily, “Don’t let your girlfriend stop you from doing that.”
You heard him leave, heard him try and be quiet so he wouldn’t upset you more. It just made you more angry. More everything that you were feeling right now, all your emotions jumbled up in a tangled mess.
You felt like an intruder in your own body, like your limbs were too long and disproportionate to anything with. Like your own existence didn’t make sense without Johnny. You cursed yourself for that thought.
The first time you realized you were in love with Johnny happened slowly, softly. Like a cool breeze dancing around your face.
You hadn’t spoken to him in almost three weeks now, the weight of his absence pressing down on you heavily, making you drag yourself along through your usual activities.
And now, laying on your bed, you hated how affected you were when he had no problem leaving you behind, as if your friendship meant nothing.
But you let the thoughts flow through you, let them come and go however they wished. You closed your eyes, letting yourself feel whatever needed to be felt.
And your thoughts had a pattern, you would come to realize.
“Well, yeah, but you’re exponentially more important than anyone else in my life,” Johnny said one morning over coffee, like he was talking about the news.
“Smart girl, good job!” he praised when you got the jist of something he was tutoring you in.
Or that one time—
“Tastes great, darlin’, thank you,” words punctuated with a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek.
Or how you almost ended up in his lap when you were crying together.
How he used to stand up for you.
Or when he called you his favourite girl.
How he let you prop your feet up on his legs while you painted your toenails. How he picked the colours for you.
Or how he expressed his gratitude in lifting you off the ground and giving you one too many spins until you squealed at him to put you down.
How he showed off your gifts as if they were put down on earth by the gods themselves.
Or how lately, before the fight, before he got with Anna, that word would pop up in your head. Handsome.
How he would comfort you by rubbing your back, brushing his hands through your hair and scratching your scalp.
Or how earnestly he swore you’d never stop being friends.
And it all hit you even harder, now that you were no longer friends. Now that you don’t know if you’ll ever be friends.
If you’ll ever hear the sound of his weird laugh or his genius rambling, that could go on for hours.
You felt the loss in your bones, the way you moved them mechanically, pre-planned, with thought and effort.
The way food seemed bland and unappetizing.
The way you couldn’t stand the sight of the moon and stars because space was Johnny’s thing.
Everything in your life, from the nature around you to the things you owned and felt belonged to Johnny.
And Johnny belonged to Anna.
You let that thought tick you off, you let yourself be washed over in your melancholy.
You let yourself feel the possessiveness rising up in your chest.
You let yourself realize that you were in love with Johnny.
Because Johnny is no longer your friend and that way, it can’t hurt how it would if he was. It can’t be complicated how it would be if your feelings got in the way of your friendship.
Because it no longer existed.
And it was oddly easier to feel it this way. When everything was already said and done and you couldn’t do anything to change it.
To change the fact that you’re in love with someone you called your best friend.
The first time Johnny broke up with his girlfriend for you — two months after not talking, two months of trying to live life without him.
You heard something tap against your window, your brows furrowing as you sat up on the bed, feeling the slightest twinge of anxiety shoot through you.
It was awfully too late and Lee, who you started seeing recently, ‘perfectly’ as your girlfriends called him, was somewhere in Illinois, visiting family.
Maybe you were just hearing things, you thought.
Tap.
Tap.
You mustered up what courage you had to go up to the window and peek through, half expecting some psycho to be throwing pebbles at your window. Or maybe Lee got back earlier—
Johnny.
Your brain blanked out as you stood there, mouth agape while you watched him through the glass. You had half a mind to open the window and lean down a little.
“Johnny?”
“Can I come up?” he asked, hands in his pockets as if trying to make himself look smaller.
“I thought we weren’t friends anymore,” you bit back. Okay, maybe you were still a little bitter but so what? The guy was your best friend, you justified.
“I know, I know, I just— Please? I really want to apologize and then you can kick me out after. I know I don’t even deserve you lettin’ me in but please.”
“...Fine,” you huffed, opening the window fully and stepping away from it so he could climb up properly.
You sat yourself down on the bed, arms curling around your knees and bringing them to your chest in a protective manner.
Once Johnny got in, he took a few steps towards you. Careful, calculated. As if walking up to a stray cat.
“I broke up with her.”
Your jaw set, eyes sharpening.
“So you’re here because she’s not?”
“No, no— I… You were right. About the whole thing. About her hating you, insulting you and lying to me about it… You were right. And I’m sorry I didn’t see that and I’m sorry I didn't take your side.”
You stayed silent, trying to recover from the emotional whiplash that was just given to you.
“Say something, please. I can’t— I was miserable without you.”
“Why didn’t you believe me?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t, I just… Anna’s good at that, I guess. Making people believe her. And I’m not trying to make excuses here, I swear.”
“How did you stop believing her, then?”
“When we had that fight, she seemed a little too happy, y’know? I wrote it off to her wanting what’s best for me, like she always said. But then she wouldn’t let me feel sad about the fact that I just lost my best friend. And then it started being mean comments towards you, like you always said… And then towards me. And I know what this looks like like I’m just here because I’m not with her but it’s not that, I swear, I broke up for you—”
“Johnny,” your voice softer, less guarded. Because yeah, maybe this whole thing was complicated and maybe it hurt, but how could you refuse him when he was so clearly manipulated into a bad situation? God, you cursed yourself for not seeing the full extent of this sooner, for not sitting him down and forcing him out.
“Yeah?”
“Come sit,” a peace offering. An olive branch extending.
He sat next to you, unsure of how close he could be.
“I forgive you.”
“You do? Like, actually, really forgive me?”
“You were in a tough spot, Johnny and it hurt me but—”
“Thank you,” his arms wrapped around you, his body basically on top of yours. “Thank you so much,” he whispered in your neck. “You won’t regret it.”
You brushed your fingers through his hair soothingly, feeling your emotions slowly try to untangle. But the knot in the centre wouldn’t give.
You were in love with your best friend, still.
You needed to break things off with Lee.
And you needed to never, ever let Johnny know.
The first time you cleaned Johnny up was entirely your fault. Completely yours.
The thing with Lee dragged on for far too long. It was summer break before second year when you started seeing him. And now, halfway through the second semester of second year and he was still there.
In your defense, any time you tried to break things off, he’d steer the conversation, sweettalk you until you forgot about it.
Which now led you here, cleaning Johnny’s bruised knuckles.
You let it slip accidentally, how you tried to break up with him more than five times and he wouldn’t let you.
And if Johnny hated anything, it was punks who didn’t know how to treat a woman.
And he hated you a little bit too, for not telling him sooner and dealing with nonsense for a year.
“You didn’t hav’ta fight, Johnny,” you chided softly, carefully dabbing away at the blood.
“Sure I did. Maybe I wouldn’t have to if ya didn’t wait a year to tell me. What else was I supposed to do with a panty waist like him? Only knows to stick it to the ladies,” he said flatly, making you giggle and look up from where you were kneeling.
You didn’t have to kneel for this, you knew. But maybe you had a flair for the dramatics. And maybe he looked good like this. A little too good.
“You’re something else, Johnny.”
“Gotta look out for my girl, don’t I?”
You went back to work as soon as he said that, pretending his words weren’t making you swoon.
My girl.
God, you needed to get it together.
“What did you tell him anyways?” you asked softly, still not looking up.
“Who, Lee?”
“Mhm.”
“That he needs to leave you alone.”
“That’s it?” you let out an amused huff, eyebrow arched.
“It’s just guy talk, don’t worry ‘bout that.”
“Guy talk that gave you bruised knuckles, Johnny—”
“I’m fine,” he said, pulling his hand away slowly, making you huff and stand up.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Seriously, I am.”
“Okay,” you relented, moving to go downstairs to grab you both drinks. And maybe sort your thoughts out.
Your feelings for Johnny were running rampant. Too crazy, too much. You wished you could go back, back when he was just your best friend, just your idiot Johnny.
“A soft one for me!” he yelled after you, already knowing where you were off to.
You didn’t respond, but stored away the information, somewhere in between your jumbled up thoughts.
He just beat up your boyfriend— ex boyfriend, technically. Him. Johnny. The boy scout, heart in line with justice, no violence, Johnny. That same one.
God, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him in a fight before, ever. And now he did it. For you.
You were in trouble, you knew. So much trouble. Cosmic level trouble.
And yet, you still went on normally, pouring him a drink in the kitchen because it was the least he deserved. After this, after the whole situation with Anna that left him scarred.
And because you knew your thoughts were selfish. Unfair. That the little piece of hope that was harbouring in your heart was undeniably wrong, at least morally. That you expected something that you weren’t telling him, something that very well could be impossible.
But the hope prevailed, over anything. Tucked away, hidden, rearing its head in the worst moments. But you’d pretend it didn’t exist. And as long as you never spoke it, it didn’t.
With a deep breath, you shook those thoughts away and went back up again.
“Orange juice, since you started hating fun apparently,” you handed him the glass with a fond smile.
“I’ve had enough fun today, thank you very much.”
“So you did.”
The first time you thought Johnny might love you back fell under the infamous pattern of your friendship. The ‘too much rum’ pattern.
Although, with a twist this time. This time it was gin. His awful cocktails that tasted like drinking the alcohol straight out the bottle. But it got the job done.
It served its purpose in getting you ‘celebratory drunk’, as Johnny called it. For passing the first round of third year midterms, which were kicking your asses. And eating away at your sanity. You don’t think you ever saw Johnny as angry as he was when he was leaned over a paper of about a million formulas that were actually the same one. Or however he explained it.
Thank God that was over.
The back of your head hit the wall a little too hard as you tried to lean back, in search of additional support, which made you giggle lazily.
“You need t’a be more careful, sweetheart,” Johnny drawled as his hooded eyes took you in.
Sweetheart. That was new.
“You never called me that before,” you slurred, the alcohol in your system disabling your brain-to-mouth filter.
“What? Sweetheart?”
“Yeah… You called me darling before. Well, not darling, without the G. Darlin’,” you rambled.
“Well you are all a’that. Darlin’ and a sweetheart. M’ favourite girl in the whole world, ya know that?”
“Mhm, I do.”
“Do you? I don’t think you do. Not really,” he stood up from his spot on your bed and stalked towards you, making heat rise up in your body in anticipation of what he was about to do.
Your heart raced, echoing inside your ears along with the tiny voice there, whispering that this was it. That he would make a move, that he loved you back.
“M’ favourite girl,” his voice was a coo, his hand brushing your hair behind your ear. “Love you so much.”
You preened under his touch, heart wild in the best possible way, hope burning through your body.
“Love you too, Johnny.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
With no warning, he lifts you up, making you squeal in surprise. The words of protest die on your throat as he throws you on the bed.
On instinct, your body falls limp, your breathing heavier, a wetness between your legs, nipples hardening under your shirt, your bared neck making you want to moan out. All embarrassingly fast and all for little to no reason.
Johnny got into bed next to you, a loopy grin on his face.
You let yourself feel the hope, for the first time. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was him just doing whatever this was. Or maybe it was both that let your brain decide that you had reason to hope. A valid, real reason.
“Sometimes…” he started. “Think I love you so much that I can’t handle it. Like I see you doin’ your girly stuff and jus’ think ‘m gonna implode.”
You giggled, moving to bury your face in his neck.
“Oh, that’s funny now, is it?”
“It is.”
“Here I am, openin’ my heart and my li’l sweetheart of a best friend is laughing. You’re cruel, y’know that?”
“Am not!” you protested, still unable to stop the fit of giggles, the pure happiness radiating off of you.
“Are too. Cruelest woman alive.”
“Y’re so dramatic, Johnny.”
“‘m serious though,” he sighed, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Sometimes I think nobody gets me like you do. No one ever will, probably.”
“Yeah, ‘cause we’re just… Us. It makes sense.”
“We’re us,” he laughed. “God, it’s so stupid how true that is… Like, I don’t think I could explain this to anyone.”
“Me neither,” you mumbled against his neck softly. “Like we’re perfectly aligned all the time.”
“Except for that one time.”
“You’re ruining the moment!”
“Alright, alright. We’re not talking about she who shall not be named.”
The first time Johnny changed — you’d been worried, of course you were, nervously pacing the paddock, every single possible outcome passing through your mind, none of them good.
You’d been happy, ecstatic, shed a few tears when he finally got the job after you graduated. Went out of your way to buy him knock-off ANSA merchandise, even though he could get that at work.
The anxiety started creeping in the second he told you he’d actually go to space.
And sure, you knew that was the plan all along, that was his end goal since forever. And you’d listen enthusiastically to all his rants about space in the eight years you’ve known him. And sure, you were happy that your best friend was finally doing what he desperately wanted.
But you were also out of your mind with worry.
And yet, none of your spiraling thoughts could’ve led you here. You couldn’t even think of it as a possibility.
Seeing Johnny come out, in a tar black, burned through suit, Sue distraught, Reed trying to keep his composure and Ben nowhere to be seen.
But you could barely process any of the others, your mind focused on one thing and one thing only. Johnny. Black, burned suit.
Your legs worked on their own accord, running to him without even thinking about it.
“Johnny? Johnny what happened? Are you—” your hands reached out to touch him but he took a haste step back.
“No, don’t— Don’t touch me.”
“What— Johnny—” your hands instinctively went to find him and he jerked back again.
“Don’t!” his voice more a plea than anything, bordering on a broken sob. It managed to sober you up, to put your hands up by your head as if to show that you wouldn’t.
“What happened?”
“Cosmic storm,” he said, eyes wide, scared.
“What does that— What happened to you, Johnny?”
“Fire.”
“What does that mean, Johnny? Fire— You—”
“I set on fire. From inside out. We’re all fucked up! Ben’s a big pile of rocks and— No, don’t do that, I’m gonna hurt you, I’m—” his protests about your hands, which now found their way to his face, died into a sob and you brought him closer, guided him into your neck.
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whimpered out.
“You’re not, Johnny, I promise. ‘m okay, you’re not hurting me,” you cooed, one hand rubbing his back while the other carded through his hair in an attempt to soothe him at least a little.
“‘m not burning you?”
“No… You’re a little hot, but you’re not burning me.”
“But I don’t know if you can— We don’t know what any of this means— What if you—”
“And you’ll figure it out. ‘m sure you will. And if something happens to me because I’m touching you, I’m sure you’ll figure it out too. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Just let me be here, Johnny. Please.”
His tears dampened your neck and the collar of your shirt as his shaky hands gripped you tightly, his body shaking with sobs and broken whimpers.
“I— I was so scared.”
And God, if you thought your heart couldn’t break any more, you would be so terribly wrong because it just shattered into a million pieces. An overwhelming surge of needing to protect him going through your body, moving to hold him tighter, to shield him from everything.
“I know, Johnny, I know. You’re okay now, I got you”
“Hurt s-so bad”
“I know, I know, Johnny,” you cooed, pressing soft kisses to his temple.
“I lo-love you so mu-much.”
“I love you too, Johnny. So fucking much.”
The first time Johnny showed you his powers, after he calmed down a little bit. After Reed figured out what the hell it meant and then got straight into trying to figure out how to reverse it. For Ben’s sake, more than anyone else’s. Poor guy.
But Johnny being Johnny, bounced back rather quickly. Aside from the nightmares that plagued him about what it felt like to literally be burned alive — and stay alive. Other than that, the awake version of Johnny seemed to be doing well.
“So, how do you even do it?” you asked absentmindedly while laying on his bed.
“Do what?”
“The whole fire thing. Is it like moving a muscle or…?”
“Depends what I wanna do, really… Or how much I wanna do. But ‘s more like… Clenching a muscle.”
“Can you show me?” you asked eagerly for the umpteenth time in the past two weeks, since he seemed to be getting better, all turned down because of the small risk of hurting you.
“I told you—”
“Please, Johnny? You know you won’t hurt me.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “But just a small one.”
You watched in awe as he extended his hand, a small fire dancing around his pointer finger.
“Woah,” you breathed out, almost as if in a trance. “Can you do a bigger one?”
“You’re gonna lose your fire privileges.”
“Wasn’t aware I even had them,” you said, still laser focused on the flame around his finger. “Does it hurt?”
“No, not really.”
“But do you like… Feel the fire coming out of you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Woah.”
“You said that already,” he grinned, looking at how amazed you were.
“Yeah, because you have literal fire coming out of you. It’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” your eyes went up to his for a split second before coming back down to the fire. “So like… If I took a lighter and tried to set you on fire, would that work? Like, are you resistant to fire that comes outside of you?”
“Jesus,” he laughed. “Should I be worried about you trying to set me on fire?”
“No. It was a hypothetical, idiot.”
“I mean, it could work. But I could just absorb it.”
“Woah,” you repeated.
“Are you going to say anything else?”
“Can you do a bigger one?”
“Seriously? I’m starting to feel like a jester for Her Majesty.”
“Please? I won’t ask ever again, I swear.”
“I give you a finger and you take the whole hand. Literally.”
“Pleas—” your words died in your throat as you saw fire engulf his whole hand, the flames reflecting on your face, like a kid with his head stuck to the television.
Your wide-eyed expression made Johnny smirk, looking at you being so in awe of him.
“I know, right? Imagine all the ladies swooning over this.”
Oh.
Right.
You hid your disappointment with a smile, cursing yourself for giving in to hope. And most of all, how it still wasn’t dying. How the disappointment took shape of thoughts like, ‘he’s just saying that’ or ‘he’ll tell you he feels the same soon enough’. Because why wouldn’t he? It was you and Johnny. You and Johnny who made sense, you and Johnny who were perfectly aligned at all times (except for that one time).
“Like they don’t already,” you snorted.
“They do, obviously. But Imagine—”
“You’ll give yourself a big head, Johnny.”
“Alright, alright. Point taken.”
The first time Johnny took you flying was as a gift for your twenty-fourth birthday. Three years after he’d gotten his powers and three years of you begging him to take you.
But he turned you down, time after time because shockingly, he didn’t want to kill you. Real hard-hitting news.
But aside from that, he would need to figure out protective clothes. Top to bottom, not an ounce of skin showing. Something that wouldn’t let the flames anywhere near you.
That was the easy part. But convincing Reed to make it? The extremely hard part. But after years of you begging Johnny and Johnny begging Reed, it was finally here.
“No peeking,” Johnny warned, his big hands covering your eyes as he walked you to Reed’s lab.
“I couldn’t if I tried, you’re squeezing my eyes out.”
“Gross. And you’re a liar,” he said, but still eased up on your eyes even more.
The gesture made you swoon, almost making you let out a dreamy sigh as you two walked.
“Alright, stop here… And open,” he said, taking his hands off.
A baby pink suit, with white boots and a white helmet, propped up on a mannequin.
“No way!” you grinned, all but hopping over to him and wrapping your arms around his neck, hanging off him like a koala. “Are you taking me flying?!”
“I am,” he smiled, his hands on your waist.
“No way!” you repeated. “You’re actually taking me flying! God— You’re the best Johnny,” you punctuated your words with a kiss to his cheek.
He leaned into your kiss, pressing one to your temple in return.
“C’mon, suit up so I can take you flyin’.”
You squealed, running off to take your suit.
God, he even made sure it was pink.
God, you loved him so much.
You made quick work of it, hastily taking your shoes off and pulling the suit up over your clothes, all the while beaming up at him. And he sauntered over, in all his endless grace and kneeled down, going to put the boots on you.
“Oh, I’m getting the royalty treatment?”
“I’m a gentleman. C’mon, foot up,” Johnny ordered, taking your ankle in his hands and slipping the boot on your foot, before moving onto the next one, the contact making heat rise up your neck.
He stood up, grabbing you by your shoulders to turn you around, expertly putting your hair up.
“Didn’t know you could do that.”
“Sue taught me, when we were kids. Said it’d be useful when I get married.”
Your heart stuttered at that, letting the hope take a confusing shape between disappointment and over the top confidence that that’d be you. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.
“But she was probably just trying to distract me from everything else going on.”
Oh. Right.
He turned you back so you were facing him and placed the helmet over your head with a warm smile, lightly knocking on the glass front.
“Ready?”
“So ready,” you grinned.
He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, burying you into his side while leading you up to the balcony.
“Alright, grab onto my neck,” he instructed. “No, c’mon, tighter than that, you’ll fall out the sky like that, sweetheart,” he grabbed you by the waist, pulling you closer.
“Is this better?” you asked.
“Much.”
And in true Johnny fashion, he gave you zero warning before burning up, up into the sky with you in his arms.
Both the proximity and the sheer speed at which you took off made adrenaline pump through your veins, a happy scream leaving your lips.
“Johnny!” you grinned, his name falling from your tongue as a half-squeal, half-laugh.
“Feels good?!” his grin was hard to miss, even when his whole body was ablaze.
“Yeah!”
“Gonna take you every day now if you want!” he yelled, turning both of you upside down, just to hear your delighted scream.
The first time Johnny Storm broke your heart. The end times.
You saw it on the TV. The herald, marking the earth for death. Him, Johnny — your idiot Johnny, following her into space. Of course he did.
“Hold your loved ones close. And speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice and celebrate for your time is short.”
Her words were the only thing echoing in your head as you anxiously made your way to the tower, your curlers still on, a coat over your nightie and the first boots you could grab a hold of.
You probably looked ridiculous, you knew, but that was the last thing on your mind considering… Well, considering that the world was ending and you were about to tell your best friend you’ve been in love with him for years.
Johnny met you at the entrance, like he knew you’d come. He probably did.
“There you are,” he breathed out, putting his hands on your arms. “I was just about to go looking for you. C’mon, come in.”
“What was that, Johnny? Who— Was she being serious?” you asked as he ushered you inside.
“We don’t know, we’re— we’re trying to figure it out.”
He sat you down with the team, as they talked possibilities, next steps, planning. You stayed silent, unmoving, eyes trained only on Johnny with a one-track mind.
To get him alone later.
To tell him everything that’s been building up in your heart.
But then he started talking.
About the herald’s warm voice, kind tone, about her beautiful face. Every word like a blow to your now beaten heart. Every word replacing the echo of the herald’s. And you knew then.
You knew that the look on Johnny’s face, the gleam in his eyes — that was infatuation. The real kind. That was interest.
This was Johnny. Your Johnny.
Your Johnny who loved space, loved adrenaline. Liked everything fast, rough and right now.
And you knew there was no room for you in that. Not in the way you wanted to.
But the worst part is that you knew, if you told him, he would try. He would try to love you like you loved him because his kind heart wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of breaking yours.
He’d pretend that you were the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, even if his eyes would wander onto bigger, better possibilities. Vastness of space, pretty aliens.
And you knew that that would break his heart, too. That no matter how perfectly aligned you were, that this — what you imagined, what you, maybe delusionally hoped for, would be doomed.
That you’d break each other's hearts.
And with selflessness that wasn’t hard to muster when it came to him, you decided against it. Against telling him.
If you had to die with a broken heart and without him knowing the extent of your feelings, then so be it.
That would be your final act of love towards him.
Your love, which preceded his experience with outer space and was twice as vast.
But no matter how big it was, it’d make him feel small. And God, you never wanted to make him feel less than the man he is.
Johnny Storm, with his kind heart, his handsome face and expert hands that taught you a lot.
About life, about love, about selflessness. About when to fight. But more importantly, when to give up. When to admit defeat.
About space and physics and about golf.
The final blow was the quiet realization that it wouldn’t have made him feel small if he never knew space. That before it, you probably were the most interesting thing in front of him. That back then, when he was the guy who wiped your tears so they wouldn’t stain your physics notes, it could’ve worked.
“You’re cryin’, sweetheart,” his voice brought you out of your thoughts, his form kneeled in front of you, his hands on your face. “It’ll be fine, I promise. We’ll figure it out.”
“You have to go, Johnny.”
“I know, but I don’t want you crying over me, you hear?”
He brought you in for an awkwardly angled hug, with you leaned forward in your seat and your tears falling in his neck, kisses falling on your hairline above your ear in an attempt to soothe you.
“I love you, Johnny,” you croaked out.
“I love you too. You’re my best friend, silly girl.”
NOTES: lowkey turned into more than I was expecting, loving the dynamic I’ve created between this Rhett x reader (this technically takes place in the same universe as this fic, but not really a continuation) (also still want more asks for this dynamic, just read rules before sending)
The wind shook some blossoms from the trees as Rhett rode up to the lake, and the heavy lilac-blooms moved to and fro in the languid air. Pink petalled daisies sprouted from the tufts of grass and reeds, a single path parting way through the cluster of trees guiding passage to the lake. Sunlight pricked through the bristling leaves in the breeze, speckled light glittering the sifting soil under his truck tires, in the beams that streamed through the peeking branches the light danced and was golden. The narrow path wound away under clumps of lordly trees, swirling through the thickening forest, covered with trees, cluttering with some grey ivy-clustered rocks. The heavy scent of the perfumed lilacs overtook everything.
He parted from the trees into a clearing that, all at once, came to the glistening surface of the lake. Pearly glittering sunlight dancing along the top of the water, and in a flattened tuft of reeds, he could see you perched against your own truck, kicking your heels out into the dirt, suddenly looking back at the rumbling truck.
He huffed when he kicked the door open, ignoring the jump in his chest at the sight of your bright smile.
“Thought I was supposed to be gettin’ the tow company,” you grinned, sun casting over your flushed cheeks. It was hot as could be in Wabang, and according to your fathers phone call asking for Rhett’s hand, you had been there for hours.
“Disappointed?”
You shook your head, grin widening, “Like you better than the tow company.”
“Sweet talk already? Must really wanna get out of here.”
“Guilty,” you smiled. The sun is shining through the leaves and the shadow of your lashes glows over the apples of your cheeks. Rhett always liked seeing you in the sun. The bar was too dim under all those flashing lights and fluorescent yellow street lamps shadowed your pretty smile too much. “You gonna ask what’s wrong with it?”
Rhett hummed, eyes flitting from your face to the front tire of your truck, lodged deep into mud sludge.
“Well, it looks like you’re stuck,” he says through knitted brows, giving you a glance as he comes around the front end. “How many times I gotta tell you to stop driving out here?”
“Wanna tell me one more time?” Rhett gives you a stern look, but he doesn’t say anything else, kneeling down against the side of your truck, tipping the brim of his stetson up. “Think you can get me out?”
“Might have to come back for it later, don’t got a winch on the truck,” he said, making you whine out, pretty face all scrunched up.
“Though you were supposed to be my knight in shining armor,” you huffed, leaning up against the driver side door, flushed cheeks reddening in the sweltering heat.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” he grunted, brushing his hands off his jeans. “Come on, I’ll get Perry to bring it by your place later. Give you a ride back into town.”
“Don’t wanna go back yet,” you huffed.
“Been out here for hours in the heat, and you wanna stick around?”
“Wanted to go for a swim,” you said, a smile turning up again as you nodded your head back to the lake. Rhett frowned.
“Swim?”
“Don’t act like you don’t want to.”
“Can’t say that I do, darlin’,” you didn’t wait for him to finish before walking off to the waters edge, tearing your flowing blouse up over your head, under the sun-orange light that hung bright over the cerulean blue sky, your bare skin glowed as you smiled over your shoulder at Rhett, whose eyes looked over your bare skin and the hands working to unbutton your shorts. “What are you doing?”
“You comin’ in or what?” you laughed, shimming down the cutoffs down your smooth legs, pretty cotton panties hugging your hips.
“You knows its probably fuckin’ freezing in there,” he called out, watching your legs dip under the surface. You turned around, waist half deep in the blue water, smile curling up on your cheeks.
“And it’s fuckin’ hot out there,” you called back. “You know I could drown if you don’t come in.”
“Waters barely five feet, I think you’ll be fine,” he laughed. Rhett bit the inside of his cheek, watching the water ripple around your bare body. “Damnit,” he huffed, making work of his belt.
You splash him when he gets in, and it’s barely a minute before he wrangles you up in his arms, hot skin pressed to your in the cool water, hands brushing back along the arch of your neck, your hands fumbling up around his shoulders while you’re breathy laugh came across his lips. Rhett could never seem to keep his hands off of you, a grave difficulty he couldn’t beat. It was why he kept his distance at the bar, and couldn't bring himself to give the dance you were wanting. You weren’t his, couldn’t stop himself from treating you like you were. But in these moments, more than anything, he thought you wanted to be.
The sun seeped into a fine purplish hue as the sun began to set over the glade. Your hands came up around his neck, pulling him down to sweep your lips across his, back pressed against the patches of grass at the waters edge, water still dripping from your bodies as Rhett moved over you, your hand reaching down between you both to wrap your hands around his cock, pulling it out from his boxers.
“Always gotta be handsy, don’t you, sweetheart?” his breath hitches against your lips, hands hitching your hips up, brushing along your calf, bucking his hips when your thumb traces over the head of his cock. “Gettin’ bold—fuck.”
Your lips open in a squeal when he yanks your hips over his, grass pulling under your back, the thin reeds snapping and sticking to your skin while he sucks along your throat, pushing into your palm.
“Fuckin’ damsel in distress—mm—just wanted to get me out here, huh? Get the truck stuck on purpose, or you just never wanna listen to me, that it, baby?”
“Told you, you gotta tell me again,” you breathe into his mouth, lips curling up as you push up to give him a kiss, tongue gliding against his and he groans into your mouth, tearing down the soft white cotton of your panties, fingers delving down to brush along your cunt, a soft whine coming from your throat. Rhett groaned at the sight of you writhing from the grind of his palm against you as his fingers pushed in and out with slick sticking to your thighs, mouth open and breathing into him, his own hips involuntarily driving into your soft hand.
He kissed you again, his fingers finding the soft spot inside of you that had you crying out into his mouth, saliva slick on their lips with every stuttered breath and shaky moan, your own unbusied fingers tethering into his damp hair, chest arching up into his.
“Rhett, I—oh—fuck,” you whined, hips stuttering into his palm, his own hand bracing the space in the grass beside your head, the soft orange glow of the setting sun sweeping over your face as you cum all over his fingers.
“So fuckin’ sweet on me, aren’t you, baby? Think you got another for me?” he rasps, chuckling when your head nods eagerly, already pushing his cock toward your sensitive cunt. “Course you do, such a good girl when you wanna be.”
“Dont be mean, Rhett,” you whine, legs wrapping tightly around his hips.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smiles, relishing in the sound you make when he finally pushes his cock into you, sweet walls hugging him tight. “Jesus—always so fuckin’ tight. And wet—this all for me, baby?” he thrusts one languid stroke and laughs at the way your face scrunches up, hands coming up to grip onto his shoulders for purchase, pulling your hips up to meet his, skin slapping together in the vacant lake side. “That’s it, you’re all for me, huh, sweetness? Don’t want no one else, isn’t that right? Not when you got me all to yourself—ah, fuck.”
His lips come down across your throat, nipping the soft skin while your hands push across him wherever they can, clutching tight onto him as his hips drive into yours, pulling moans and gasps from your parted lips with each thrust of his cock. A gentle wind swept over you both and stirred the dainty blades of grass torn beneath your writhing form, wilful sunbeams gleaming over the shortest trees as the sun lowered beyond them.
He yanks your hips up to his effortlessly and swallows the wrangled cry the comes from your mouth at the sensation of his pulsing cock nudging deeper into you, noses nudging as his fingers dig into the plush of your skin to pull you up into him, gripping your hips to fuck you up onto his cock. Your forehead presses to his, your pretty face all skewed and brows knitted, little huffs echoing through the surrounding trees.
“Oh, Rhett—oh my god,” you gasp, back arching and the familiar clench of you cumming around him makes his hips buck into you, shortly spilling into you with a low wrangled groan, breaths panted out against the base of your throat, hands sliding up your torso to pull you flush against him, a pleasured sigh leaving your lips as his hips stutter into yours one last time.
His hands reach up, pulling back to look at you, brushing the damp hair from your face as you gaze up at him, a fucked out smile on your face. He sighed, looking down at you, and then around the small glade, a grin pulling at the corner of his lips.
“Probably got grass stains all over this pretty little thing,” he murmured, fingers delving under the strap of the pretty white bra you were still wearing, the band snapping back softly against your skin. Your lips pulled into a smile, nudging up to kiss him softly before your head lulled back against the grass.
“Probably,” you murmured softly, sinking back on the pillow of grass with a sigh, your fine eyes following his lingering gaze. “What?”
Rhett was arrested by the sudden overwhelming urge to tell you how beautiful you looked. Hair splayed out against the green glade, the faint flush of your skin and the glistening sheen of sweat and water shimmering in the setting sunlight. Flecks of green buried in your hair. The sunset had smitten into scarlet purple and Rhett swallowed, shaking the feeling away.
“Nothin’,” he hummed, “Should get you home. Everyone’s probably wondering where you’ve been.”
You nodded, and smiled, and leaned up to kiss him once more, and he relished in the feeling of your lips pressed to his. It was much softer than the other kisses, all bared teeth and tongue, this was merely a press of lips to one another. If Rhett didn’t know any better, he would have said it was romantic. For a moment, he didn’t want to know better.
Summary: There's always a joke surrounding weddings that the Maid of Honor and the Best Man will end up falling in love; it's one of the oldest clichés in the book. When you're the Maid of Honor, though, Bob Floyd wouldn't have it any other way.
Warnings: insane amounts of fluff, insane amounts of pining (my god I couldn't stop), maid of honor and best man trope, kind of friends to lovers, language, Hangman is Hangman, female reader, reader is very creative and can dance, UCSD info might not be accurate I don't go there, suggestive and steamy but not explicit, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol)
Word Count: 13,515 words
Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here
PART TWO - Even More Cliché : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader
“Natasha Trace, my best friend…will you marry me?”
The Hard Deck erupted into a chorus of excitement the minute that Natasha told Bradley Bradshaw yes through a curtain of tears. Bob was cheering right along with them, elated for his two best friends and to know that Rooster had pulled off the proposal he’d been stressing over for weeks now.
The couple had made the rounds in the moments after. Maverick and Penny were the first to congratulate them both, and Bob could’ve sworn he saw tears in their Team Leader’s eyes as he hugged Rooster. Hangman had a snide remark under his breath, but gave the couple both his heartfelt congratulations, followed by Fanboy and Payback.
“Couldn’t have done this without you, Bobby boy,” Rooster clapped his best friend on the back, bringing him into a tight hug before letting Natasha hug her back seater. “Bob’s been helping me plan this for weeks, making sure everyone would be here tonight for the engagement party. The greatest future best man a guy could ask for!”
“Bradley, it can’t be an engagement party without our families,” Natasha had quickly argued back, shooting Bob a bright smile. “But thank you, Bob. It means the world to both of us.”
“It’s what you both deserve,” he’d told them wholeheartedly. “Seeing my best friends happy is all I want.”
“Going back to your engagement party comment,” Bradley cut in, shooting his now-fiancée a cheeky grin as he gestured behind her. “Don’t think I didn’t think of everything.”
Bob laughed along with Rooster the second Natasha turned around, shouting in glee at her family standing directly behind her. She’d thrown herself into her mother and father’s arms, given her sister a tight hug, and a whole new round of tears had sprung as they admired the ring on her finger. Bob nudged his best friend with a grin.
“You did good, Rooster,”
“Oh, this is just the beginning,” Natasha’s attention was turned back to Bradley the second she heard him say that, raising an eyebrow as she missed the sneaky smiles on her family’s faces.
“What else could you have possibly pulled off tonight-”
“Give your man props, Nattie. He knew if he proposed to you without me in attendance, one of us would likely kill him,”
It wasn’t the first time Bob had ever seen you, but it was the first time he’d ever seen you in person. Natasha had shown him many photos of herself and her childhood best friend, the girl she considered more of a sister than anything else, many times before in all their time knowing each other and working together. He’d seen the elementary photos, the awkward middle school photos, the prom photos, and the intermittent photos taken throughout adulthood, anytime the pair of you could find time to see one another.
He hated that, based solely on photos and stories of you, he’d grown the most schoolboy crush in the world on you. He wasn’t sure if there was an “unspoken” code about crushing on the childhood best friend of one of your own best friends, but he felt like it definitely crossed a line.
Rooster was laughing from Bob’s side as you and Natasha practically bounced around in circles together, talking a mile a minute as you admired the ring sitting snugly on her left hand now. With arms wrapped around one another, you’d both turned back to the boys as Bob watched you flash a smile in Rooster’s direction.
“Bradley, nice to finally see you outside of FaceTime screens. And nicely done with the ring, I’m glad you took my advice,”
“Who was I to question the advice of the master?”
Bob felt his breath catch for a moment as your gaze finally turned to him, and he could see you fully for the first time in front of him.
God, you were even prettier up close than in your photos.
“You must be the infamous Bob that I’ve heard so much about,” Bob wanted to melt under your smile as you flashed your attention toward him. “Thanks for keeping my girl safe in the skies.”
“Well- I’d say she keeps me safe more…”
“Team effort, at least take half the credit,” you’d joked to him, before Natasha had quickly pulled you into conversation once more.
It was stupid, Bob thought, to have a crush on a woman he’d never even met before. He couldn’t help it the entire night as he watched you talk and joke with Natasha’s family, the way you so effortlessly made conversation with the entire Dagger Squad, even though it was the first time you’d met them all. Through photos, videos, and stories alone, Bob had gained a schoolboy crush. But now, as you animatedly explained a story of you and Phoenix from your childhood, he could feel his crush growing from seeing your personality shine.
Thankfully for Bob, he’d barely have to see you. You’d fly home most likely the next day, and the next time he’d see you would be for wedding preparations. That’d be plenty of time to get over his dumb little crush on his best friend’s childhood best friend.
“I’m telling you, it was the funniest night of our entire lives!” Natasha was practically in tears, and so were the rest of the Dagger Squad members as you choked out your words through your own laughter. Bob had a hard time looking away from you as you spoke. “I’m up there on that stage, sold out high school theater guys, ready to give my really intense monologue, and suddenly the set wall just comes CRASHING down with Nattie here clinging onto it!”
“I warned them during set construction that the wall was just begging to fall down!” Natasha laughed, leaning back against Rooster with a shake of her head. “That was immediately the last time I let this one here talk me into helping with the school musicals. Never signed up again, no matter how much she begged.”
“And wait, this was opening night too?” Fanboy chimed in from his space beside Bob as both women gave him a nod. “That somehow makes it even funnier. I can’t thank you enough for bestowing us with the gift of these stories tonight.”
“Yes, yes, consider them a tiny gift for all of Nattie’s friends here tonight,” you turned away from the rest of the squad to look at your best friend, though. “It’s your engagement party, though, so I think it’s time that I gave you your gift.”
Bob could see the smirk on Rooster’s lips as he watched the pair. Bob, along with the ret of their friends, watched intently as well as you dug a key out of your back pocket, dropping it into Natasha’s hand without another word. Bob’s front seater cocked an eyebrow, examining the key in confusion.
“A key…how…nice?”
“Well, I have to make sure someone in this city has a spare key to my place,” Bob felt his breath catch for a second, catching onto your words before Natasha did, as you beamed at your best friend. “To my apartment, over in Logan Heights! If I’m going to be the newest Professor at UC San Diego, I’m going to need a place to live-”
If there was a contest for trying to break the sound barrier with a scream, or even how much one person could cry in a single night, Natasha Trace was pretty close to winning them both. Between her shouts of “YOU’RE MOVING TO SAN DIEGO?” and a lot of loud crying, as Rooster smirked, letting his friends know he knew about this surprise, Bob knew this night had quickly become absolute perfection in both of his friends’ eyes.
Bob also knew that now, his plan to squash his little crush on you had failed before it even had the chance to begin.
He’d managed to avoid seeing you for a few days, but that didn’t mean that Natasha had shut up about you. Every day, while thousands of feet in the air, he’d listened to her ramble on and on about how the pair of you had always wanted to live in the same city together once you were settled in your careers, and she was finally getting her wish. She’d also run about a thousand ideas for how to help you decorate your apartment by him, and somewhere in there had tricked him into agreeing to help herself and Rooster set up your apartment.
“I can’t thank you all enough for the help,” you’d told the three standing in front of you one early Saturday morning, giving them all thankful smiles, before turning to the multitudes of boxes stacked around your living room. “I…frankly have no idea where to start. The boxes are all stacked in their corresponding rooms, and there are a ton of IKEA boxes that need to be assembled in just about every room.”
Rooster clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder, bringing the attention of both women back to the two of them.
“Good thing Bob and I are masters of IKEA furniture,” Bradley put on an air of confidence as he said it. “When Payback and Fanboy got their apartment a few months ago, we were in charge of all the furniture assembly.”
“And given that we managed to build a bedframe upside down, I wouldn’t call us masters,”
It was the giggle you let out at Bob’s comment that brought his attention back to you, an involuntary flush spreading across his cheeks. You gave a mock salute to the pair.
“Well, how nice it is to know I have such capable young men on my side,” you gestured with your head toward the hallway behind you. “I’ll steal Bob for help with the dining room if Natasha, you and your man can handle my bedroom without putting my bedframe together upside down.”
With another laugh shared, Rooster and Phoenix were quickly moving down the hallway toward your bedroom, but Bob caught the over-exaggerated wink that Rooster sent his way before disappearing into what he assumed was your bedroom.
Trying to calm the blush evident on his cheeks, Bob joined you in the dining room directly off your kitchen. You’d already set yourself down on the floor, breaking into the IKEA box laid before you.
“Can you take that so I don’t lose it while getting all these pieces out?” you’d laughed, handing Bob the instruction manual. He took it from you with a nod, quickly flipping through the packet in his hands.
“A ‘GRÖNSTA’, because that’s not a mouthful,” Bob commented under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear as you laughed again. He took a seat on the ground opposite of you,, placing the packet off to the side and helping you take pieces out of the box, while also trying to calm the heat still prevalent in his cheeks. “Doesn’t help that the instructions don’t make any sense.”
“Right? You’d think the Swedes would learn that their pictures aren’t very helpful,” you both shared a laugh as Bob watched you flip open the instructions, grabbing the pieces needed for the very first leg of the table.
It was torture, almost, being around you with a crush that felt so middle school being harbored inside of him. He barely knew you, but every time you talked and joked, he knew he was already digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.
“You said the other night you’re a professor?” Bob had settled on asking you about yourself. You were Natasha’s best friend, and now you lived here; getting to know you was going to be inevitable. You gave him a slight hum as an answer, intent on screwing in the leg of the table to the tabletop that Bob was holding in place. “What uh, what will you be teaching?”
“I’m a professor in the art department, there’s like a whole slew of classes I’ll be teaching,” you explained to him as Bob held the table steady so that you could screw in another leg. “Music, theatre, dance, and probably whatever else they throw my way.”
You passed the tools off to Bob as you stood, holding the table upright on it’s two legs so that he could screw in the last two from the ground below you. Truthfully, Bob was thankful for the table between you two, because the more he looked at you, the more he couldn’t stop thinking about just how gorgeous you were in person.
“Take it you’re a creative person, then?”
“After some lead roles in high school musicals, followed by a stint on Broadway fresh out of college…yeah I’d say creative is a good word to use,” Bob laughed, moving out from under the table slightly to grab the final leg from just a few feet away, glancing up at you.
“Broadway? My older sister is a big musical fan, she’d go nuts knowing I know someone who was on Broadway, now,”
“Well, you can tell her that I’d be happy to tell her all about it sometime. I’ve got a whole slew of fun stories from different shows,” you gave him another grin, still holding up the unbalanced table. “I’m surprised Nattie didn’t tell anyone about my Broadway stint; she talks about it like a proud mother to whoever will listen.”
Bob found himself locked in place as he laughed at your comment, fidgeting with the last table leg in his hands as he smiled up at you, finding himself locked in conversation easily. Despite his raging social anxiety that Rooster and Hangman desperately wanted to fix, Bob found it entirely too easy to talk to you.
“To be fair, when we’re thousands of feet in the air, we have a few things to focus on for the sake of our lives,” both of you shared a laugh at his comment. “She’d told plenty of stories about you, though. Showed a lot of photos and videos, too.”
“Good, because she’s told me plenty about you,” Bob could see your grin widen, no doubt because of the red flush overtaking his skin at your comment. “Her incredibly smart and kind WSO with raging social anxiety. Not sure I believe that last part, you seem to be doing just fine.”
“On the outside, maybe. Typically, on the outside and inside, I’m about as useful as a newborn baby deer,”
The laughter that you let out as his joke, Bob decided, was now one of his favorite things. He was so entranced by it that he hadn’t noticed you’d accidentally let go of the table until it had fallen back on him.
The gasp you’d let out rang through the room, but it was broken apart by the laughter that seemed to be flowing out of you even harder now. Bob took a second to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose before shoving the table off of him. Your laughter paused for a moment as soon as the two of you locked eyes, before you both devolved into a fit of laughter that had Bob almost curled in on himself.
“I’m so sorry!” you had finally managed to get out words after a solid few moments, wiping tears from your eyes as laughter still broke through your words. “I didn’t mean to do that!”
“Good, because I don’t want to explain to Maverick that I died because of a ‘GRÖNSTA’,” the pair of you devolved into laughter again as you held out your hand for him. Bob took it, despite the full-body flush he felt at simply touching your skin, and let you hoist him back up to his feet.
“Alright, next time I see you, I’m buying you a drink as an apology,” you told him with a pointed look as you moved past him to grab the instruction book.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Ikea,”
“Hey!” Bob laughed as you gasped at his comment, whacking him lightly with the instruction booklet as you grinned at him. “There’s no way we’re making that my nickname!”
“I promise it’s better than any call-sign Hangman will come up with for you-”
“What the hell is happening out here?”
Bob turned on his heel to face the hallway just as you did. Rooster looked lost at what was happening outside the bedroom, as did Natasha, but Bob could see the slightest hint of a smirk on his friend’s face as she looked at him. Bob turned to look at you, just as you looked at him, and you both devolved into another round of laughter that had Rooster even more confused.
Bob Floyd hadn’t stopped thinking about you after that night. He thought about you constantly, how your hand fit and felt in his own, about your laughter, and about that beautiful smile on your face. He was in deep, and he knew it. You never left his mind until he saw you again at the weekly Hard Deck hangout with the rest of the Dagger Squad.
“Well, well, well,” Hangman’s Texan accent was heavy tonight as he turned his gaze away from the pool table before him, and the meaningless game he was playing against Coyote. “Phoenix brought her shadow along tonight!”
Bob turned his head, a smile crossing his lips at the sight of you walking up with Phoenix, two beer bottles in your hands as you rolled your eyes at Hangman’s comments, but Natasha was the one who spoke first.
“I was more so her shadow growing up, followed this one everywhere,” she nudged your shoulder before taking a seat at one of the high tops next to Bradley, smiling widely as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Figured, now that she’s settled in, it was time to start bringing her around to the weekly night out.”
The conversation continued, but Bob’s eyes and grin were glued to you. You made a beeline for his side, leaning against the high-top chair he was seated on and passing him one of the beers in your hand.
“Nice to see you, Lieutenant,” you teased him, clinking the top of your bottle to his own. “I did say I owed you a beer next time I saw you.”
“Thanks, Ikea, I’m sure it will numb the pain of that table falling on me,” Bob threw back, laughing as you lightly hit him on the shoulder the second he said that nickname. “Settled in well?”
“All thanks to you guys and that entire day full of furniture building,” you shot back at him, taking a swig of your drink as you turned to watch the pool game in front of you, still leaning against Bob’s chair. It had you close enough that Bob was overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume, and he decided in that moment it might be his new favorite scent.
He then scolded himself in his head for how weird that sounded. This crush was getting out of hand.
Coyote let out a groan as Hangman beat him once again, the latter letting out a loud whoop that had the rest of the Dagger Squad laughing. The pilot’s attention turned immediately to you, a frown appearing on Bob’s lips immediately as he recognized the flirty grin on Jake’s face.
“What do you say, little lady?” Hangman emphasized his accent even more, making a show of gesturing you toward the pool table with the pool cue in his hands. “Want to play a round?”
You hummed from beside Bob, leaning over him to place your own drink on the table as his face immediately flushed at the action. You didn’t seem to notice, stalking toward the pool table and picking up Coyote’s previous pool cue.
“8 ball or 9 ball?”
“9 ball, I’m all about making shots,” Hangman called back, gesturing toward his side of the table. “Payback can rack ‘em for us. What do you say, sweetheart? Ready to be partners with the greatest pool player Miramar’s ever had the pleasure of hosting?”
“Absolutely,” you shock back, and Bob paused in his sip of his beer as your gaze shot back toward him. “Let’s go, Lieutenant. You’re my partner.”
There was a collective laugh through the entire squad at the look of shock on Hangman’s face, that he quickly tried to wipe away and pretend as if your comment hadn’t affected him. Bob froze for a moment, but the inviting smile on your face drew him to your side within a heartbeat.
Hangman and Coyote were a good pairing, but somehow you and Bob managed to be just slightly better than them both. Bob let out a cheer as you sunk the final ball of the game, happily accepting the high five you sent his way as Coyote and Hangman groaned, having come so close yet so far from winning out.
“Nice shots there, Bob,” you shot at him, nudging his shoulder with your own as you placed your cue down on the table. Bob could feel the confidence he’d been feeling the last hour slightly fade at the close proximity to you, at the sweet smile you were sending up at him from your place next to him.
“Yeah uh- yeah, you too, Ikea-”
“Ikea?” Payback questioned as he and Fanboy hopped up to sit on the table next to the dejected Jake Seresin. He pointed between Bob and their newest friend. “Like…the Swedish furniture place?”
You laughed, your hand coming to rest on Bob’s forearm with a squeeze that had his heart fluttering in his chest.
“Inside joke, Payback, and it’s going to stay that way,”
Bob’s friend went to counter them with another comment when Natasha and Bradley returned to the group, an entire tray of beers in hand as Natasha whistled to get everyone’s attention.
“Alright guys, we’ve got another round of beers for the group,” most of them whooped and hollered as Bradley passed them all out, before Natasha turned to Bob and her best friend to hand them the two in her hands with a wide grin. “And two very special ones for our best friends.”
There was a beat of silence as Bob took his drink from Natasha, taking a swig before he felt something on the outside of the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, seeing a piece of paper barely attached by a thin strip of tape, Rooster’s handwriting scrawled across it:
You might be Phoenix’s back seater, but I want you to be my wingman this time: be my Best Man?
Bob almost felt tears in his eyes as he looked up at Bradley, who was waiting with a grin on his face. Overwhelmed with emotion, Bob simply nodded, standing up as he brought Bradley into a tight hug as the rest of the group realized what was happening before them and began cheering.
“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, YES!”
Bob and Bradley both turned to see you flinging yourself into Natasha’s arms, the pair of you jumping and crying together. His eyes trailed to your bottle, long forgotten on the side of the pool table, with a piece of paper bearing Nat’s handwriting taped to the neck:
It was always going to be you: be my Maid of Honor?”
“You know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, right Bob?” It was Bradley’s voice mumbled into his ear with a hint of teasing laced through it, his best friend’s hand clamped down on his shoulder with a squeeze. “It’s almost inevitable that they fall in love.”
Bob never had a second to truly process Bradley’s words before Natasha was getting the attention of the entire group once again, with you still glued to her side.
“It might also be a good time to tell you guys we picked a wedding date…we’re getting married in six months!”
The cheering of the entire group ceased for a moment before everyone seemed to shout all at once.
“WHAT?”
Planning a wedding was hard enough on the Bride and the Groom, and it was hard on the Best Man and the Maid of Honor as well. But to somehow turn it around in only six months, especially when almost everyone involved was a Navy fighter pilot who spent most of their time thousands of feet in the air, it made it even harder.
It was even harder for Bob, as he accepted his ‘schoolboy crush’ had grown into a full-blown crush on you, maybe even borderline infatuation, not even a month later than that night at the Hard Deck.
Bob had been a stumbling, blushing mess when you’d given him your number that night after the announcement. It made sense, given that it was going to be up to the two of you to plan most of the festivities leading up to the wedding. It was hard because, besides Bob’s growing affection for you, he couldn’t get the thought of what Rooster had mumbled to him out of his head.
He’d yet, though, worked up the courage to text you regarding ANYTHING other than wedding festivities planning…which were all conversations you had started first.
“Hard Deck, 6 p.m., don’t be late!” Phoenix called out to Bob as she walked away, tucked under Bradley’s arm as they made their way toward the latter's truck. “Hangman insists on that pool rematch tonight!”
“Let a guy shower first!” Bob called back, waving goodbye to his friends as he climbed up into his truck, wiping sweat from his brow. Another day that ended with over 200 push-ups from Maverick, and he refused to show up to the Hard Deck without showering first. Before he could put his car in drive, his phone went off, and his heart skipped a beat as he read your name across the screen.
Soooooooooo, huge favor to ask you here, Bobby…
Bob did his best to calm the hammering that his heart was doing inside of his ribcage. It was just a simple text, that’s all, asking for a favor. He’d texted you before, and while this potentially may not be wedding-related, he could certainly text you again.
Anything, what’s up?
Anything? God, could he make his pining any more obvious? He didn’t get long to mull over his own words before you’d already typed back to him.
My car is in the shop, and a coworker gave me a ride in today, but she had to leave early. I know I promised Jake that pool rematch tonight…any way you could swing by and pick me up from campus?
I know campus is WAY in the opposite direction from the Hard Deck, it’s totally okay if you can’t!
Was Bob freaking out inside? Absolutely. He knew you worked on UCSD’s campus, but he’d never been to your office; he had no need to go there. The last time he’d also been fully alone with you was building furniture and dropping tables in your apartment, and picking you up meant being alone with you…plus, it wouldn’t give him time to go home and shower, and the last thing he wanted to do was put you off potentially because he was sweating buckets in the San Diego sun all day.
Before he could psych himself out, as if there was a little Rooster on his shoulder coercing him, Bob replied.
Of course, send me your office address.
About a half hour later, Bob was forcing himself out of his truck and up to the doors of the building housing the Department of Theater and Dance, frantically trying to fix his hair so he looked semi-acceptable. He’d already had to convince himself that a fifth layer of deodorant was not needed, nor was a second spray of the spare cologne he kept in his car.
Walking through the doors and into the building you’d given him directions to, Bob realized fairly quickly that he was absolutely lost and had no idea how to get to your office. Spotting a receptionist off to the side, Bob made his way over to her and cleared his throat, asking politely for directions to your office.
“I didn’t think Siren had any meetings on the schedule for today…” the receptionist trailed off as she raised an eyebrow at him. Bob let out an awkward laugh, glancing to her nametag and making a mental note that her name was ‘Sydney’, before answering her.
“Uh, no ma’am, sorry for the confusion. I’m a uh…friend of hers. She asked me to pick her up,”
Sydney’s eyes seemed to widen as she smiled, happily sitting up now in the chair once he’d explained himself.
“Oh! You must be the Lieutenant. Bob, right?” he gave her a nod as she typed something at her laptop before turning back to him. “Siren told me you’d be dropping by and would probably need directions- oh, and don’t mind the nickname, it’s just kind of a little inside joke around here that stuck. Take those stairs up to the second floor, the right side is dance studios, and her office is at the end of the hall to the left!”
With a quiet thank you, Bob followed her directions up the stairs and down to the left, though he could hear the music blasting from the dance studios down the hallway. At the very end of the hall, he saw your name on the plaque outside the one door ajar in the hallway.
With a light push to the door, so as not to freak you out, Bob leaned against the doorframe as he saw you working away at your laptop, singing softly to yourself as your own music played. He smiled softly to himself at the sight, even though inside he was still freaking out over the entire situation.
“So…Siren, huh?”
You jumped slightly at the voice until you turned, seeing that it was just Bob standing in the doorway of the office. He watched as you gave a slight laugh, beginning the process of packing your things up as you explained.
“God, of course, Sydney used that in front of you,” you turned, shooting him another smile as you packed your laptop away. “Context to this stupid inside joke probably helps, doesn’t it? I taught a salsa class my first week here, and this one student of mine thought I was such a good dancer she explained that my ‘dancing was so captivating, like a Siren’s song,’ and the next thing I knew the entire staff was calling me that.”
“Not a bad nickname,” Bob tried to reassure you as you joined him at the doorway with your things. “Better than your callsign being your name…or Hangman turning it into baby-on-board instead.”
You rolled your eyes, taking hold of his arm in your hand and dragging him lightly from the office doorway to lock up behind you, hopefully unaware of the frantic beating of his heart at even the slight contact.
“I’d rather get called that than get named after leaving my wingmen out to dry,” you gave him a pointed look that he laughed at before your features softened into something genuine again. “Thank you for being my hero today.”
“Anytime, Ikea,”
It was only halfway through the night at the Hard Deck when you’d let slip to Penny your nickname at work, and like vultures, the rest of the squad was dying to hear the story.
It was that night that, after living in San Diego for a month and a half, Bob watched the rest of his team officially induct you as an honorary member of the Dagger Squad with your very own callsign: Siren. You were officially one of them, even though you basically had been since the moment you’d arrived in the city.
From that day on, something shifted for Bob. He’d chalked it up to the ease he felt around you, the way you made him feel like he didn’t need to be flashy like Hangman to be liked, and he’d found it easier to finally branch out and text you about things NOT related to the wedding. And slowly, but surely, he was stopping by the campus on his very few rare off days from work to bring you lunch, simply talk to you in your office, or offer you a ride to the Hard Deck, knowing full well your car was parked in the campus lot.
Bob spent the next weeks slowly, but surely, falling in love with you in every way imaginable, and he knew it. It terrified him how easily you’d secured a place in his heart, and you weren’t even aware you had. Phoenix and Rooster had tried to pry the information out of him many times, wondering why he was so engrossed in his phone all the time or why he was suddenly so smiley, but he kept his lips sealed.
Besides, how was he supposed to tell the woman controlling the fighter jet that could kill him that he was kind of falling in love with her best friend?
It was one of those very rare off days that Bob found himself cleaning out his truck in his driveway, knowing that there were a few jackets and extra pairs of shirts, and pants to change into after leaving base that needed to come out of the car and into the wash. What he hadn’t expected was to find your jacket.
You’d worn it the night before to the Hard Deck, actually needing Bob to pick you up since your car was once again in the shop. The temperature was predicted to drop drastically that night, and since Payback and Fanboy had the bright idea to do ‘late night dogfight football,’ you’d told him that you wanted to ensure you were warm. You must have left it in his car when he’d dropped you off that night.
Bob hesitated for half a second before climbing into the driver’s seat of his truck. What if you needed your jacket? It totally wasn’t an excuse to see you.
Sydney knew him well at this point, simply waving hi to him as he entered the familiar campus building. He’d waved back, giving his thanks as she called out that you may not be in your office at this hour.
She’d been correct, but Bob had been by enough to know you had your class schedule written out on the board by the door of your office.
Contemporary Dance, 11:30 a.m. Room 149
The signs were easy enough to follow, leading him down the hallway toward the area he knew held the multiple dance studios. Your voice was easy enough to pick out as he stepped inside the room, catching you leading your class in front of the full wall of mirrors. He’d never seen you dance until now, but it only took a second to see why they all called you Siren.
You moved in a way that was graceful yet powerful, commanding and yet gentle all the same. Bob had to adjust the way he was leaning against the doorway, cursing himself for the fact that he was enjoying your dancing way too much, and the dirty thoughts in his head were fighting to come to the surface. You deserved more than being thought of in that way. You deserved a proper date, maybe over a nice meal with a walk along the beach. You deserved chivalry, for him to always open every door and walk on the outer edge of the sidewalk to keep you safe. You deserved more than his boyish, improper thoughts. What you deserved was the world, and Bob would give it to you if you just said the word.
You’d locked eyes with him in the mirror as the song and dance with your students came to an end, and his heart soared at the way it seemed your face lit up simply at seeing him. You bid a quick goodbye to your students, ushering them out of the room and onto their next class, before it was just the pair of you left as music still played over the room’s speakers.
“You didn’t text me and tell me you were coming?” you questioned the man, moving through the room to fix things up and put away anything your students had managed to move in the process of the class.
“You forgot this last night,” he held up your jacket. “Just figured I’d bring it back, sorry, I should’ve texted-”
“Bob, you’re more than welcome here whenever you want to come,” you cut in quickly, gesturing toward the far wall where your purse lay. “Thank you, just toss it over with the rest of my stuff.”
Bob did as you asked, now fully in the room with you, as he watched you fiddle with things around the room, moving them back to where he assumed they were before class had started. His hands found their way into the pockets of his jeans, keeping himself from wringing his hands together or from fiddling with the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel over and over again.
“I’ve never gotten to see you dance before…I get why they call you Siren,” he swallowed the small lump that seemed to form in his throat, slowly losing his nerve around you like he typically did. “Wish I knew how to do…all that.”
“Well, thank you, contemporary was one of the dance forms I primarily trained in during college,” you shot back at him, spinning on your heel to face him now as you tilted your head. “And come on, anyone can dance, it’s not that complicated.”
“That’s because you’ve never seen me try,” Bob laughed at himself, sheepishly rubbing at the skin on the back of his neck as he looked away from you. “I look like I have two left feet when dancing. Who knows how I’m going to survive this wedding in a few months.”
There was silence in the room before Bob heard you move. His eyes trailed back to you, watching as you grabbed your phone for just a moment, before the sweet sound of Kina Grannis’ voice overtook the room. His eyes stayed glued to you as you came to stand in front of him, holding out your hand with your palm facing the sky as you wore the prettiest, softest smile he’d ever seen.
“Dance with me?”
Bob thought surely that was the moment his heart was going to decide to give out on him, but in gazing at your kind eyes and smile full of affection, he placed his hand in your own and let you lead him.
God, your hand fit in his like it was made to be there.
He silently watched you, allowing you to wrap his one hand around your waist, giving it a squeeze before trailing your other hand to rest on top of his shoulder.
“Take a deep breath,” he followed your instructions as you gave a squeeze to his hand, still wrapped in your own. “Just follow me, I promise it’s not hard.”
Bob found his eyes glued to your feet as you slowly moved him around the room together, mumbling apologies every now and again as he stumbled or stepped on your toes, but you only ever gave him a comforting squeeze to his hand or shoulder. He never dared look up at you, afraid he’d lose all his cool if he had to look you in the eyes in this close proximity.
When he stumbled once more, you gave a small laugh, hand moving from his shoulder to his neck, gently tilting his jaw upwards to look at you.
“I promise it’s much easier if you don’t watch your feet,”
His eyes met yours, and it was like the entire world went silent in that moment, but the music playing through the sound system seemed to get louder.
But I can’t help, falling in love with you.
“There are those pretty blue eyes,” you teased as a blush coated his cheeks in seconds. It brought on another smile to see a similar one on your own, though. “Did Bradley tell you about their bachelor and bachelorette party idea?”
“He said they had an idea, just hadn’t told me yet,”
“Nat told me they thought a big combined party would be best, given that this friend group is just one giant pile of pilots,” Bob laughed, missing the feel of your hand on his jaw as it moved back to his shoulder. “Guess you and I have to get planning.”
“Maverick said Cyclone made it work so that we can all have a week off for it, just have to let them know when,”
“Perfect. Know what else is perfect?” Bob shook his head as your grin widened. “You are dancing perfectly since you stopped looking at your feet!”
Bob’s eyes widened as he looked down at his feet for just a moment, realizing you were right, before looking back up at you. It was like the world was throwing every sign in the world at him as the music seemed to feel louder once again.
For I can’t help, falling in love with you.
Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat once again, Bob mustered the softest smile for you he could.
“Guess I just have a great teacher,”
The weeks passed, and the wedding was only a month and a half out. You’d flown home with Natasha to your hometown in order to wedding dress shop with Nat’s sister and mother, and every detail had been meticulously planned out for the wedding. The venue had been chosen, a gorgeous little venue in the heart of San Diego just big enough to house the 150 or so guests that had been invited, and just a few blocks walk for the wedding party and family members who would be staying at the Lafayette Hotel San Diego.
The Best Man and the Maid of Honor had finalized the plans for the joint bachelor/bachelorette trip: a week stay in a gorgeous home by the Colorado River and just an hour’s drive from Lake Mead and Las Vegas, plenty of options for relaxing and true partying, just as Bradley and Natasha wanted. It had taken a while for Bob and you to hammer out the details, many dinners had been held in your office after stopping by, and many phone calls that managed to devolve into late-night conversations having nothing to do with the party planning. But Bob wouldn’t have it any other way.
He was hopelessly in love, and he knew it. Unfortunately for him, Bradley had caught on, too.
“Let’s go!” Natasha called out to the boys as they hopped out of Bradley’s truck, already running through the parking lot toward the campus building housing your office. “I want to get on the road before Hangman and the others beat us there. I want the best pick of the bedrooms!”
“Sweetheart, we’re the Bride and Groom, I’m pretty sure we automatically get best pick,” Nat flipped off her fiancé as the boys both laughed. The second she’d turned around, Bradley threw his arm over Bob’s shoulder and tugged him in. “So…want to finally tell me what’s up with you and little Miss Siren?”
Bob shook his head, trying to fight off the flush on his cheeks. The questions from Bradley on the topic had increased tenfold over the last few weeks, and it was getting harder to lie to him.
“We’re in charge of handling a bunch of the backend shit of your wedding, Rooster,” Bob managed to remind his friend as they reached the doors of the campus building. “We spend a lot of time together, that’s all.”
“But you’re in love with her, are you not?” Bob groaned, opening the glass doors and letting Bradley walk ahead of him. “I’m just asking! We can all see it, the entire squad has money in the betting pool for when you two will finally buck up and figure it out. Phoenix has interrogated her so many times and gets nowhere on it.”
“We’re about to leave on your joint bachelor/bachelorette trip, there’s enough love in the air with the two of you. Don’t worry about me and my non-existent love life,”
Bradley made another comment under his breath, but Bob didn’t catch it. His gaze quickly found Natasha at the receptionist's desk, talking to Sydney.
“I’ve been here once, but the building still confuses me. I can’t remember how to get to her office,” Natasha explained to the girl as Sydney simply laughed, waving it off.
“I understand. I used to get confused here all the time. It’s just up those stairs-” she cut herself off as she saw Bob and Bradley approach, her face brightening up at the sight of the former. “Oh, Lieutenant! You guys don’t need directions, he knows where he’s going. I think she canceled her last class of the day, so she should be up in her office!”
Bob felt that flush return in full force as Bradley clapped him on the shoulder.
“Not in love with her my ass,” he gave his shoulder a squeeze after mumbling the words before moving to his fiancée's side, and Natasha was just watching Bob with a cocked head.
“How often are you here, Floyd?”
Bob stumbled for a moment, his hand immediately coming to rub the back of his neck as he tried to find the words. He wanted to say he wasn’t here THAT often…but he knew that was a lie.
Like always, you somehow managed to save the day.
“Oh! I told you guys you could’ve waited in the car!” you’d called out, descending the stairs from your office with your suitcase for the week in hand. You bid your goodbyes to the two students walking at your sides, coming to stand beside Bob as you glanced around the small group with a questioning eyebrow. “I could cut the tension with a knife here. What did I miss?”
“Just…learning some new information,” Natasha settled on, a grin lighting up her face as she hooked her arm through your own, dragging you away from the two boys who could only laugh. “IT’S PARTY TIME!”
An almost 6 hours drive to the booked AirBNB for the week was a slight pain in the ass, but the four of you managed as you all continuously joked that you hadn’t ended up delegated to ride in Hangman’s truck with him. Bob couldn’t help the fact that every so often, his gaze drifted to the backseat in the rearview mirror, to where you and Nat were engrossed in a thousand different conversations that differed from his own and Rooster’s.
Without fail, you seemed to be looking back at him every time with a small smile that he treasured as if it were the sun itself.
Hangman, Payback, Coyote, and Fanboy had, sadly, beaten the Bride and Groom’s group to the house, but any bitter feelings surrounding it were forgotten as they’d gotten a look at the gorgeous home in person. Nestled in an area of the desert with barely any neighbors and gorgeous views for miles, including the Colorado River just down the hill from the long driveway, no one could harbor any ill feelings about anything as the sun was setting over the mountains and bathing the entire home in red, oranges, and pinks.
Bob had taken his own suitcase and yours, ignoring your protests, and brought them into the house. Everyone seemed to be running about, checking out the amenities, as some people put their claims on the bedrooms already. Natasha had dragged you off in the direction of the game room when Bob caught sight of Rooster whispering to Hangman and Fanboy, all three men watching him with a smirk.
“Hey, baby-on-board,” Hangman called out for him, smirk growing ever cockier by the second. “The rest of us have already staked claim on rooms, and of course, the couple has to share. Only room left is the sofa bed room in the back of the house…think Siren would mind sharing with you?”
If Bob’s eyes could pop out of his head, they would’ve. He shook his head, already knowing by the smirks on all three boys’ lips that this was planned well in advance.
“Guys-”
“Hey, Siren!” Fanboy called out just as you’d reentered the room. You stopped dead in your tracks, cocking an eyebrow at the guys as you waited. “Claims have already been staked on most of the bedrooms, perks of being the first ones here. You don’t mind sharing with Bobby boy, do you?”
“Guys, really-”
“I don’t mind,” you’d cut off Bob’s comment as he turned to you, eyes wide. He wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he could’ve sworn he saw a flush cross your own skin as you looked at him. “Really, as long as it’s okay with you, I don’t mind.”
Bob looked back at the boys and their expectant smirks, then back to you, before finally taking a deep breath.
“Yeah…yeah, that’s fine with me,”
The truth was, Bob could barely focus on the entirety of dinner with the squad. He laughed, made jokes, and participated in conversations across the entire table the entire night, but his mind was stuck on the fact that he had to share a bed…with you.
Those nerves didn’t rest even as you both retired to your room for the night. The sofa bed had already been pulled out and made for the two of you. Bob had simply crawled into bed in silence, situating himself under the covers.
You entered the room moments later, having changed in the bathroom down the hall, and sent him a sweet smile as you crawled into your own side of the bed. Lying side by side, heads on their respective pillows, you both simply lay there and smiled toward one another.
“Sorry you got stuck with me,”
“I didn’t get stuck with you,” you’d rolled your eyes at his comment. “I’d take sharing with you over any of those Neanderthals any day.”
“Just promise not to drop any tables on me this trip, okay, Ikea?”
You’d laughed, even as you’d reached your foot out under the covers and kicked him lightly on the shin.
“If I managed to do that, I think I should get an award,” it was his turn to laugh as you flipped over, turning the bedside lamp off before tucking yourself into the covers. “Night, Bob.”
“Night, Ikea-”
“We’ve got to STOP with that nickname,”
He’d fallen asleep comfortably that night at your side, still laughing lightly to himself over that dumb little nickname he had for you that had found a way to stick. He wished his sleep had lasted longer, but it was quite the sight to see you leaning over him and shaking his shoulder with a grin.
“Get up!”
Bob groaned as you moved back to your side of the bed, reaching over to the nightstand to grab his glasses. The second his eyes focused, he checked the time on his phone. Slightly after 5:30 in the morning. Bob let out another groan when he saw the time.
“Why are you awake-”
“Just trust me and come on!”
He’d barely been out of bed and on his feet when you’d taken his hand in your own, dragging him down the dark hallways of the house. He wasn’t even fully awake enough to register your hand wrapped around his own.
The second you’d dragged him out onto the large patio deck of the home, he understood why you’d woken him up so early. If sunset had been pretty from this view, sunrise might’ve been even prettier.
The deep purple hues that crawled across the sky, blending into the fading night sky full of stars over the desert. The beginnings of reds and pink crawling out from the horizon, casting itself over the rolling desert hills and the Colorado River just barely in the distance, close enough he could see the colors reflecting off the water. He’d found himself leaning against the railing, gazing out at the colors for a moment before turning to you at his side, finding you already looking up at him.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”
You’d turned back to the view, but Bob’s eyes, full of wonder, stayed locked on you as he spoke.
“Prettier than anything I’ve ever seen,”
You’d stayed out there for awhile, small talk flowing through you, reminiscing on moments with the squad such as that terrible late night dogfight football, or the time you’d all watched on as Rooster handed Maverick’s ass to him in pool at the Hard Deck. Your hands sat on the railing next to one another, just barely touching, as your arms sat pressed up against one another. If Bob had more confidence, if he’d thought that maybe you felt the same for him, he might’ve taken the leap and reached out to take your hand in his own.
Neither of you had any clue how long you’d been out there admiring the view and simply talking. Bob heard a small noise behind you both after a while, glancing behind you both. Rooster simply stood in the patio doorway, a genuine grin on his face as he raised his coffee cup at his best friend with a wink, before leaving you alone together once more.
It was a week of memories that none of them would ever truly forget.
The entire day spent on the shores of Lake Mead was full of laughter, and what Fanboy had nicknamed ‘dogfight chicken’, though it didn’t have any different rules than a normal game of chicken did. You and Bob had reigned victorious through every single round, though Bob wasn’t sure how. His thoughts were flooded with you, and the impure thoughts he was having at the thought that his head was, quite literally, between your thighs as you sat on his shoulders, was driving him insane.
That next morning was worse for his thoughts, when he’d awoken early in the morning to you nestled in his arms, head resting against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you. He’d laid still like that for what felt like hours, both terrified of waking you up and freaking you out with the position you were in, while also savoring every second of it in fear it would never happen again. He’d pretended to be asleep when you finally woke up, letting you be the one to extricate yourself from his arms. Neither of you mentioned it to the other.
One full day and night had been dedicated to the Las Vegas strip and all it had to offer. Rooster was constantly nudging Bob in the side the entire day, reminding his friend that his eyes were supposed to remain on your face, not on the slit of the dress you wore running up and exposing your thigh.
No one knew who had drunkenly suggested it, but somehow they’d found themselves at a Magic Mike show. Plenty of videos had been taken as a form of blackmail as Hangman was subjected to a lap dance from the performers of the show, constantly telling Coyote to ‘piss off about it’ the rest of the night.
That next morning, Bob had woken up to you entangled in his arms once again. And the morning after that.
The Dagger Squad’s final day of the trip was spent together at the home, simply enjoying one another's company as more stories of everyone’s childhood had been shared across the board. Bob had even been roped into a story of him working on his parents' ranch back in Montana at one point, which prompted a whole discussion on whether Bob was technically considered a cowboy or not.
The WSO had found himself frozen in the kitchen that night, simply watching you from the window. You and Natasha sat on the patio together, pointing up at the light pollution-free sky as you seemed to be watching the stars, discussing what could be seen that night, hundreds of thousands of miles above your heads. He’d watched you throw your head back laughing, and that tug in his chest when he looked at you seemed to increase tenfold in that moment.
It wasn’t long later that Rooster was opening his bedroom door, coming to find that it was Bob standing on the other side of the door and knocking frantically.
“Bob-”
“You were right…I’m in love with her,”
“Well,” both boys turned, seeing Natasha had entered the hallway at just the right moment to join her future husband for bed and hear the conversation occurring. Bob’s blood ran cold, fearing the worst, but she simply smiled at him. “It’s nice to finally hear you admit the obvious.”
A long conversation with his best friends came with the feeling of a small weight being lifted off his shoulders, of finally having admitted his feelings out loud. They’d encouraged him to act on it, to tell you how he felt, but Bob couldn’t get rid of the nagging insecurity in the back of his head that he was never going to be good enough for you.
When he’d returned to your room that night and crawled into bed, you were still awake. You had both simply laid there in silence for a moment, staring at one another, and Bob could see the hesitation in your movements for just a moment. You seemed to throw your inhibitions out the window, moving across the bed and slotting yourself into Bob’s arms, curling yourself around him as you buried your head into the crook of his neck.
It threw Bob for a loop. Every night this week, you’d awoken like this, tangled together, but he’d assumed that it had just naturally happened in your sleep, that one of you reached out for the other. But you were awake, you were both aware of what you were doing, and yet you took the leap anyway. Bob chose not to push his luck, not to ask, and simply wrapped his arms around you, closing his eyes with you tucked right against him where he felt you belonged.
“Can I tell you something?” Bob whispered to you after moments of silence wrapped up together, neither of you addressing the compromising position you’d put yourself in.
“Always,”
“You…” Bob struggled for a moment, trying to find his words and the right thing to say. ‘Love’ was dancing on his lips, but his insecurities tugged it back in. When he spoke again, he knew he meant the words, even if it was not what he meant to say. “You’re my best friend. Don’t tell Rooster that.”
There was a pause, then a soft laugh, as you seemed to cling to him tighter, your words and breath ghosting over his skin.
“You’re my best friend, too. Just don’t tell Nat,”
There had been another shift in the relationship between you and Bob in those next few weeks leading to the wedding night, and everyone seemed to be able to see it. A simple confession, albeit not the confession Bob had wanted to say that night, seemed to change everything.
Anytime the group was out together, you both were glued to one another’s side. This time, unlike in the months prior, it was as if the pair of you had to be touching. If you were all walking somewhere, your arm was linked through his with your hand resting on his bicep. The entire group noticed the way that, as you all hugged one another goodbye at the end of a night, you and Bob seemed to linger in one another’s embraces longer than usual.
There was the night at the Hard Deck, laughing over some story Maverick was telling them from the glory days, that Bob felt your hand reach for his under the table, wordlessly slotting itself into his own. That moment replayed in his head every single day and night, even as he fell asleep late into the morning hours with you still on the phone with him.
They were the moments that he couldn’t help but replay constantly, even as he stood in the preparation room of the wedding venue, adjusting his dress whites to ensure that nothing was out of place.
“How are we looking over here, Rooster?” Hangman called out, moving through the room to check on the groom himself.
“Ready to do this thing,” Rooster told him as Bob joined the pair across the room. Bradley placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his Best Man and his only other Groomsman, all standing together in their matching Navy dress whites, and gave them a thankful smile. “Thank you both for doing this. For being here with me.”
Bob grinned at his best friend as Rooster pulled them both into a hug, before it was go time.
Bradley was already stationed at the altar behind the double doors before them, leaving Bob to stand just behind the doors, ready to lead the charge down the aisle for his best friends to get married. He turned as he heard the voice of Natasha’s sister behind them, taking her place beside Hangman for the walk. His gaze then turned to you as you slotted yourself to his side, and it took everything in him not to whisk you off your feet the second he laid eyes on the form fitting, navy blue dress clung to your body, or the plunging neckline he was desperately trying to keep his eyes off of.
“She’s all set up with her dad back there,” you’d told him softly, winding your arm through his as your hand lay on his forearm, eyes never leaving his own. “We’re good to go the second the music kicks in. You ready?”
“Think Rooster would kill me if I wasn’t, he’s antsy down there,” you’d laughed, and Bob had smiled. His favorite sound in the world. “You…you look beautiful.”
“Right back at you, Lieutenant,”
There were smiles and tears throughout the crowd as you and Bob led the charge down the aisle, taking your places on either side of where Natasha and Bradley would stand. The second Natasha was escorted down the aisle by her father, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, Rooster and you included. Bob found himself watching you, though, as you happily took Nat’s bouquet from her hands through your tears.
They recited after their Pastor, they exchanged their vows, but Bob found his eyes betraying him and glancing at you more often than at his best friends. Every time he looked to you, he found you were already looking at him.
He knew there was no going back the second Natasha Trace and Bradley Bradshaw were pronounced man and wife, that they’d pulled one another into their first kiss as a married couple, and his eyes had drifted to you in the celebration. All he could think in that moment was that he wanted that to be you and him, that he wanted to hold you and kiss you and call you his forever.
It felt like a blur to Bob what happened next. The entire Dagger Squad joined together to perform the Arch of Swords for their best friends, smiles never leaving anyone’s faces. Bob had sat right next to you during dinner, unable to keep his eyes off of you the entire time. Then, you’d rose to your feet and took hold of the microphone passed to you, preparing for the speech you’d spent your entire life writing.
“If you don’t know me, the truth is you probably indirectly do. Because any story that Natasha has told you from any point in her life? I was most likely at every single one of those,” you’d turned to Natasha the second you said that, and Bob could see the tears in both of your eyes. “Natasha, or as many in this room know you, Phoenix, you hit me on the head with a soccer ball in Kindergarten, and I knew from that moment on you would be my best friend. I watched you fall in and out of love with both soccer and softball growing up, witnessed you punch two middle schoolers who broke my heart, and watched you fall in love with the idea of someday flying F-18s for the rest of your life. I’m forever proud to say that I’ve watched you achieve everything you’ve ever wanted in life, and I’m so happy that I’ve gotten to be here for all of it. But most importantly, I’m glad your passion also brought you the love you have always deserved. Bradley, I’m proud to call you one of my best friends in life now, and I could not be happier to know that you two have found one another.”
You’d raised your champagne glass through your tears, as the room followed suit, even as Natasha silently sobbed from her place beside Bradley.
“They say that love is simply just a friendship that caught on fire,” Bob’s breath caught for just a moment, swearing that he saw your eyes flicker to him for just a moment, before you continued to talk. “May it burn bright for many years to come, and fly higher than you both do every day in the San Diego skies.”
There were still the remnants of tears streaming down your face as you took your place beside Bob once again, allowing Natasha’s sister to give her own speech. Bob watched you in silence before, in a leap of faith, reaching his hand out for your own. You took it without a word, squeezing onto it in a vice-like grip and refusing to let go.
The reception was in full swing, and everyone was in party mode. Natasha and Bradley were the stars of the show in their first dance, revealed in their speeches previously to have been taught by none other than you.
The bouquet toss had the entire Dagger Squad erupting into cheers, almost trying to carry you off the dance floor, the second Natasha’s bouquet seemed to find you among the young women in the crowd as if meant just for you.
You. God, you had consumed every ounce of Bob’s thoughts for weeks and months now, and tonight was no different. In the ever-changing landscape that was life, you were like the North Star in Bob’s eyes, his one constant since the moment you’d walked into the Hard Deck.
“As a wedding gift to us, could you just grow some balls and finally ask her out?”
Bob jumped, startled, as Bradley and Natasha appeared at his side from where he stood on the outside of the dance floor. He sighed, seeing the expectant looks on their faces, before glancing back to where you danced with the rest of the fighter pilots you’d grown so close to over the last few months.
“She’s, like, walking perfection on legs, guys. She could do better than the socially awkward fighter pilot that is…me,”
“Except she doesn’t want to,” Natasha cut in. She sighed, resting a hand on Bob’s shoulder before glancing out toward her best friend. “I’ve known her my entire life, Bob, and she doesn’t take to people the way she’s taken to you. She looks for you in every room, she talks about you constantly…she was dying to meet you just from the photos I’d shown you. I’ve never seen her act the way she does when she’s with you, Bob.”
The words sparked a small flame of hope in his chest, a flame just strong enough to push away the insecurities that begged to claw their way out. He looked back at his best friends, the glow of marriage surrounding them, with that flame of hope shining in his eyes.
“What if you’re wrong?”
“What if we’re right?” Rooster cut in, giving him a small shrug. “Maverick said it best to me months ago…don’t think, just do.”
Don’t think, just do. Maverick always knew what to say, didn’t he?
A slower song had begun on the dance floor, and Hangman could see Bob stalking their way. A smirk crossed the man’s face as he took hold of your hand, spinning you in Bob’s direction, before leading the rest of the Dagger Squad off the floor.
Bob stood in front of you, mustering every ounce of confidence he could find in him, as he held out his hand toward you, palm facing the sky.
“Dance with me?”
A smile might’ve been permanently etched into your lips as you took his hand in yours. Bob’s other hand immediately found your waist, his hand resting on your lower back as he tugged you into him as tightly as he could, your other hand resting on his shoulder as the iconic Berlin song played through the reception.
Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say…take my breath away.
Neither of you said a word for a minute, though your eyes never left one another as you simply swayed side to side across the dance floor, fully aware of the watchful eyes of your friends on you from the sidelines.
“You know…” you were the one to start the conversation, somehow managing to pull yourself even closer to Bob. There was a teasing tone to your voice, nose bumping against his for a moment. “I’ve been kind of waiting for you to ask me out for months.”
A weight seemed to leave Bob’s shoulders the second you spoke, his mind finally being calmed with the fact that you did, indeed, return his affections, that it wasn’t all a misunderstanding in his mind.
“Thought at first it broke some kind of friendship code to fall in love with your best friend’s childhood best friend. Then…I got scared you wouldn’t feel the same,” you laughed lightly at his comment, though Bob could see the way you brightened the second he’d said the word ‘love’ in his explanation. “How long…how long have you felt this way?”
“The schoolgirl crush started when I dropped that table on you, even though I thought you were plenty cute just based on the photos Nat had showed me before,” to was Bob’s turn to laugh as your hand traveled up to the nape of his neck, tangling gently in the hair now carded through your fingers. Somewhere behind them, he swears he could hear Fanboy cheer at the motion. “Somewhere in the midst of a bunch of mini lunch dates and dancing with you for the first time is when it changed.”
“I’ve got you beat there,” Bob countered with a laugh, looking down sheepishly. “After I picked you up from work that one time, when the rest of the guys started calling you Siren. It changed for me after that night.”
There was a slight tug on the hair threaded through your fingers, and Bob resisted everything in him not to let out a groan. His eyes flicked back up to you immediately, almost pleading with you not to do that again before he dragged you out of the reception, and he could see the amusement dancing in your eyes at the reaction you received.
“It's not a competition. We know now,” you slid the hand that rested in his own back up his arm, instead cupping his jaw in your hand as a shiver ran through his body. “Though, I thought I was being quite obvious with literally cuddling you in bed.”
Bob’s now freehand found your hip, eliminating any space between you both as if it were even possible. Given their surroundings, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were murmurs about how what was happening was far from appropriate for the setting they were in.
“It should’ve been. We can blame my insecurities for that one,”
He watched you in silence, still swaying to the beat of the song. Your eyes flickered, for the briefest of moments, down to his lips as Bob’s grip tightened from the sight.
Watching in slow motion as you turn my way and say…take my breath away. My love, take my breath away.
His eyes fluttered half shut, throwing caution to the wind now that he knew he had you, and leaned in. His lips were met with your finger pressed against them, though, and when he’d opened his eyes, your pupils may have been blown wider and your voice may have gained a slight rasp it didn’t have before, but there was clear amusement dancing across your features.
“Trying to kiss me at the wedding of our best friends? How scandalous, you know it’s their night to be the center of attention,” Bob groaned, even as his cheeks flushed, forehead falling to your shoulder. He felt your body shake with laughter before your lips ghosted over his ear. “We’ve waited this long, Lieutenant, what’s a little longer?”
Longer was torture, Bob had decided, but it was a torture spent with you still wrapped around his side. You’d danced the night away into the early hours of the morning with all of your friends, until it was finally time to end what was surely the best night of Natasha and Bradley’s lives.
The newly married couple had bid everyone goodbye before they were off to their own private villa for the night. The wedding party and family made the trek down the road together toward the Lafayette, Hangman and Coyote holding up a very drunk Payback who was belting Celine Dion down the sidewalk.
You’d thrown your head back laughing, hand intertwined with Bob’s as you brought up the rear of the pack.
The squad all said their goodbyes to Maverick and Penny, who’d essentially stood in as Rooster’s family, and to Natasha’s own family, before they’d made their way to the floor blocked off specifically for them. Everyone had thrown out goodnight, disappearing into the private rooms to sleep off their hangovers into the early hours of the morning.
Bob was the last the the Top Gun pilots to still be standing at his door. He’d fished out his own door key, before pausing before inserting it into the lock, glancing down the other end of the hallway.
There you stood, shoes in hand as you leaned against the doorway of your open hotel room. Your eyes never left his, and Bob’s room key found it’s way back into the pocket of his dress whites as he was across the entire hotel room floor in seconds.
Your eyes never seemed to leave one another as you both drifted into the room, Bob’s hand splayed across the edge of the room door, shutting it softly behind you both. The second it was closed, the room was only bathed in the soft, nighttime light of Dan Diego that poured through the curtains and the warm, yellowed glow of the single lamp lighting up the corner of the room.
Bob’s hands found your waist as yours found his neck, and he fell into you as if you were two atoms destined to collide with one another from the moment you met.
Your lips were soft against his, your lipstick already having been smudged off throughout the night from the many drinks passed between friends, but he could taste the cherry and vanilla Chapstick buried underneath. That simple taste elicited a groan from deep inside of him as his desire to simply feel you, to hold you, overtook Bob.
He backed you into the closest wall, right beside the door of the room, and your body immediately arched into him. His hand slid it’s way from your waist down to your thigh, digging into it as he hoisted it up around his own waist, the slit up the dress giving way to allow you to cling to him in earnest.
His hair was a mess as your hands moved into it, your lips never parting. He simply tilted his head, swallowing the moan you let out the second he gripped onto your waist tighter and tugged you impossible closer.
“Pretty sure Fanboy is right next door,” Bob had managed to mumble into your lips, unable to fully pull away from you. You nipped at his lower lip, this time a deep moan leaving him which had you giggling back into the kiss.
“I’ve waited long enough to kiss you, Bob Floyd. I don’t really give a damn if we keep him awake,”
Bob pulled back slightly in the dim lighting, hand leaving your thigh to instead cup your cheek, to simply observe and memorize everything about you. He loved you, he loved you more than he ever thought it was possible to love someone, and he never wanted to forget the look in your eyes right now as you looked at him through lust riddled eyes.
Your hand found his, removing it from your cheek and instead to your back. His breath caught for a second as it touched the zipper at the top, and one single look in your eyes had him tugging it down as slowly and sensually as possible.
Bob could feel your breath catch the second his lips found your neck, leaving a trail across your skin and down to your collarbone as the zipper finally came undone, the pool of navy colored fabric dropping into a heap on the floor.
You’d barely given him a second to truly admire the masterpiece he thought was you as a whole before you’d tugged him back into a kiss, your hands working overtime to gently undo the buttons holding his Navy dress whites together.
His hat was long gone on the floor, and soon every article of his dress whites joined it. He couldn’t help but smile as you laughed, watching him quickly lean down to grab the formal clothing of his and yours, folding it neatly into a pile in the corner. When he’d looked back up, you were standing just inches away, falling back into his arms without another word. His own breath caught, shiver running down his skin at the feeling of your soft, supple skin simply on his igniting a fire in him he’d never felt before.
Your hands came up, adjusting his glasses to sit on the bridge of his nose as they were meant to, and Bob wasted no time in pulling you back into a bruising kiss that had you falling back onto the lush, fancy bedspread behind you both.
As you’d crawled your way back up the bed, head hitting the pillows waiting by the ornate headboard, Bob simply hovered over you, taking you all in fully for the first time, memorizing every square inch of you that existed. He wanted it all committed to memory.
His eyes trailed back to yours finally, to the shining affection and adoration in them, and the words finally tumbled out of his mouth.
“I love you,”
Your hands cupped his jawline, bringing him back down to you to place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips that he sighed right into, leaning into the feel of you that he was already addicted to.
“I love you too,”
The pair of you stayed there for a moment, wrapped up in the sweetest and most loving of kisses that rivaled the passionate moment the moment you’d stepped into the room. Until Bob began to laugh lightly against your lips, the actions bringing a smile to your own face.
“What’s so funny, Lieutenant?”
He shook his head, backing up for just a moment to fully look down at you.
“It’s just uh…you know what they say about the Best Man and the Maid of Honor, don't you?”
Your laughter rang through the room immediately, and he knew Natasha must have said something to you along the same lines of what Bradley had whispered to him in the middle of the Hard Deck. Your hands ran down his shoulder, taking hold of his biceps with a small squeeze.
“Something about how they’re always destined to fall in love. God, how cliché of us,”
Every moment with you flooded Bob’s head in that moment as he looked down at you. From the moment you’d walked into the Hard Deck, to the moment he danced with you, to that fated trip where it all changed, and every moment in between. To now, as you laid almost bare before him, gazing up at him with love written across every inch of your features, as if you’d do just about anything he could’ve asked of you in that moment. And you would, just as he’d do the same for you.
So, his thumb ran across your lips for a moment, before he’d taken the back of your neck in his hand and tugged you upwards into another passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of love his body had into it.
Summary: Rhett Abbott has been in love with you since he knew what love was, and that love was reciprocated. You managed to make a name for yourself, though, and Rhett can't help but feel like he's not worthy of who you've become.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, breeding kink), porn with a LOT of plot, angst, fluff, childhood friends to lovers, established relationship, reader is famous, female reader but no description of specific features like hair or skin, talks of anxiety and some self-deprecation, Rhett may be slightly ooc (he's a loverboy I promise you he is), we will be ignoring cannon events/supernatural stuff for this
The Amelia County Rodeo Grounds weren’t foreign to you; they were a place you knew well, like the back of your hand.
It had stormed the night before, leaving broken branches snapped from trees along the sides of every road that led to the Rodeo Grounds. Trina, your manager, had mumbled multiple comments about how ‘they really needed to come clean up around here’ as your driver swerved around every pile of debris. They were both more than happy to leave you there at the rodeo and return to their swanky hotel in the next town over after you assured them you’d have a ride and be well protected at the grounds without their watchful eyes.
The dirt had turned to pits of mud, caking against the bottom of the old pair of cowboy boots you’d managed to slip on during the car ride over. The mud kicked up enough with every step to dirty the edges of your flared jeans, but they were yet another old pair that barely got worn anymore. The crowds were larger than you were used to, people packed along every stretch of dirt and near every vendor's booth. It was the Amelia County Championship, after all.
“Cecilia!”
The Abbot family turned the second they heard your voice. You had been a constant staple around the Abbott ranch since you were eight years old; they knew you like you were one of their own. You bounded up the bleachers, throwing out soft ‘excuse me’s’ to everyone you had to duck and weave around. You heard every single whisper that left them as you passed by.
“Is that-?”
“Holy shit, she’s back in town?”
“Oh my god, it’s really her!”
Cecilia Abbott was the first to tug you into her arms, holding you tightly to her as her hands rubbed up and down your faded t-shirt-covered back in that motherly way she had since the day you had met her. You didn’t hesitate to wrap yourself around her, any bit of tension that was in your bones seeping out of you the second you inhaled that familiar floral scent of the perfume Rebecca had bought her so long ago.
“Oh, we’ve missed you, our little movie star!” Cecilia pulled back, cupping your cheeks with a bright smile. It was natural to melt into her touch, one that had always welcomed you from such a young age. “Well, little probably ain’t the best word for that.”
Perry Abbott popped up behind his mother, gently tugging her out of the way to pull you into a tight hug of his own.
“Damn, didn’t think we’d be seein’ ya tonight. Last I heard from Rhett, weren’t you over in London?”
“Yeah, we finished up press yesterday, so I hopped on the first flight home. Jet lag is a bit of a bitch,” you explained, pulling away with a bright smile. “I didn’t miss too much, did I? I was hoping to make it here before the final round.”
“You missed his first ride,” Royal chimed in from down the bench, giving you a short nod before gesturing toward the scoreboard. “Rhett’s sitting right about in the middle of the pack. It’s gonna take one hell of a ride for him to get the championship now.”
Your eyes followed Royal Abbott’s to the electronic scoreboard, showing Rhett’s name right around 5th place in the Amelia County Championship standings.
“So, it’s safe to assume Rhett doesn’t know you’re here?” Cecilia chimed in with a knowing smile as Amy tried to shove past her father and grandmother to get to you. You gave the older woman a knowing smile of your own as you glanced away from the scoreboard, trying to conceal your nerves.
“No, and I’d like to keep that as much of a surprise as I can-”
You were barely able to get the words out before Amy was past her family, throwing herself up into your arms with an excited shout. With a laugh, you caught her, lifting her into the air with a squeeze as she pulled back to look at you with a wide, toothy grin stretched across her face.
“Auntie! I missed you!”
“I missed you too, Amy girl,” her giggle was the sweetest, and god, had you missed hearing it while you’d been off on your much-too-long press tour.
Cheers erupted from around the stands. The arena was suddenly flooded with teams of bullfighters, and the announcer was launching into his typical spiel he always gave before the rides would commence.
Amy was quick to pull you down onto the bench beside her, tucking her smaller hand into yours. You took a glance around the stands. Many of the older couples sitting around you knew from when you were younger, as they shot you kind glances and grins. There were many you didn’t recognize, but from the giddy smiles on their faces, it was clear they recognized you. There was a whole group, maybe three or four girls somewhere around middle school age, staring at you from down the bleachers with stars practically in their eyes. They gave you excited waves that you easily reciprocated, unable to hold in your laugh as they practically jumped up and down at the simple acknowledgment from you.
A hat landed on your head, obscuring your vision for a moment, as you glanced back over toward Cecilia and Perry, the Abbott woman now missing her hat.
“If ya want to keep yourself a surprise, ya might want to stay hidden,”
There were no arguments from you as you tugged the hat so it obscured your face as best as possible before the first rider took his place on his bull across the arena. Only seven riders to watch before it would be Rhett’s turn, his last chance to secure the championship he’d been dreaming of for so long.
It felt like just yesterday when you saw Rhett Abbott ride a bull in a competition for the first time. You were twelve, a fresh seventh grader, standing right here at the Amelia County fairgrounds as he participated in his first junior bull riding competition. Back then, he was wearing the cutest helmet that barely sat properly on his head and was tightened as much as it possibly could’ve been. He’d managed to stay on for only seven seconds before his bull had finally bucked him off and sent him crashing into the ground. Naturally, Rhett was upset with himself that he hadn’t managed to stay on for eight seconds and thus didn’t receive the score he wanted, but you were still cheering louder than the entire county for him from the sidelines.
When the first seven riders came and went, you glanced at the scoreboard: not terrible scores, but manageable. Rhett could pull this off with one hell of a ride.
You could just barely see Rhett mounting his bull from the other side of the arena; it felt like that first time all over again, like you were twelve watching your best friend ride again. Cheering him on from the stands as he passionately threw himself into the one hobby he’d loved ever since he was a kid, his one escape from the disaster of a home life you knew all too well.
It had been a month since you had last seen him. Press for “For Those We Love,” the newest book-to-film adaptation that was projected to be one of the largest box office successes of the last few years, given the large fanbase it had accumulated through the years, had taken you across the world. First, on a trip to Los Angeles and New York, then to Japan, and ending with a two-week press tour in London that included an appearance on The Graham Norton Show. You were exhausted, physically and mentally, but there wasn’t anything in the world that would have been able to keep you from tonight’s competition.
FaceTimes never did Rhett Abbott justice, especially on that old-ass iPhone you couldn’t convince him to upgrade. Even from across the arena, you could tell that he was freshly shaven in the last week or so, keeping that stubble you adored not too long. The worn-in, brown leather hat you had gifted him for his fourteenth birthday was still tattered and beat up, but he still refused to ride without it. He refused to wear anything BUT that hat, calling it his good luck charm since it came from you.
The familiar sound of the buzzer echoed through the arena, the gate separating Rhett and his bull slid open, and you tightened your hand around Amy’s tiny one in an effort to calm your nerves.
Those eight seconds of Rhett on a bull were always the longest seconds of your entire life. You always cheered while he rode, but it simultaneously felt as if you were always holding your breath. His hand up in the air, the clouds of dirt that were kicked up from the frantic bucking of the bull, and the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that was just begging him to be okay in the end, no matter what. Amy might have been young, but she knew how you were at the rodeo. That’s why her hand never left yours, even as she stood on top of her seat to jump up and down and cheer for her uncle.
The Abbott family was cheering alongside the rest of Amelia County. You recognized so many people from Wabang standing around, neighbors and school teachers alike, all cheering him on. And that weight in your stomach didn’t leave until he was finally bucked off to the ground and hauled to his feet in one piece.
Every eye in the arena shot to the scoreboard, waiting with bated breath.
The score appeared first: the judges gave him a 80. Then, Rhett’s name shot to the top of the leaderboard, solidifying him in first place.
The entire fairgrounds erupted into cheers. You were pretty sure the men behind you spilled some of their beer down your back as they jumped up, cheering Rhett’s name as loudly as they could, but you didn’t care. Amy was back up in your arms, both of you screaming as you spun the girl around in circles in pure excitement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for your hometown boy: Rhett Abbott, Amelia County Rodeo Champion!”
The proud smile never left your face as you watched Rhett get paraded around on shoulders before being presented with the championship belt buckle and what you could only assume was the champion’s check as well. The crowd erupted into another chant of cheers as Royal and Cecilia made their way down the bleachers toward the fencing to wait for him.
Perry took Amy from your arms with a quick kiss to her temple, everyone else around the bleachers moving past you toward the fence as well to greet their hometown champion. He threw you a glance, nodding toward the rest of the Abbott family.
“Coming down?”
You stole a glance over your shoulder, that same group of three young girls waiting patiently at the end of the row, and you couldn’t help but laugh. With almost a flick of the wrist, you plopped Cecilia’s hat on Amy’s head, taking a few steps backward.
“In a minute. Distract him for me so I can go make these girls’ days,”
Somewhere behind you, Perry made a noise of agreement, but you had already turned around to the girls. By the time you’d made it a few feet down the row to kneel in front of them, all three of them were practically squealing in anticipation.
“I’m so sorry we’re bothering you,” the little redhead spoke so quickly she hadn’t taken a single breath. “We saw somewhere online that you might be here tonight b-because your boyfriend was riding, so we convinced my mom to bring us out here, and we didn’t want to b-bother you since it, you know, is your boyfriend-”
“You girls weren’t a bother at all,” soft giggles fell from your lips at their nervousness, and they quickly followed suit with giggles of their own. You took all three of their phone cases without even having to be asked, signing them with the Sharpie they handed you as well. Little kids were the best part of your job, seeing them so giddy and happy to meet you in moments like this.
“What’s it like dating a cowboy?” the youngest of the three asked as you brought them all into your side, their mother gearing up to take a photo of you all together. You hummed, pretending to have to think hard about it.
“Well, I’m not sure if you think boys are gross or not yet, but the muscles are quite nice to look at,”
“What’s it like being in a movie with Drew Livingston? He’s so dreamy,”
You laughed at their description of your co-star, smiling for the photo before looking between the girls again.
“He’s a sweetheart, but there’s another guy I’m interested in seeing right now who doesn’t even know I’m here, so it’s time to surprise him,” all three giggled again at your comment, glancing over your shoulder in the direction you knew Rhett would be standing against the fenceline, talking to his family and all of the supporters from the crowd. “Do me a favor, girls? Make sure you get some pictures of his reaction and DM them to me later, I promise I’ll see them.”
The looks from around the crowd were expected as you walked back in the direction of the Abbott family, a flutter of butterflies in your stomach the second you saw that faded leather cowboy hat on the other side of the fence. You’d accepted your status in Amelia County now: no longer just another local, but a spectacle, someone to whisper about and take photos of that others around the world would be jealous of.
None of that mattered to you. Rhett was all that mattered, the sun that was almost down behind the horizon glinting off the fence before him and off that championship buckle that was already fastened to his belt.
“Good ride, son,” Royal commented, reaching through the fence to slap his hand down on Rhett’s shoulder. He only gave his father a short, clipped smile, their relationship still as rocky as it had always been.
“Thanks, guys,” that gruff voice you adored with all of your heart huffed out to them as you hid behind some people just next to the Abbott family. He tugged at the leather gloves on his hands with his teeth, slapping them on the fence before tossing them into the dirt. “And thanks for comin’ out.”
“Hell of a ride, Rhett!” someone else from Wabang yelled out from somewhere crowded around the fence, inciting another round of cheers from the group bunched up to welcome their champion.
Rhett’s laugh was short, his eyes flicking across the crowd. Perry laughed, leaning against the fence rail with a smirk as he pointed at his younger brother.
“He don’t care about the rest of us being here. Look at that face: he’s looking for his lady!”
There was another cheer through the crowd, and you couldn’t help your smile as you saw just a hint of red creep into Rhett’s cheeks, that tiny, clipped smile he held growing just ever so slightly.
“I miss her, got a problem with that?” Rhett shot back at Perry as he reached around his back to loosen his vest slightly. “Just…wishing she was here, that’s all.”
That was the moment you decided to duck out from behind some of the others in the crowd around you. Perry sidestepped the second he saw you out of the corner of his eye, letting you take his place. With one foot on the rail, you jumped up on the fence so that you were looking down on Rhett on the other side, who still wasn’t looking at you, even as whistles and cheers reverberated through the crowd.
“Well, your wish is my command, cowboy,”
Rhett’s head finally whipped up to look at you, and you swore you would never get over the way he looked at you–a warm glance, filled with admiration. Looking at you was like he was learning what love was for the first time.
You had traveled the world, seen every city you had ever dreamed of seeing, but every time you looked into those deep blue eyes, you knew you were home.
“You…you were supposed to be in London,” his voice was gruff, like it always was, that familiar Wyoming drawl laced through it. Astonished was the best word to describe how he sounded. It only made your smile wider.
“I got the press tour moved up. No way I was missing my cowboy become a champion,”
Your words sank in. His mouth dropped open for a moment before closing and repeating itself. The crowd around the fence laughed, some men whooping and hollering for Rhett. All you did was smile at him, never once taking your eyes off him. That’s why you could see it, the moment his eyes dilated just looking at you.
He lurched forward, stepping up on the opposite side of the rail. All you could do was laugh as his hands popped over the side, sliding across your hips until he held you in his grip, and lifted you over the rail onto the dirt of the rodeo ring.
Rhett steadied you the second you both hit the ground once again. His hand curled around, pressing into the dip of your lower back, anchoring your body against his. You watched, smile never leaving, as his hand flicked the edges of that leather Stetson up, bathing his face in the golden rays of the sunset.
The crowd around the fence cheered once more as Rhett didn’t speak a word and simply pulled you into a kiss that would never fail to steal the breath from your lungs.
Every kiss with Rhett felt like you were 16 again, kissing your best friend on the front porch of his family home in the dead of the night.
Royal had lost it on Rhett, like he typically did, but this time it stung more than it had before. He’d uttered that one word that Rhett couldn’t stand: disappointment. That’s what Royal had called his son. You had just had yet another argument with your family over your future. Your desperation to make it, to chase your wildest dreams, to make a name for yourself beyond this tiny little Wyoming town. They’d shot you down once again, swore if you did anything besides inherit the family ranch passed down through the generations, they’d never see you as their daughter again: disownment.
It wasn’t uncommon for you and Rhett to find yourself on the front porch of the Abbott ranch home, especially in moments like these, for both of you. Cecilia had always welcomed you, and Rhett had often joked that she saw you as more of her kid than he was. It always broke your heart, always ended with his hand wrapped in yours.
That night wasn’t supposed to be any different. You had run to the ranch through the rain–clothes soaking you to the bone–and Rhett was already waiting. The moon was already hanging in the sky, passing between the rain clouds as they came and went. Dressed in his clothing, warm with the faint scent of him clinging to them, you had simply sat side by side on the swing bench on his front porch, watching the rain hit the ground, creating mud pits throughout the yard.
His arm sat wrapped around your shoulder, combing through pieces of your soaking wet hair, while your head lay on his shoulder. Lightning crackled across the sky, lighting up the land, as the roaring thunder followed. If someone asked either of you, neither of you could tell anyone what exactly was said or what led to the moment, but somewhere amid the storm and in your company, you had both turned to look at one another. All it took was one kiss to change everything, change the friendship you had held close and cherished since you were a little girl: soft, chaste, slightly hesitant, but perfect nonetheless.
Rhett didn’t kiss you hesitantly now. He had spent ten years kissing you in every conceivable way: chaste, long, soft, hard, passionate, loving, heated, messy. This kiss now, in the setting sun of the Amelia County Rodeo Grounds, amid the cheers of those who followed your every move and those who had known you both since you were two feet tall, it wasn’t like those kisses: it was longing.
It was a welcome home. Not to the state, or the county, or the town–to him.
You savored it and fell into his hold. So familiar, the heat of his hands and his lips, the roughness of his skin as it dipped under your shirt to splay across your lower back. A month without this, without his touch, but it had felt like forever. You missed it, missed him, more than you could ever explain.
When he finally pulled back, letting your breath finally find you, Rhett never went far. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, to your temple, and the center of your forehead before he rested his own against yours, allowing himself to simply stare down at you. His smile was soft, the movement of his thumb across your lower back comforting, as the roar of your friends and neighbors continued.
“Missed you,” he muttered, just loud enough for the two of you to hear, that barely there smile making your heart melt. “You moved a whole press tour for me, darlin’?”
You glanced to the side, those young girls from before waving you down. They’d snuck into the ring, jumping up and down and pointing at their phones. All you gave them was a wink in thanks, before turning back to your favorite cowboy.
“I barely moved it, just added a few hours to our one interview day to make up for travel time,” you shrugged it off, pretending it was nothing. His laugh that came next was low as he gave you a short shake of his head.
“Think you just gave Trina ‘nother reason to hate me,”
You rolled your eyes. “She doesn’t hate you, she just…strongly dislikes you,”
“Darlin’, I hated English class, but I think that’s the definition of the word-”
“We get it, you two are in love. Quit hogging her!”
Low laughter was shared between you both as Rhett pulled back just barely. His hand never left you as he walked you back to the railing, waving to those who continued to send praise his way before they parted for their drive back into town.
The Abbott family was all that was left by the fence. Rhett, as he almost always did around you, stepped up behind you where you stood, the taut muscles of his forearms wrapping around your shoulders and your chest so he could lean his head against the side of yours, placing yet another kiss to your hair.
“That was a great ride, Uncle Rhett!” Amy piped up, sending a toothiest grin up toward you both. You could feel Rhett’s chest rumble with laughter behind you.
“Thanks, Ames,” his hand left your side for barely a moment, reaching through the slots in the rail to ruffle her hair.
“Was solid, score was a bit low,” Royal’s comment came offhandedly, his gaze staring off into the distance, not even looking at his son. “You were a little wobbly up there. Score almost wasn’t enough to win it.”
Over the years, you had witnessed this too often, this dynamic between Rhett and Royal. When Rhett didn’t ride well, on his off days, Royal would mask that stupid disappointment in a vain attempt at being comforting, but his real feelings were clear. They were even clearer when he rode well, when he won, when his father was unable to just straight up compliment him without throwing in an unwanted criticism: judging Rhett for the path he’d chosen, for his insistence to make a name for himself.
They were feelings you knew all too well. Your relationships with your parents were strained for different reasons, but the feelings it evoked were a shared experience between you both.
Rhett’s arms tensed around you, squeezing you just a little tighter to him. You placed your hand on his arm, squeezing it three little times: I love you.
It did the trick, as you could feel the slight quirk of his lips against your hairline, his own hands squeezing your shoulders four times: I love you, too.
“Well, I think there’s plenty to celebrate tonight,” Perry cut in, trying his best to cut through the tension. It sure as hell wasn’t working that well. “Why don’t I drop these guys off at home and meet you two for some celebratory drinks? Sure the whole town is flooding the bar as we speak.”
“That’s all up to the champion back here,” Rhett was already looking down on you when you turned your head just slightly to see him.
“Think drinks at the ranch are good ‘nough for me tonight,” his answer came easily, another kiss placed on your head firmly but softly at the same time. “I don’t feel like sharing my famous girl with the whole town tonight.”
“You never share her,” Amy grumbled, arms crossed as she shot her uncle a glare.
The family all laughed at that comment, Cecilia bidding her son a final congratulations for the night and promising to see you both back at the ranch. Before long, you and Rhett were left as some of the last people mingling around the grounds under the bright lights.
His calloused hand wrapped in yours like it was made to be there, fingers interlocking with your own and giving the slightest tug. Like always, you fell into step beside Rhett like it was nothing, like you had been doing it your entire life, which you had.
There were plenty of people you knew still lingering around, cleaning up stalls and closing up the concessions and booths. Rhett’s crew was still cleaning up, taking a glance at you across the dirt ring and sounding another loud ‘whoop’ through the air to you both.
“Think you have some adoring fans waitin’ for you, darlin’,”
Rhett was right. A few people lingered around the back of the ring, toward the gravel road that led to where the riders got to park their vehicles, as if they had studied where you might end up at the end of the competition in order to catch you. You sighed, giving Rhett an apologetic smile, but he only gave your hand a squeeze in return and pushed you off toward them.
Posters of past projects, one edition of Vanity Fair magazine with your face across the front, and Funko Pops of yourself that you hadn’t even seen yet. Each fan smiled and thanked you profusely for every signature. You thanked them in return for every ounce of support they showed you, but there was only one thing your heart wanted right now.
Rhett was leaning against the side of his truck, just 30 feet away, when you finally made it to him. A tired sigh escaped your throat as he chuckled at the sound, reaching forward to loop his fingers through the loops of your jeans, tugging you into him. You didn’t put up a fight, hands splaying across his chest as you looked up at him.
“I just got done ridin’ bulls, sweetheart, and you’re tired from signing some autographs?” he teased, that smug little smirk on his lips. You flicked at his hat, laughing lightly yourself as he softly smacked your hand away.
“No, I’m tired because I got on a plane at Heathrow, had to ride it into Denver, and then got on another one to get to Wyoming. Almost 11 hours in a plane to be here,”
“Sounds like a great time to get some sleep,”
The unimpressed look you shot at him drew another deep chuckle from him, his chest rumbling under your hands, and a flurry of butterflies he still knew how to give you shooting through you.
“While Trina drones on and on about the premiere and the countless more interviews that need to be done? Yeah, very soothing, I’ll make a machine and market it as ‘Trina Noise’ instead of white noise,”
Rhett buried his laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. His fingers tugged on the loops of your jeans again, holding you as close as physically possible, and you leaned into him easily.
“So…how long do I get you for?”
“Two days,” you gave him a sheepish smile as he immediately groaned, throwing his head back so hard he almost lost his Stetson in the process. Dramatic, as always. You tugged him back to you with a hand on the back of his neck, that playful little smirk on his lips when you had him back to sitting up fully. “I’m sorry, Rhett. We have a day of press, including a Jimmy Fallon interview, and then the red carpet at Lincoln Square is the next day. Once this movie drops, I’ve been assured that I have two months off.”
“Before you’re whisked away from me again. Back into the heels, the diamonds, and the spotlight,”
It sucked. This whole thing sucked. You knew how much Rhett hated it, the way you were constantly gone. It had been this way since you were 19, a measly three years into your friendship turned romance, when you had gotten your big break with the biggest movie franchise of the modern era. In the seven years that had followed, you and Rhett had spent more time without one another than with each other, and it broke your heart every time you were whisked back onto a plane, back into the glittering cities and high society life without your cowboy at your side.
No one in this town understood one another the way you both understood each other. You may orbit two different worlds now, but there wasn’t a single person in Wabang that knew Rhett Abbott like you did, and there wasn’t a single hotshot celebrity that would ever understand you the way your cowboy did.
“Rhett-”
“No, that wasn’t fair of me,” he immediately cut in, shaking his head and pressing a short kiss to your forehead. Your fingers danced across his chest, drawing shapes into the fabric of his t-shirt, clinging to him under his flannel. “I’m being a bitch about it.”
“If you weren’t being a bitch about something, I’d actually be more concerned,”
That playful smile was back in seconds, Rhett’s hand leaving the loop of your jeans. It found its way to your ass, leaving a quick pinch there that had a laugh bubbling out of you, leaving a small whack on his chest for him to knock it off.
Your phone chose to buzz incessantly in your back pocket at that moment, right under Rhett’s hand. It wasn’t shocking, there was barely ever enough service to get text messages when you were out here watching Rhett ride, but every time you got to this back parking lot, your service kicked back in.
Rhett slipped your phone out of your pocket with a practiced ease. Lord knows you’d been in many similar and more compromising positions against this truck over the years. The phone screen illuminated his face, well enough that you could see the instant frown on his lips before he flicked the phone in your direction.
At least 15 texts in the last hour from Drew Livingston.
“Ignore him,” you sighed, taking your phone back and clearing the notifications from your co-star without reading a single one. Rhett just hummed, but that frown didn’t go away. “Come on, I know you want to run your mouth right now. Get it off your chest.”
It took Rhett a minute to talk, but you could already hear in your head what it was he wanted to say. You could see it in the clench of his jaw, in the tightening of his grip around your hip.
“He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Which is saying something, since we grew up with the Tillersons,” not even a hand over your mouth could keep in the sharp laugh that escaped you, but Rhett pressed on. “Thinks he’s hot shit–what do they call it, a nepo baby–all because his daddy was famous, too…”
Rhett’s words trailed off, one hand cupping your cheek. You leaned into the touch instinctively, the touch you had known your whole life, and you could see the corners of his lips finally twitch up just slightly at the action.
“I hate that he gets to see you every day,” Rhett’s thumb trailed back and forth over your cheek, before making its way to your lips, drawing a line down the middle of them and dragging your bottom lip down just slightly. “That I’m gonna have to watch a movie where he holds you, where he looks at you, where he kisses you-”
His words were swallowed by your kiss, lips slanted across his with a dizzying pressure. Rhett’s groan is swallowed in the kiss, in the parting of his mouth and yours, with the flick of your tongue just barely against the edge of his lips. That hand on your ass snuck its way into your pocket, ignoring your phone to grip the jeans-covered flesh of your ass and mold your body to his.
Rhett flipped the two of you easily, pressing your back against the driver’s side door as the handle dug just barely into your lower back. He didn’t let it dig in for long, that hand still gripping you, bringing you back in, his leg slotted between your legs now, pressing right where you needed him. Right where you’d dreamt about him being for the last month.
“Drew Livingston might kiss me on the big screen,” your words came out in a whisper against his lips, feeling the flex of his fingers against where he held tight to your body, your own Wyoming drawl more prevalent than ever in your voice. “But not against a dirty truck on the rodeo grounds. Never in the back of that truck, in the dead of night. Or lying somewhere on a sprawling ranch under the stars. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to fuck me at the end of the night…no, that’s all reserved for you, Rhett.”
“Don’t mention his name,” Rhett huffed out, hand trailing up your side. It ghosted over your collarbone beneath the edge of your t-shirt, playing with the dainty chain that hung around your neck. “Not when I’m in the middle of thinking ‘bout fucking you.”
You smiled softly, just watching him. His fingers played with that dainty gold chain, one from an old necklace you used to always wear. He tugged slightly, bringing it to lie on top of your shirt now, tips of his fingers just barely tracing over the edges of the little flower hanging from the end.
Rhett had made it. It was just days after you had kissed that night at 16, the two of you still tentatively exploring the romantic parts of your relationship together. He’d been helping Royal on the ranch when an old piece of the wire fence on the West edge snapped. They replaced it with a new coil of wire, but Rhett saved that small, broken piece of it. He shaped it himself, painstakingly, for hours, until it somewhat resembled the flowers that grew outside your bedroom window. Your old necklace you had forgotten one day when it broke, was sitting on his dresser, and he used it to turn it into a necklace for you, using an old rusty pair of pliers to fix the clasp of the necklace.
You remembered when he gave it to you: tentative, like he was scared you would run away.
I know I don’t offer a lot, but…I’ll love you. I’ll love you more than anything. I already do.
“Celebratory drinks first,” you cut in, bringing his gaze back up to your eyes, digging yourself out of that memory you cherished more than he’d ever know. Rhett groaned, leaning forward to leave a kiss to the pulse point beating within your neck that had you ready to give in right here and there.
“Darlin’,”
“You, my handsome cowboy, are a champion bull rider now. We celebrate that, first, then you can have me as your prize after,”
What could you say: Rhett always followed your lead.
It was verging on midnight by the time Cecelia had come outside to the porch, dragging a drunken Perry back through the doors and bidding you both a soft goodnight. You didn’t mind, instead letting yourself enjoy the quiet of the night on that same porch swing from a decade ago that held a special place in your heart.
Rhett’s head lay in your lap, Stetson discarded beside you on a rickety side table. All you could find yourself doing was watching him, ignoring the stars in the sky that you loved to watch from this very spot.
That dopey, slightly tipsy smile on his face as he couldn’t look away from you, those dilated ocean-blue eyes looking up at you. The flush to his cheeks from the alcohol running through his system. You ran your hand through his hair–slightly greasy as he had yet to shower off the competition, not that you minded–twirling strands between your fingers and scraping your nails just barely over his scalp.
“Championship bullrider,” you drew out the words a bit, a smirk on your face as the swing rocked back and forth just barely. “I like the sound of that. My boy, finally a champion like he deserves to be.”
“Wish that check they handed over screamed ‘champion,’”
“How much was it for?”
“Just a thousand,”
“We've got to get you into a real, professional circuit so you can make the good money for what you put your body through,”
He didn’t answer, and you didn’t push. It was always a delicate subject–professional circuits–because that meant leaving Wabang behind. Instead, you fell into a comfortable silence together.
Your phone buzzed, and you checked it for just a second. Another text from Drew, something related to the interviews that were lined up before your late-night talk show appearance together. It was late, that was a text you could deal with tomorrow. Swiping the notification away, you popped open Instagram, smiling at your latest post, courtesy of those darling little girls from earlier.
“How’d it go over there in London?” Rhett eventually asked quietly.
You hummed, placing your phone back down by his hat to return your hand to his hair. Dragging your nails over his scalp again as you looked out toward the night sky, the quiet chirping of crickets in the air around you both. He was deflecting, but you decided to let him.
The lights inside the home had been turned off, the Abbott family all retreating to bed, leaving you both under just the light of the moon and the fireflies that flitted about.
“Wasn’t terrible, just long. A lot of 10 to 12-hour days. Wasn’t always interviews, though, there were photoshoots and then, of course, the premieres thrown into it,”
“Deputy Joy was over the other day, ‘nother fight with the Tillersons,” Rhett mentioned off-handedly, one of his hands coming up to run down the length of your arm and back up, before repeating itself. “She said you assured her that you would get the town a personal screening of the movie in that rundown theater by the post office.”
“I’ve done that with all my movies, Rhett,”
“I know, that’s why there’s a shrine to you in The Handsome Gambler,” he joked right back at your comment.
It wasn’t an exaggeration, and you knew it, too. There was an entire wall dedicated to the last four movies you had the pleasure of being part of, all personally signed by you as well, before they were fitted into frames and hung up. It didn’t help that the owner, Aiden Martin, had hung up old photos of you from your childhood around them, too. Yearbook photos, old photos that you weren’t sure how someone had wrangled from your parents’ home, and ones from old friends you no longer spoke to.
You didn’t entirely mind, Mr. Martin said it was good for business whenever tourists came through, diehard fans you had amassed, wanting to walk down the memory lane of your life.
“The shrine is a bit much, I’ll admit. Mr. Martin could’ve kept out the yearbook photos,”
“I like it,” Rhett muttered, taking your hand that had been resting across his abdomen in his and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a feather-soft kiss across your palm. “Just makes me proud.”
Sometimes, you wished that the people of Wabang got to see the Rhett Abbott that you did. They only ever saw him as what Royal constantly made him out to be: the fuck-up, the reject, the rebel, the disappointment of the Abbott family. He could be reckless, but quiet, unless you pissed him off. Lord knows he’d use his hands at the first chance he got; you had seen it many times throughout the years.
The Rhett you saw, the side only reserved for you, was so different. He was a fuck-up simply because he didn’t want to be what his father wanted him to be. He was a rebel only because he wanted a different life for himself so badly. With you, he was never any of those. He was still quiet sometimes, but so charismatic when he wanted to be. Charming, sweet, and an utter hopeless romantic. Hard not to get called a hopeless romantic when you fashion a flower necklace out of old fence wire for your sort-of girlfriend at the time.
There was a time when you had talked about it: running away. Starting over, making a new life for yourselves somewhere else. It didn’t matter where, as long as you were together. Rhett liked the idea of Texas, finding a ranch somewhere for just the two of you. You loved that idea, too…then Hollywood finally came calling, and finally saw in you what Rhett always saw. It bulldozed those wishful thinking plans you had crafted, and set you on the path you were walking now: you were living your dream, while Rhett was still stuck where he had always been.
“I meant to ask,” your voice was soft after a moment, fingers dancing around his as they interlaced with yours, your other hand still carding through the long strands of his hair. “Would you…like to come to the premiere with me?”
Rhett paused, just staring at your intertwined hands. You didn’t have to look at him to know the look that was written across his face, or to hear the little sigh he let out.
“Darlin’-”
“I know, I know, you hate New York,” you responded quickly before Rhett could properly speak, throwing your head back against the edge of the swing with a sigh of your own. “It’s stuffy, the people suck, it’s dirty, it’s so loud, you can’t see the stars because of the light pollution…you hate it, I know. You reminded me the entire week you were there for my very first premiere and haven’t been back since.”
It was quiet again for a moment.
“That’s your world, angel,” Rhett finally spoke, pressing another kiss to your hand before resting it back across his abdomen. Still intertwined with him. “Your world doesn’t have space for people like me.”
You couldn’t help it, the clench of your jaw at the way he said that.
“You forget that Rhett Abbott has been part of my world since I was a little girl…I don’t want to exist in a world that doesn’t have him as part of it,”
Getting worked up over this moment was stupid. Truly, genuinely, so stupid. But it was hard when Rhett talked about himself like that, when he still saw himself as some disappointment that wasn’t good enough for you, to exist in the world you had been welcomed into.
He shifted, head rising from your lap, and a hand cupped the back of your neck, bringing you back up so that you could look at him. Rhett was seated on the swing beside you now, looking down at you with so much love and care as he wiped the stray tear that managed to trickle down your cheek.
“No crying, sweetheart,”
“Hard not to,” you whispered back, trying to smile. “I just…I love you so much. You’re all I have left, you’re everything to me, and sometimes it feels like you don’t understand that.”
Rhett looked at you, and that’s all he really did. He just looked. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as he tried to find the words.
Your phone buzzed again, both of your gazes flickering toward it. Collectively, you both tried to ignore it until it buzzed again. With a defeated sigh, you grabbed the device again, flicking the screen open.
Yet again, even more texts from Drew, and given that you knew he was in New York, you didn’t even want to know how drunk he was or what party he was attending and doing god knows what at. The texts were at least coherent, though, just a bunch of messages discussing the upcoming interviews again and how his manager thought it would be a good idea to play up your characters’ connection during the interviews to really sell the romance aspect of it.
“Who is it?” Rhett muttered after a moment, his hand still cupping the back of your neck, fingers drawing shapes into the skin. You huffed, leaning into his touch as you typed back a simple ‘We’ll talk about it when I get back to New York’ text.
“Just Drew not understanding personal space. I get he wants to talk about work and how we plan to tackle certain aspects of the interviews, particularly the character romance, but it’s fucking two in the morning over there. Like…go to bed?”
With your phone tossed aside, you looked back at Rhett. He was still just looking, watching you, but it was different this time. Something in his eyes was darker, his jaw was clenched just slightly, and you could practically see the tension in his shoulders.
“What–?”
He didn’t let you speak, just pulled you into a searing kiss. You didn’t complain, having just kissed him not even an hour ago, when Perry was still awake and drinking with you both, and still missing the taste of his lips.
That tension, that darkness in his eyes, translated into his kiss. It was bruising, his lips practically devouring you. His hand still gripped onto your neck, locking you to him, his tongue sliding across your lower lip and dipping just barely into your mouth, swallowing the breathless moan that escaped your throat in that second. Your nails dug into his bicep, surely leaving little crescent-shaped marks, and that’s when Rhett pulled back just slightly, nipping just barely at your bottom lip.
“I’ll come with you…to New York,”
He was so sure in the way he said it, but you still couldn’t process the words being said to you. Leaning back as far as his hand would let you, looking up at him with furrowed brows and your head cocked to the side.
“Rhett, don’t feel like you have to just because I started crying-”
“I want to,” he said again, definitively. You watched him, trying to decipher what it was that had changed his demeanor and mind so quickly, but you couldn’t pinpoint it anywhere in his face. “You’re everything to me too, darlin’. So, if I have to suffer in that city to show it to you, I will.”
Whatever that look was in his eyes, whatever had changed his mind, you dropped it in that moment. Instead, you laughed, leaning back in and letting him steal yet another heated kiss from your lips.
“I’ll text Trina so she can get everything sorted out-”
“Tomorrow,” Rhett’s voice had dropped again, huskier, as he nipped at your lip once more, before trailing his lips down to your jawline. “I believe I was promised you, my pretty little angel, as a prize after some celebratory drinks tonight…and I’ve had enough with drinking for the night.”
❤︎
Rhett hated your townhouse in New York.
He’d been in your childhood home many times growing up, and had seen the traces of you scattered throughout. Your stacks of CDs, the pile of clothing in the corner of your room overflowing your laundry basket. Wall-to-wall bookshelves, an entire shelf dedicated to every special edition of “For Those We Love” that existed, with money you’d scraped together from odd jobs throughout town. You collected posters from magazines of all the movies you had ever loved, the actors and actresses you admired. A photo wall, dedicated to photos throughout your childhood until you were a teen, sat right below your shelf of equestrian competition trophies. Rhett had been in most of those photos and at every one of those competitions.
This townhouse was nothing like your room. Pristine, clean, white walls and white furniture with minimal pops of colors here and there. Chandeliers that probably cost more than the entire Abbott family ranch. Photos were hung, but not like your childhood bedroom. Magazine covers with you on them, press tour photos, movie posts, all hung around the shelf in the living room, housing the multiple awards you had won through the years.
An entire house curated and designed by Trina and her team, lacking everything that made you the woman he’d fallen in love with the second he understood what love was.
Rhett tried to ignore those thoughts in his head as he glanced around the bedroom he’d been in multiple times, taking in those same features of the room that he despised, the ones that made him feel out of place. Instead, he shifted it to you.
Still asleep, breath ghosting over his bare chest where your head lay right over the tattoo etched into his pectoral. Fingers curled across his abdomen, flexing every few moments in the quiet of the morning. Rhett couldn’t help but smile at the sight, just barely brushing his fingertips through your hair, curling stray pieces away from your face.
“It’s rude to stare,” he could just faintly hear you mumble, feeling your smile curl against his skin. A low laugh grumbled through him as he leaned down, leaving a lasting kiss against your hairline.
“Have to admire the work of art lying beside me naked,”
He watched as you turned just barely, moving up his body. Your arms rested against his chest, head hovering just above his, and Rhett let his arms settle around your bare waist and hug you closer to him.
“Morning, cowboy,”
“Mornin’, sunshine,”
His smile grew at the little hum in your throat, before you leaned down to kiss him. Rhett couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as he eagerly brought you closer to him in the midst of the kiss, curling a hand around the back of your head to cradle you to him.
“Wish we could stay here all day,” you mumbled against his lips as Rhett left peck after peck upon them. “But we have quite a long day today.”
“Five more minutes, darlin’, just five more…”
Five became ten before Rhett finally relented, defending himself from the attack you launched on him, claiming his lips were “too addictive” and you needed to get up.
Clad in nothing but the lounge pants he’d managed to pull on in haste, Rhett’s eyes never left you as you descended the stairs down to the kitchen. Wearing his t-shirt, the hem dropping right at your mid thigh, barely covering you and the tiny pair of panties you had slipped on in the morning.
He had half a mind to drag you right back up to that bed and never let you leave it, not until his name was the only one you could ever remember.
“You’re late,”
Your body jumped back into Rhett’s, who quickly grabbed you and dragged you just behind him at the voice that called out as you both stepped into the kitchen. Tension rolled off of both of you the second you both could see who it was speaking.
“Trina, what have I told you about coming in here without texting me?” you scolded your manager, crossing the kitchen to open the fridge. Rhett stayed in his place, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, eyes darting between both of you.
“When it’s 11:30 in the morning, and I told you we’d be here at 11 to get you ready for the press, I’m going to let myself in. I chose not to walk upstairs to protect my damn eyes from what I might see,” it was then that Trina finally looked in Rhett’s direction, her mouth dropping into a flat line and her tone bordering on almost boredom as she spoke. “Hello, Rhett.”
Rhett gave her the most cordial nod that he could, joining you at your side as you slid a glass of orange juice into his hand.
He didn’t hate Trina, not in the slightest. She’d helped you secure your dream, he’d always thank her for that, but that didn’t mean he liked the woman. She reminded him too much of your own mother, the one who had disowned you, in a way. Headstrong, didn’t like taking no for an answer, and always had to have things done her way. He didn’t like letting his mind wander, to think if you were being forced into any situations just because Trina found them to be best.
“I assume that the team is all set up in the living room,” you questioned your manager. With a nod in response from her, you turned back to Rhett, leaving another kiss on his lips that really had him struggling not to kick everyone out and just keep you all to himself. “Half an hour tops, I promise.”
Rhett hummed in response, letting you make your way over to Trina at the table. He couldn’t argue with it, really, he knew how long your team took to get you ready at times.
“Got the paperwork back for that…side thing we talked about. They accepted, you just have to sign. Just remember that I really don’t agree with it,” Trina rolled her eyes as she said it, passing you a manila folder. Rhett could almost see the way your eyes lit up as you took the folder from her quickly, flipping through the contents as you moved into your living room. Rhett didn’t get to dwell on it, though; instead, his attention was brought back to Trina as she snapped in his direction. “Half an hour, cowboy. I want you to look Hollywood-level presentable.”
What the entertainment industry considered “presentable” wasn’t something that Rhett Abbott could fathom, or recreate, so he got as close as he could. His nicest pair of jeans with his nicest button-down shirt that he kept specifically here in New York with the love of his life, so there was no chance it ever got dirty. The dirty cowboy boots on his feet, tucked beneath his jeans, were the only dead giveaway that he didn’t belong, besides the look on his face. Rhett had even forgone the Stetson for the day, leaving it back in the living room in your townhome.
Everyone around Rhett knew he didn’t belong, though, that he stood out no matter what, and he knew it too.
Teams of reporters and interviewers moved through the room, talking with assistant after assistant to confirm their spot in the lineup of interviews. Rhett stood as out of the way as he could, shifting back and forth on his feet. His eyes never left you, though.
Black slacks that hugged you just perfectly, matching black heels, and a deep purple blouse tucked into the waistband of your slacks. You spoke across the room with Trina, already seated in your chair, as an assistant fixed the lip gloss across your lips and ensured that your hair was in place.
You met his eyes from across the room, lips stretching into a smile even as the assistant scolding you to hold still, and sent him a wink. He caught sight as you moved of that stupid wire flower hanging around your neck, and couldn’t help but smile.
Rhett never talked about his feelings often, just with you. So, he had no one to really talk to growing up about the butterflies your smile always gave him, or the flutter in his chest you were still capable of giving him all this time later.
“Well, well, well! Rhett, it’s so nice to finally meet you!”
Rhett didn’t want to say that he hated Drew Livingston; he’d never met him until now, but…he hated him. At least, he hated what the man exuded. A fake air of confidence, fueled by the knowledge of how famous his father had been, dressed in only the finest designers, that totaled up to more money than Rhett had ever seen in his life.
Now, the actor stood before him, and Rhett still disliked him. Smug smirk, dressed from head to toe in a deep purple Valentino suit that–as much as Rhett hated it–matched your shirt perfectly. His Rolex glinted off the overhead lights, but Rhett found solace at least seeing that the man was just a few inches shorter than him.
Besides, if he could deal with the Tillerson family his entire life, he could deal with one more entitled prick.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Rhett huffed out, faking a smile with no teeth as he held his hand out. It didn’t go unnoticed to him the way Drew glanced at it, almost grimacing, before shaking Rhett’s hand.
“Our darling girl has told me so much about you,” Rhett’s fingers flexed at just the simple use of that nickname. No one should be calling you that but him. Drew’s eyes flicked down Rhett’s outfit, studying him, judging him, before their gazes met again. “Nice to see that you…clean up so well. Or, as well as a ranch hand can.”
If Rhett didn’t know any better, Drew Livingston could be a distant cousin of the Tillersons. Though that was a little far: even Rhett wouldn’t force the Tillersons to associate with the likes of this prick.
His grip on Drew’s hand tightened just slightly, but not enough to be noticeable.
“Bull rider, actually,” Rhett shot back slowly, staring down the man before him, wishing he could just take a swing and wipe that smirk off his face. “Championship one now.”
“I saw in her latest post, how…cute,” Drew laughed, tightening his own grip back on Rhett’s hand, but the Abbott boy didn’t flinch. “Can’t imagine that pays much, especially since there’s no ring on her finger. Ten years together, damn. You should really find a way to lock her down, Abbott, before someone…worthy of her comes along.”
That’s what did it. Rhett’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together, and the semblance of a fake smile wiped off his face in an instant with just a few words.
He tightened his grip on Drew’s hand, as if he were gripping onto his bull for dear life, and there it was: a wince in Drew Livingston’s face. That was enough to bring a smirk to Rhett’s face, now.
His voice stayed low, but it bordered on something else, something more dangerous, as he spoke. “There’s not a single man on this earth worthy of her, pretty boy, and if you can’t see that…then you sure as hell don’t come close to it.”
Someone–maybe Trina–called out for places, announcing that the interviews would begin soon. Neither Rhett nor Drew let go right away, gazes locked as if still in a battle with one another. All Rhett did was give the movie star’s hand one last tight squeeze before conceding, allowing the man to take his place across the room in the chair next to yours.
His eyes met yours, and he could see the question written across your face in the raise of your eyebrow: you good?
Rhett gave a simple nod, crossing his arms with his jaw still tight with tension, as the first interviewer entered the room.
If that simple conversation solidified anything for Rhett, it was that he did hate Drew Livingston.
“This movie has been a long time coming, an adaptation of one of the greatest books of the twenty-first century,” the young reporter, a woman just barely in her twenties, asked animatedly somewhere in the middle of her interview. “I have to know, what was it like for you two to take on such iconic roles such as Trace and Millie?”
“It’s been the role of a lifetime, but incredibly daunting at the same time,” your response came quickly, and Rhett’s grin returned, just watching your response and seeing that little smile on your face. Your eyes met across the room for a split second as you gestured off camera in his direction. “I mean, you can ask my boyfriend, this book became my whole personality growing up, I had an entire self dedicated to every special edition there was. I remember when my agent said they wanted me to audition for Millie–I don’t think there was anyone in New York who didn’t hear me scream. But these characters are so beloved, I know a lot was riding on me to embody her and everything she stands for with grace.”
“For me, any nerves I had about this role went right out the window the second I was in a room with this girl,” Drew cut in, flashing a dazzling smile in your direction as he casually threw his arm around the back of your chair. “I mean, she’s played a literal superhero on the big screen, but she’s a real-life superhero too. So poised, so incredibly talented–I couldn’t imagine having done this movie with anyone else, truly. I’m so blessed I got to go on this journey with her at my side.”
If Rhett’s jaw could clench any harder, if his teeth could grind together more, surely he’d be sanding a few inches off of his enamel. Just that slimy man’s arm around the back of your chair, that smug smirk he subtly shot off camera in Rhett’s direction, made him want to stalk over there and haul him into a back alley by the collar of his shirt.
The interviews continued, 5-10 minutes per interviewer, all asking questions that bordered on being the same exact questions.
What was it like taking on the characters? Was there anything changed from the books to the movie? Can we expect an adaptation of the book’s equally as critically acclaimed sequel?
You handled yourself with a practiced poise and grace and humility with every question, laughing when appropriate and taking a more serious approach to integral questions, too. Every so often, your gaze would flick over to Rhett, and any tension he felt toward your co-star melted at just seeing you so happy, so in love with what it was you got to call your job. Your dream.
“Alright, they’re waving me off that it’s almost time to go, so just one last question for you both,” it was the final interviewer of the day before you’d be whisked off for your big late-night appearance recording. The man was older, somewhere around Royal Abbott’s age, with a press tag that read the name of some magazine that Rhett had never heard of. “Looking back on the filming of this movie, what would you each say was your favorite moment throughout filming?”
“Playing Millie as a whole,” you answered easily, that happy smile back on your face at just talking about the character. “She’s so strong and passionate, while also able to show her most vulnerable aspects, and growing up, she had always been this perfect representation of what I wanted to be. I have to say that getting to run from zombies in this was fantastic, but getting to do it as a character that I have always adored meant more than anything. I just hope that I’ve played her to the best of my ability, and that a new generation can watch this movie and look up to her in the way that I did when reading the books.”
The interviewer said something in response to you, but Rhett’s gaze had been caught by Drew once more. There was a hint of a smirk on the man’s face again, as he dared to shoot him a sly wink, before turning back to the conversation at hand.
“By far, the best moments for me were any moments that I got to share with this wonderful woman,” he played up his response, hand leaving his lap to come to rest over your knee with a playful squeeze. “Every scene with her is like magic, the chemistry is so mindblowing that it’s so easy to forget that we’re acting. And the kiss scene, oh boy, that was on another level-”
He was touching you, and Rhett was seeing red.
It didn’t matter what the stuck-up bastard was saying right now, even if the simple mention of that damn kiss scene spread across every trailer had Rhett biting his tongue, the fact that he had the nerve to touch you. No one touched you like that, no one except for Rhett himself.
What pissed him off more was the look on your face, that grimace as you awkwardly laughed and shifted your leg out of his hold: you were uncomfortable, and that pissed him off a hundred times more.
Rhett’s glare never left Drew, who still wore a cocky smirk on his face, as the interview room was cleaned up. Not even when you were back in his arms, cradling his jaw in your hands and pressing kiss after kiss to his cheek.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you had heat vision and were trying to burn a hole into the side of Drew’s face from across the room,”
Rhett huffed out a clipped laugh, gaze trailing down to you, and finally softening. His arms found their place around your hips, holding you to him as tightly as he could.
“You were uncomfortable-”
“Yes, and I had it handled,” you reminded him gently, stealing a quick kiss from his lips that Rhett was desperate for more of. “You can’t just go punching anyone who makes me uncomfortable.”
“I did to Luke Tillerson when he tried to hit on you a few years ago-”
“Yeah, then I had to bail you out of jail the next morning: point proven,”
“Let’s go, people!” Trina called out, directing the group of people littering around the room toward the doors with a wave of her hand. “Show recording starts in an hour and a half, studio is expecting us in the next 20 minutes!”
Rhett’s hand didn’t leave your knee, right where it belonged, the entire limo ride across Midtown to the studio lot, and his glare never left Drew Livingston. Drew’s smirk never faltered either, and he held Rhett’s gaze like it was a game: like you were a game to him. It had the Abbott boy almost seeing red once again.
Anxiety crawled through Rhett’s system the second they were parked in front of the studio lots, and he could already hear the cheers of the crowd around the front doors before he stepped out of the limo. Once he did, it was blinding–more so, overwhelming-the amount of people crowded around for a simple glimpse at the movie star love of his life.
For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t see through the flashes of the paparazzi cameras, reaching back into the limo to take your hand and help you out onto the sidewalk. As the crowd cheers grew, and you smiled and waved to them all, Rhett made sure to “accidentally” shut the door of the limo in Drew’s face, before tugging you toward the doors of the studio.
He felt your hands squeeze his three little times: I love you.
Rhett didn’t hesitate to return it four times: I love you, too.
You were whisked away from him again, just as this world always demanded, off into a dressing room of your own to change for the recording of your late-night talk show appearance. Rhett was left to his own devices in the studio’s green room.
Some stupid song, probably something from the charts he never listened to, was playing softly off a radio in the corner. The television across from the couch Rhett sat on, the one he would be able to watch the coming show on, just had that familiar logo of the show spinning around on it. With a heavy sigh, he poured himself a glass of whiskey from the platter sitting on the table in front of him, resigning himself to a drink as his boot-covered foot tapped incessantly against the rug beneath him.
“Feel out of place?”
Lost in his own thoughts, Rhett hadn’t heard or seen Drew enter the room, clad in a brand new black suit this time. He flashed Rhett a smile before stalking across the room, pouring himself a glass of his own vodka from the tray sitting on top of the piano. Rhett’s hand around his glass flexed involuntarily.
“A bit,” he let himself answer, taking another swig of his drink, voice still gruff with indifference toward the man. “Nothing like Wyoming.”
“I bet, much cleaner here,” Drew paused, laughing to himself as he leaned against the piano, gesturing vaguely in Rhett’s direction. “Nothing personal, didn’t mean that as a slight against you, pal. Just…trying to understand.”
Rhett hummed, just watching the spinning logo on the screen.
“Understand what?”
“What the hell she sees in you,”
Rhett’s jaw locked up again, teeth grinding together, as his fingers white-knuckled the glass in his hand. Drew only laughed again from across the room, continuing his tirade before Rhett could interject.
“One of the most sought-after actresses of our generation, the world treats her like a princess everywhere she goes, and yet she stays with you,” Drew crossed the room, plopping into a seat directly below the television, forcing himself into Rhett’s line of sight. “From what I’ve heard: a 26-year-old bum with, basically, no job–unless you count bull riding, which again, I’m sure pays so much–who still lives on his family ranch. No dreams, no aspirations, besides getting bucked off bulls into the dirt and going drinking at some rundown bar afterward.”
It took everything in Rhett to keep his cool, even though he was sure, with enough pressure, he could crack the glass in his hand into a thousand pieces. His steeled gaze shot down to finally look at the actor across from him, practically dripping in money, the exact opposite of Rhett.
“Yeah, I don’t offer much, never said I did,” were the words he settled on, bringing his glass up to his lips for another sip. “There a point to this conversation?”
“Yeah, there is. You talk about how no one is worthy of her, but what you fail to realize is that you, Abbott…are the least worthy of that woman of the whole bunch,”
That was enough to give Rhett pause, his glass settling just barely against his lips. Drew continued before he could speak once more.
“I know for a fact that you haven’t been to a single premiere of hers since the very first one, until now, even though she invites you to every single one. I know that, because she told me that,” he casually swirled his vodka in his glass, just watching the liquid slosh around. “Should I mention again that you’ve been with her for ten years and haven’t put a ring on her finger, haven’t given her a definitive answer on your future together? Oh, right, you can’t because you can’t afford her. The most famous woman on the planet right now, adored by thousands if not millions, and you can’t leave the comforts of Wyoming to support her. I’ve been there, making sure on the days she’s sad that her tears don’t fall, or buying her congratulations gifts when she wins another award or has another glowing article written about her. You want to talk about worth, Abbott?”
Drew leaned forward just slightly, taking a sip of his drink with a smirk still on his lips.
“You have nothing to offer her, Abbott: no money, no support, no future. You’re hanging onto high school dreams and fantasies while she’s made a name for herself. You’re holding her back, and it’s only a matter of time until she comes to her senses and realizes what a disappointment her high school cowboy really is,” he leaned back again, casually, as if his words hadn’t cut like a knife. “I’m just looking out for you, Rhett, man-to-man. If you love her, you’d realize she’s in much better hands with me than your own.”
Disappointment.
Rhett could almost hear Royal’s voice in his head saying it.
Drew only sat silently, that smirk still on his face, still swirling his drink around the glass.
“Been meaning to ask, it’s an…interesting necklace she always wears. That messy wire design, it’s a flower, right? Or, supposed to be…”
Disappointment. Rhett couldn’t get that word out of his head, even as he found himself nodding.
“It’s, uh, it's Fireweed. They-”
“Native to Wyoming, grew outside her bedroom window,” Drew finished off, chugging the last of his drink. “I know. She told me.”
There was a knock at the door then, Trina poking her head in to announce it was go time.
You stepped in after, and Rhett looked over. Makeup and hair done to perfection, sparkly heels that still barely had you reaching his own height, and a gorgeous off-the-shoulder black dress that fit you like a glove.
Rhett couldn’t even appreciate it to its fullest extent, too lost in his own head.
Drew greeted you, some over-the-top comment about how gorgeous you looked. You were beside Rhett moments later, leaning down just slightly to press a kiss to his cheek. He watched as you watched him, saw that flicker of concern in your eyes, as you mumbled a quick “you okay?” to him. All he could do was nod, never even shutting his eyes as you stole a kiss from his lips, before you were whisked out to the stage.
Even as the show began, Rhett couldn’t watch. He couldn’t get Drew’s words out of his head.
Did Drew have a point? Rhett didn’t want to think so, but nothing he said was a lie. He had no job; he’d won only one championship now in bull-riding and wasn’t going to be winning much money in the Wyoming circuits.
He’d looked at rings, of course, he had. Rhett knew he wanted to marry you from the moment you had first kissed that night on his porch. But no ring was ever good enough, and even the measly thousand this championship had afforded him wasn’t going to get him a ring that you deserved.
Rhett lived at home, on his family ranch, with the family that treated him like the rebellious, disappointing son, but he didn’t try to leave. He wanted to leave with you once, but those dreams died the moment you achieved your lifelong dream, when you got sucked into the world of glitz and glamour. Dreams of a Texas ranch, far away from both of your families, just the two of you and acres of land to yourself, were a faraway dream now.
You were a household name. People adored you in every city you went to. You were dressed day to day in the finest clothing money could buy and lavished in the finest gifts. Maybe Drew had a point: Rhett couldn’t afford to love you, not the way you deserved.
“You two just have so much chemistry,” the host, Jimmy, spoke as the crowd cheered in agreement with him. Rhett finally looked up at the television, feeling as if hours had passed, watching the end of the interview play out on the screen. “You have to just love working together.”
“I mean, I won’t lie, of course I love working with this talented woman,” Drew laughed, reaching over and laying a hand on your arm as you laughed it off. “She made every moment on set so amazing that I had to find the perfect way to thank her. It took me a while to think of it, but I thought now would be the perfect time!”
Rhett watched you on the screen, that adorably confused look on your face, as Drew reached into a bag behind his chair. The crowd cheered loudly once again as he pulled out a long velvet box. He popped it open, and the camera zoomed in on it as the crowd gasped in awe.
A necklace. Decorated with more diamonds than Rhett had ever seen in his life. Hanging from it? A glittering, diamond-encrusted Fireweed flower.
“Oh-! Oh Drew, it’s…it’s gorgeous!” he watched as you laughed, taking the box from his hands to look at the necklace closer, before shooting your co-star a small, sheepish smile. “T-Thank you, truly. Working with you was a privilege, too.”
Drew took your hand in his, bringing you both to your feet as the crowd cheered once more. Then, he brought your hand to his lips, laying a kiss on your knuckles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for your stars of 'For Those We Love,' in theaters this Friday, so check it out! Goodnight!”
Whatever Rhett was feeling before, it didn’t matter. No, if he had been seeing red earlier on in the day, he wasn’t sure how to describe the pure rage flowing through him right now.
His empty whisky glass slammed down onto the table before him, and he was sure somewhere in the back of his head he heard the glass crack. Rhett practically threw his body into the greenroom door, slamming it open so hard that a group of interns walking past jumped in their place. He paid them no mind, though, already stalking through the hallways toward the stage.
It didn’t matter who he shoved into in order to get there; Rhett bodied his shoulder into every person in his way, following the signs along the wall that led backstage. And when he got there, his eyes zoned right in on his target.
You were off to the side, speaking in hushed whispers behind the curtain to the stage with Trina, waving your hands animatedly. Rhett wasn’t looking at you, though; his eyes were on Drew. Unalarmed, back to him, conversing with his own manager.
Rhett Abbott didn’t give the movie star a second to react, clamping his hand down onto his shoulder hard and throwing him backwards. Drew stumbled as a few people in the area let out gasps of shock. The second Drew laid eyes on him, all he could do was laugh, stumbling to regain his balance.
“Cowboy, how nice of you to join us-”
Rhett took him by the collar of the shirt, throwing him back hard against the pillar just behind him. More gasps rang through the room, someone shouting for security, but Rhett didn’t care. He bared his teeth, grinding them together, as he almost snarled just inches from Drew’s face.
“What makes you think you have the right to fucking touch her?”
“Rhett!” he could almost hear your voice call out from across the room, but was too occupied with Drew’s laughter.
“Come on, cowboy, I’m just playing the game for her heart. Think I won over the fans with that move,”
“My girl isn’t a fucking prize to be won, you piece of shit,”
“Isn’t she?” Drew cocked an eyebrow.
Rhett’s hands tightened on the man’s collar as he let go with one hand, balling it into a fist, before a hand grabbed at his fist, tugging it back. He turned, seeing you now standing beside him, eyes wide and pleading.
“Do you want to be on the cover of every tabloid by the end of the night for starting a fight right now?” you hissed out, and he could see Trina rocking back and forth nervously behind you. “Rhett…let him go, now. Please.”
He watched you for just a moment, seeing the pleading in your eyes, before he glanced back at Drew. He was still smirking, watching this all like he enjoyed it.
It took every ounce of Rhett’s strength to let go of the man, taking a step away from him, but his hand was still balled into a fist.
Security arrived, but Trina waved them off, promising that she was handling it and that you were all leaving immediately.
Your hand stayed on Rhett’s arm the entire way back into the limo, past the paparazzi who had no idea what had just occurred upstairs, and even as the vehicle pulled away.
You squeezed at it three times, but Rhett couldn’t bring himself to answer.
❤︎
The limo had been dead silent the entire ride back home, and not the comfortable kind of silence.
The second you were parked, you handed Rhett the keys to the front door, and he was gone in seconds, tearing up the steps and into the house without ever looking back.
It was then that Trina gave you an earful. She spewed every word in the book toward you about Rhett, calling him “reckless” and a “liability,” talking about how dangerous that stunt he pulled at the studio was.
“Drew’s manager assured me that he’s having every single person that witnessed what happened sign an NDA right now, we don’t need this kind of press before the premiere tomorrow,” Trina sighed, running a hand down her face as she shook her head. “Look, I know I’ve never been Rhett’s biggest fan, but…that was so out of line, honey. I expected more from him; his actions were, frankly, very disappointing-”
“Don’t fucking talk about him like that, Trina,” you snapped immediately, shooting a glare her way as your hand rested on the handle of the door, seconds from slamming it open and stalking away from her. “I don’t know what happened, but I know for Rhett to act that way, then Drew had to do some pretty nasty shit. So don’t fucking act all high and mighty and call him disappointing when you and I both know that Drew isn’t the saint you like to paint him to be.”
Trina was silent for a moment, staring at you with wide eyes, before she simply nodded her head.
“Well…I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to get you both for the premiere, then. Please, don’t be late,”
You didn’t say anything back to her, simply slammed the limo door on your way out, and slammed your front door and locked it behind you, too.
The house was quiet, and you hated it. Slipping your shoes off by the front door, you took the steps up to the main floor, tossing your clutch and phone onto the dining room table, right next to that manila folder from the morning. You passed by the kitchen windows, shutting both the blinds and the curtains as you went.
Rhett sat in the living room. His boots were already discarded across the room, his button-down half unbuttoned, as he leaned back against the couch, simply staring up at the ceiling. You moved past him without a word, shutting the living room blinds and curtains as well.
You turned back to Rhett, rocking on the balls of your feet for a moment, just watching him in silence.
“Anything you want to say?”
Rhett huffed out a laugh, running a hand down his face.
“Not sure what you want me to say,”
“You can start by simply explaining whatever the fuck that all was,” you threw back. “You shoved him into a pole and almost punched him, Rhett. Backstage, where an entire crew of people could see and could’ve recorded!”
“Yeah, well,” Rhett muttered, still not looking at you. “He had it coming.”
It was your turn to laugh, shaking your head incredulously.
“Rhett Abbott, you’re going to have to do better than that-”
“What do you want me to say?” Rhett sat up fully this time, looking at you finally. You couldn’t quite decipher what emotion it was swimming in his eyes. “He’s a prick, I’d rather deal with the Tillersons any day of the week. He’s self-centered, arrogant, and he makes me want to shove his head through a wall. That good enough for you, darlin’?”
“Don’t get an attitude with me,” you shot back, pointing in his direction. “I’m not the one you’re pissed at right now.”
“No, I’m pissed at him!” Rhett threw his hands outward before tugging at the collar of his shirt. “He’s so fucking in love with you, and it pisses me off.”
You scoffed, taking a few steps toward the couch.
“Drew Livingston isn’t in love with me-”
“Yes, he is-”
“No, Drew Livingston has a track record of going after his co-stars, especially the ones that are taken,” you shook your head as you took another step toward the couch. “He likes the chase of it all.”
“That’s why you confide in him?” Rhett shot back, turning to look at you again. “Let him wipe your tears when you’re sad on set? Buy you gifts, like that necklace?”
“What, he told you all this so you just decided to believe him?” your eyes shot wide, and when Rhett didn’t respond, you knew the answer. You couldn’t help but laugh again. “He is a prick, Rhett, I have always thought so. When I am sad on set, or sad anytime, really, I call you and only you. That man has never once comforted me; he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Everything he’s ever bought me? Given straight to Trina to donate to charity. That necklace stunt he fucking pulled tonight? I shoved it straight into Trina’s hands and warned her that if he doesn’t fuck off, then I don’t care how much I love these books, I’ll break my contract and refuse the sequel.”
Rhett got quiet then, eyes cast to the floor. You watched the way his hands wrung together in his lap, the incessant tapping of his foot against the floor, and your heart broke all at once, every ounce of anger in your body dissipating in a second when you noticed those nervous tics of his.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed out after a moment, taking a deep breath, your voice light as you spoke. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”
His head shot up then, a confused look written across his features, mixed with his anxiety.
“Darlin’, why are you sorry?”
You threw your hands out, gesturing to the entire house you stood in. “Because I did this to us. I chose this life, I thrust you into this world that’s so messy and so complicated, so that I could chase my dream. I…I made it so hard to love me, and I’m so sorry for it.”
It must have been something in what you said, but you could almost see any of the anger left in Rhett disappear at that moment, too.
His shoulders sagged as he let out a deep breath, hands still wringing together, as he shook his head.
“Loving you…it’s been the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life, darlin’. Always has been, always will be. It’s being worthy of you…that’s the hard part,”
Quiet settled over the room again before you walked forward, sitting on the coffee table directly before Rhett. His legs parted on instinct, letting you sit directly between them.
You laid a hand on his knee, and his eyes met yours.
“Baby, where’s this coming from?”
Rhett got quiet. It wasn’t unusual for him to get quiet, especially when talks such as this were on the table. Rhett hated discussing his feelings, always afraid to say the wrong thing and fuck up, no matter how much you promised him he could never fuck up with you.
Your gaze trailed over his hands as they cupped yours, lifting it from his knees, cradling it against his lips as he left a gentle kiss against each knuckle of your hand. He sighed, his breath ghosting over the spots he kissed, before his eyes locked with yours again.
“It’s coming from that asshole,” another kiss to your hand, and your fingers flexed, just barely brushing over and caressing his jawline and the stubble that lined it. “He…he called me a disappointment. Said you were going to wake up one day and see me for what I was. I…I have nothing to offer you, sweetheart, yet you stay with me.”
Quiet settled over the room again. You wiggled your hand free of his hold, sliding it up so you could fully cup his jawline, that stubble scratching into your palm. Rhett still held your wrist now, turning to kiss your palm gently, and your heart broke at the sight.
“No money, no support, no future,” he continued before you could speak again. “Can’t provide for you, can’t be there to support you. I…can’t even buy you the ring I’ve always wanted. Couldn’t even run away with you like we planned, can’t do anythin’ right. You deserve…so much more than this.”
Something in his words sparked something in you. You sat up straighter, tugging your hand from his hold, before disappearing into the kitchen.
When you returned just a moment later, that manila folder sat in your hands. Rhett’s eyes followed you every step of the way as you stepped over his leg, fully standing between his open legs now as you slid the folder into his hands without a word.
He didn’t say anything, just looked down and flipped it open. You could only watch him as he flipped through the various pages, the ones that held your signature, the photos, the glaringly obvious price shown on the first page.
“What…what is this?”
“This is a ranch. In Texas,” you flipped one of the papers back around, pointing down to the photos on it. “Over 800 acres of land, even a private lake. Large home, huge barn, horse stables, the whole works…I signed for it this morning. Sold this place two weeks ago, and I bought this ranch.”
Rhett glanced up again, astonishment written in his eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it, and repeated it again as he tried to find the words.
“You bought this?” you gave him a small nod. “Why?”
“Because this was our dream,”
He didn’t fight you as you took the folder from his grasp, tossing it aside to the floor. Rhett leaned into your touch as your hands cradled his cheeks, thumbs ghosting over his skin, while his hands settled on the backs of your bare thighs, just barely under the hem of your dress.
“It’s a few years later than we wanted it to be, but I never forgot about our dream, Rhett. I’m doing what I love, but none of it’s worth a damn without the only man I have ever loved,” his lips quirked up, just barely, but you caught it. “Your worth is not, and never will be, determined by what anyone else says or thinks. Not Royal, not the entire town of Wabang, and certainly not Drew. I don’t want someone who thinks they’re worthy of the movie star persona that the world sees. I want the cowboy who used to pick me up when I fell off my horse, who would run across town in the middle of the night to see me, who used to pick me flowers off the side of the road just to see me smile. You’re worthy of me because I say that you are. You’re worthy of me because you’re the man who gave me a sense of home, even when I lost mine, and no one can ever take that away from you.”
You paused, thinking over your words for a moment.
“I don’t want a man who can give me the finest jewelry, or wear the most expensive suit. I want the man who confessed to me that he couldn’t offer me much…except to love me more than anything. That’s all I want.”
There were very few times that you had ever seen Rhett Abbott cry in your life together. The first time he’d ever lost a bull-riding competition, he’d cried in frustration, torn up by the comments from his father about how this ‘maybe wasn’t for him.’ The first time you both ever had a fight, when you were 15 and didn’t speak to him for three days, he cried when he finally apologized to you. You had cried too, as he stumbled through his speech about how you were his best friend, and if he lost you, he wouldn’t know what to do.
This was only the third time you had ever seen Rhett cry.
You didn’t hesitate to wipe away the tears, leaning in to kiss at the little streaks left behind on the apples of his cheeks.
The grip his hands held on your thighs tightened, and then, he squeezed them three simple times: I love you.
Your lips stretched into a smile against his cheek, before you left four little pecks to the corner of his mouth: I love you, too.
Rhett didn’t give you a second to think before he captured your lips in a kiss within moments.
It was the most natural thing in the world, kissing Rhett Abbott. And still, even now, it felt like the first time all over again. Your head tilted just slightly, lips rolling over his as his fingers left indents into the flesh of your thighs, teeth clattering against yours as he kissed you with every ounce of passion in his body. In that kiss, you could almost smell the air of the Abbott ranch, could picture the fireflies that floated around the air that night, and your gut twisted in memory of the feeling of his lips for the first time.
Whatever might have started innocently, loving, and passionate, went downhill very quickly.
Rhett tugged, and your body listened. Hands gripping the back of the couch behind him as you leaned in, you parted your legs easily, sliding them to bracket his hips and settle onto his lap. Your dress bunched up around your waist, leaving just the thing lingerie you had chosen for the night between your core and the bulge that was heaving against Rhett’s jeans.
His hands slid up, fully cupping your ass in each calloused palm, as he forced your hips to roll against him. A moan tumbled from your lips in moments, swallowed by his mouth as his tongue darted past your open lips, spit slick between your lips.
Just one of your hands found its place in his hair, tugging on those long strands until a groan of his own tumbled from his lips. Rhett’s teeth caught your bottom lip, latching on just enough to leave a pleasurable sting in the feeling, before letting go with a slight pop. Your other hand found the buttons of his shirt, popping open the last few in order to slip your hand inside, letting yourself drag your nails over every inch of his skin you could get your hands on.
“Night before your premiere, darlin’,” Rhett muttered out against your lips, bucking his hips up into you as you continued to roll yourself against him languidly, eliciting another deep groan from him. “I had this whole plan before that prick ruined my day. Wanted to take my time with you. Make you fall apart. All about you…a reward for my perfect girl.”
“Save it for after the premiere, cowboy,” you breathed out, grinding yourself down as hard as you could, feeling that slight twitch from beneath his jeans. “You want the truth?”
“Always,”
“I have been embarrassingly soaked since the moment you threw Drew up against that pole,” Rhett’s laugh, his true and hearty laugh, not the one he huffed out under his breath, was your favorite sound to hear, and you never heard it often. It brought a smile to your face, a brighter one than you had worn all day. “No, seriously. It’s kind of insane how hot I found it. Last time I was that soaked without you even touching me was when you punched Luke Tillerson.”
“The time you bailed me out of jail?”
“What can I say?” it was your turn, nipping just barely at his bottom lip now, catching the slight catch in his breathing. “I guess I like a bad boy.”
Rhett kissed you again, harder, more passionately than he had before. The heat was prominent, burning in the pit of your stomach with every touch, with every pass of his lips against yours, with every taste of his tongue dancing just over yours.
Like a well-oiled machine, your bodies understanding one another in a way they’d never understand anyone else, Rhett had you back on your feet before him. His eyes never left you, his fingers gently taking the zipper of your dress and languidly tugging it down your spine, the cool air of the apartment sending a shiver up your exposed skin.
You let the dress fall to a heap on the floor, no care in the world for the wrinkles or dirt that could cover it. Rhett’s eyes watched, pupils dilated, raking over every inch of your skin as if he was seeing it for the first time. You tugged the soaked, useless pair of panties from your body, tossing them to the ground with your dress before your bra joined it moments later.
Stepping back up to Rhett, he let his fingers ghost down your sides. Over the edges of your thighs, up the curve of your hips, to the swell of your breasts. He ignored them, though, even as your breath hitched at the contact. Instead, he tugged you down, pressing a kiss straight to the wire flower that still hung right in the middle of your chest.
It shouldn’t have been possible, but somehow, your heart burst with more love for your best friend, the love of your life, than you had ever felt before.
His shirt came off easily next, buttons already done as you helped him slide it off his arms. It joined your dress on the floor, now kicked somewhere under the coffee table. You heard the hitch in his breath again as you dropped to your knees between his open legs, hands expertly unlatching his belt buckle like you had done a thousand times before.
Rhett watched every movement you made. The ease with which you popped open the button of his jeans, slid the zipper down, and then tugged the fabric over his hips. He obliged with the movements, letting you tug them down his legs and discard them elsewhere in the living room. His cock twitched as you leaned down, pressing a kiss to the length with just the thin fabric of his black boxers separating you, before you tugged those off too.
You didn’t linger long, every inch and bone in your body aching and begging for him. Your body missed him, his touch, the feel of him, as if he were a drug and you were an addict.
Rhett’s hands found your hips once more as you crawled back into his lap, straddling him once again. He peppered every inch of your collarbone with kisses, nipping here and there before he’d blow on the spot, the cool air a stark contrast to the sting he left behind. With one hand back in his hair, nails stretching at his scalp, you slotted your lips back to his, before taking every inch of his throbbing length in your hand.
Every inch of his skin was heated, throbbing, and twitching in your hand, and you sighed into the kiss at just the feel of him in your palm. You already knew what came next, the familiar stretch of your walls as they took him in, and you craved every second of it. You needed it.
Without wasting another second, you lined him up against your already soaked core, sliding down every inch of his shaft with a practiced ease.
The stretch was beautiful: welcomed, desired by you. Your walls fluttered with every inch of him that seated itself inside of you, conforming to him like he was the missing piece to your puzzle, because he was. Rhett’s head found itself in the crook of your neck, kiss after kiss placed in the crevice, trailing up over the pulse point in the side of your neck.
Neither of you moved for a moment when he was seated fully inside of you. The only sound within the apartment was the shared heavy breathing between the two of you, and the small whimpers that fell from your lips with every twitch of him inside of you.
“I love you,” his words were whispered into your skin, hands digging into your hips, fingers surely leaving marks upon your skin. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his temple, cradling him to your body with your hands wound around his shoulders, hands buried within his hair.
Then, you lifted your hips, just enough to leave an inch or so still within you, before you sank back down.
Whatever softness that was left in the room by your whispered declarations of love was gone in seconds.
With a steady rhythm, your hips rose and fell over and over again, hips meeting with a slap of skin that echoed through the quiet of the house. Whimpers fell from your lips with every drag of his cock against your walls, against that spot curled within you that had you clutching to him like a lifeline every time.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you feel like heaven,” Rhett moaned out, hands finding their way back to your ass as he helped you keep your rhythm. A moan slipped out of your mouth and into his as you brought him into another heated kiss, that coil of heat and euphoria already building in your stomach. That Wyoming drawl had always been heavy during sex, and God, did it do things to you that you couldn’t explain properly. “So perfect, riding me like the cowgirl you are. That prick doesn’t get to see you like this, doesn’t get to feel you like this.”
“No, Rhett, o-only you,” you choked out, almost crying into his mouth as he snapped his hips up into you. Your moan was swallowed by his lips once more as you tugged on his hair, grinding yourself down onto him as you dropped your hips to sit flush with him. “Only you get to–Jesus Christ–only you get to t-touch me. Get to fuck me. Just y-you.”
Your head felt dizzy, every ounce of your body flooded with lust as Rhett’s grip tightened on your hips, his hips now thrusting up in time to meet with yours. The pace of it all increased, every slap of skin sounding off faster and faster throughout the room as Rhett’s name rolled off your tongue like a prayer over and over again, the only thing you could think of.
“That’s right, darlin’, only me. All mine, you’re all–shit–all mine. Going to let me cum in you, huh? Let me fill you up?” the moan that tumbled from your lips was sinful, and Rhett’s laugh ghosted over your mouth, hips still snapping up into yours as every inch of his cock disappeared inside of you with every thrust. “What, you like that? Like the thought of carrying my baby, sweet thing? Want a little one running around our new ranch, our home?”
God, it didn’t matter what that man said, not when his accent was that thick and his voice was dripping with need like that. You’d do absolutely anything he asked of you.
“Oh my god, Rhett, please,” you fully kissed him now, mumbling that simple word–please–over and over into his mouth. “Please, baby, please. Fuck a baby right into me. P-Parade me down that carpet tomorrow with you still in me. Show that stupid asshole that I-I’m yours. Fuck me, fill me up, p-please Rhett.”
You didn’t need to beg a second more.
One of Rhett’s hands found your lower back, pushing you down flush with his chest. His hips shifted, just slightly changing the angle, before he held your hips in place and bucked up into you.
Every wanton cry of his name that tumbled from your lips was uncontrolled, your head clouded with lust and pure need as that coil in your stomach twisted over and over again. Rhett pummelled himself into you, rhythm be damned, hips slamming into yours with a passion that was sure to leave bruises along your skin, was sure to have you stumbling in your heels come morning.
“C-Come with me, darlin’. Let go, I got you,”
That was all it took, another few whispered words from Rhett’s lips into your air for that coil to snap. Your orgasm washed over you in a wave of pleasure, legs shaking from the pure euphoria that coursed through your system. Desperately, your hands clung to Rhett, head buried in his shoulder as you cried his name out over and over again, his hips still snapping into you with that same tenacious speed as before.
Your pleasure never seemed to stop, your body almost sagging against Rhett’s. The wave of pleasure peaked, dipped low, and peaked again with every snap of his hips, the corners of your vision fading to black as every second of pure pleasure gripped your body.
Finally, his rhythm faltered, and with just another slow, deep thrust, Rhett buried himself in you, his own moans washing through the air. His grip never let up, holding your body flush against him.
You felt it–the twitch of his cock within your walls–followed by that swirl of heat that formed within you with every gush of his cum that pooled inside your walls.
The air was heated, bodies slick with sweat, but neither of you moved, too wrapped up in the intimacy of the moment to want to remove yourselves from each other. The house was plunged back into quiet, leaving just the heavy breathing that labored from both of your chests as you tried to regain yourselves.
Rhett’s fingers danced over your spine, gently up and down, as you managed to dig your head out of his neck. Those beautiful blue eyes you’d fallen in love with so many years ago looked up at you with so much love you thought your heart would burst, as you placed the gentlest and shakiest of kisses against his lips. He happily accepted it.
“You didn’t sell this couch with the house, right?” Rhett mumbled against your lips, and you could feel the way they quirked up into a smile. “I don’t think the new owners would appreciate it after…that.”
You laughed, breathlessly, still trying to catch your breath as you dragged the tip of your nose just barely against his.
“No, this one can come with us. Can live in the game room…a fun story for our future child about how they might have been conceived on it,”
“Don’t say shit like that, honey,” Rhett groaned, and you automatically felt his cock twitch inside you once again. “Not while I’m still in you, not unless you plan on making sure you go to bed pregnant tonight.”
All you could do was laugh, stealing another breathless kiss from the lips of the man you adored more than anything.
He broke away, peppering kisses to your jawline, down your neck, before reaching your chest. There, he placed yet another kiss right to the center of that wire flower.
You watched silently, thoughtfully. He pressed one, two, and then three small kisses right to the little design, before he pulled away. But his eyes never left that flower, and as your hand came up to touch it delicately, a thought crossed your head.
“You know, this little piece of wire kind of marks the start of our relationship,”
“Yeah, I guess it does,”
“Well…what if we repurpose it? Maybe, it can mark the next step instead,”
❤︎
The premiere for “For Those We Love” was in full swing. A whole plethora of celebrities were in attendance, walking the red carpet. Those who were simply invited, and so many that you had made friends with over your years in the industry, just here to support you.
Drew Livingston was thriving in the spotlight, waving to reporters and photographers who cheered his name, posing in place on the carpet right in front of the oversized posters of the movie right behind him as the backdrop.
The attention turned from him, though, and he heard your name called out by multiple reporters and photographers. An uproar from the fans, desperate to get a glimpse of you. Drew smirked, glancing down the carpet, waiting for your entrance.
There you were, just stepping out of your limo with Trina just off to the side. A dazzling image in a sky-blue, sparkling gown, the train dragging just barely on the carpet behind you. The neckline plunged down the valley of your breasts, and Drew found himself smiling as he followed the line of that plunge, taking in every inch of skin he could see. He even found himself smirking, noticing the absence of that little wire flower hanging from your neck like it usually was.
That smile dropped when you reached your hand back into the limo.
Rhett Abbott stepped out, clearly misplaced on the red carpet among the sea of Hollywood stars. There was no suit, not even a button-down shirt. No, he was in those same jeans, those same scuffed-up cowboy boots, and a flannel that Drew was sure he could see the dirt stains on from here. Worst of all, that worn leather Stetson sat on top of his head, further cementing himself as the outlier.
It was clear you didn’t care, though, and even more clear that Rhett didn’t seem to care. You smiled at one another, ignoring every single call of the reporters and photographers, too wrapped up in one another to care.
And when you turned, finally catching Drew’s eye, you didn’t hesitate to pluck the cowboy hat from Rhett’s head and place it on your own. Trina fussed in the background, something about your hair, and all Rhett could do was laugh boldly, locking eyes with Drew himself.
All he had to give was a cocky wink, winding his arm around your waist.
It wasn’t fair to say that Drew lost the game, because there hadn’t been one to begin with. No one in your eyes would ever compete with your cowboy, your bull-rider.
It was your eagle-eyed fans, days later, that noted the absence of your necklace from your neck.
It was another few days before one of them finally zoomed in, pointing out the wire wrapped around your ring finger, and the matching wire wrapped around Rhett’s.
Summary: The Fantastic Four thought they were done dealing with cosmic threats after the defeat of Galactus. That is, until you crash-landed in Gramercy Park. Except, you aren't a threat, and Johnny Storm might be head over heels in love with a woman who couldn't care less for his flirting...again.
Warnings: little steamy but nothing major, making out, so much god damn fluff, some angst, some adult themes mentioned, strangers to friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, star-crossed lovers, slow burn, bittersweet ending but there will be a sequel, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, MCU spoilers, female reader but no characteristics described, reader kind of has PTSD, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, VERY lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
Word Count: 24,720 words
Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here
READ PART 2: Irrevocably : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader
Johnny Storm was barely paying attention to the conversation happening around the dining room table of the Baxter Building. Instead, he dug his hand even further into the Lucky Charms box, popping another handful of the cereal into his mouth.
Sue shot him a look across the table, half of the bits of cereal falling from the side of his mouth to the table. His only response was an incredulous look her way, which was met with an affectionate eye roll from his sister.
“He probably just got caught up with something,” Sue tried to calm Ben’s nerves, bouncing little Franklin in her arms as he babbled out nonsense of some kind. That was enough to bring a smile to Sue’s face, her lips pressing a kiss to the side of his little head. “You know how Reed is.”
“Ben’s got a point, though,” Johnny chimed in, as the giant rock hand of his friend swiped his cereal box from his hands. With a defeated sigh, he decided he wasn’t going to start a fight over it, turning his gaze back to his sister and nephew. “Last time he was late for Sunday dinner it’s because you were pregnant and he was having an existential crisis. As much as I enjoyed that crisis, I think we’ve dealt with enough in the last few months.”
He wasn’t wrong, and he knew it. They all knew it. A year later and the aftermath of Galactus and Shalla-Bal still hung in the air. The implications of intelligent, threatening life out there in the universe casting a shadow over every news broadcast across the globe.
“That’s exactly my point,” Ben high fived Johnny from across the table, turning his gaze to Sue as well. “If he’s this caught up with something to miss family dinner, that means he found something.”
“And we all know when your husband finds something, that spells trouble for the rest of us,” Johnny lit his hand on fire for added effect, lips pursed as he waved the burning flames around gently in the air. “For example…cosmic radiation.”
It was clear that Sue wanted to argue with the pair, but Johnny knew there was no arguing with them. Their point was made, and that smirk on his face creeped in as Sue sighed, rising to her feet with Franklin situated on her hip.
“Alright, fine. Let’s go see what he’s up to,”
The chorus of cheers shared between Ben and Johnny from behind was surely making Sue roll her eyes once again. Any moments that Johnny was given to bother his brother in law in the lab was a win in his book.
Following his sister into the elevator, Johnny snapped his fingers in Ben’s direction as they descended toward the lab floor.
“10 bucks says it’s another alien woman,”
Ben’s groan sounded through the elevator, bouncing off the walls. Short laughter from Sue mixed in with it, even as she shook her head in response.
“Johnny, just because the first one dumped you, doesn’t mean you can go chasing after any alien woman in existence,”
“She never dumped me, for your information. She heroically sacrificed herself to save me because of her deep, profound love for me,” the shove Ben gave Johnny’s shoulder pushed him into the wall of the elevator. All he could do was shoot the rock man a glare, following his family out of the elevator and onto the lab floor, but not before pretending to grab at little Franklin’s nose to make the baby laugh. “Plus, I think it’s about time little Franklin got an auntie. A cool one.”
None of them were prepared for the mess of a lab they were stepping into.
Papers scattered the entire floor, from the workstation to the chalkboards. Those chalkboards had a thousand equations scattered across them: some scribbled out, others circled over a hundred times. Poor Herbie was frantically moving throughout the room, trying and failing to pick up every piece of paper that he could and bring some form of organization to the room.
“Uh, Suze,” it was Ben’s voice that cut in first, the trio stood just outside the elevator doors in mild shock at the state of the lab that was usually pristine. “I think your husband may have finally lost it.”
“That or he bought some drugs and tried them for the first time,” Johnny tacked on in a mumble that still got him an unimpressed look from his sister.
Johnny wasn’t wrong, though, and neither was Ben. Reed Richards looked like a certified mess.
He stood at the far end of the lab, moving between workstations at the deep blue tables lining the area in a half circle. He typed viciously, new data points mapped upon the screens adorning the walls. The middle screen, the largest, held a map to the entirety of New York City, markings appearing every so often in certain sections of the city before disappearing.
Even as the group approached, Reed never moved from his place, still typing away as he mumbled to himself.
“Reed,” Sue spoke up, just as her husband stalked across the floor once more.
The freshly written upon papers in his hands fell to the ground the second he laid eyes on them. Hair slightly disheveled, tie almost entirely undone, Reed Richards looked as if he had been rocked by a hurricane.
“Something is coming,”
Those were all the words he had to say. Johnny felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs, as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked straight out. He heard the sharp intake of breath from his sister first, before Ben stepped forward.
“Reed, what are you talking about?”
Ben quickly had multiple papers shoved into his hands as Reed gestured to the large screen showing the map of New York. One of the workstations beeped as the scientist quickly logged whatever data his system had just mapped out, another blip appearing on the screen that Reed pointed to desperately.
“For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been tracking these energy signatures,” the map zoomed in on a focused location of the city. “They’re appearing at strange intervals. They started just a minute or two apart, but have grown to be just seconds apart now. All contained in an area between 24th and 17th street, in conjunction with Park Ave and 3rd Ave.”
“Gramercy Park?” Johnny chimed in, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head slightly, looking at the map and the park that lay directly between the streets his brother-in-law had just named off. Honestly, he was still trying to understand what it was he was looking at, or just understand Reed’s mental state as a whole. “Maybe your baby proofing didn’t work and the Wizard is just out of prison.”
“That was my first thought as well, but the energy signatures proved me incorrect,” Johnny only rolled his eyes, running a hand down his face at Reed’s inability to take a joke. “These energy signatures are different, even more so than those of the Herald. It’s a culmination of dimensional energy–energy that’s being pulled from the fabric of the universe itself–it matches with energies given off by planets, or even stars themselves. But there’s another component to it, something so inherently not scientifically explainable that I can’t understand.”
Johnny shared a look with his sister and Ben, and even a look with confused little Franklin, before Sue chimed in.
“Okay, so there’s some weird space energy in the area-”
“Energy that has organic life woven into it,” Reed emphasized for those standing in front of him. He crossed the room back to his desk, pulling up a clear imaging of the energy itself from a nearby street camera that happened to catch the pulse. It was like a burst of blue strands, interwoven, pulsing and dousing the surrounding area in color, before it blinked away. “This energy beats, like a heartbeat. It moves organically, as if being pushed and pulled by someone. Compare these scans with a simple energy scan of any one of us, anyone in New York for that matter, and the fundamentals match perfectly. This isn’t some cosmic energy seeping into our earth for a moment, there’s something attached to it, something causing it. It’s forewarning something–someone.”
The lab grew quiet, the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air. For Johnny, they hung a little harder.
The last time something–someone–showed up on this Earth, he’d almost lost his family, lost his nephew. He had lost his sister, even for just a brief moment, but that was enough. Enough to never want to be put through this again. Johnny’s jaw clenched at the memory, his gaze flickering back to the screens.
“Why’s the park empty?” he questioned, gesturing to the live feed of the park from security cameras placed around light poles. “It’s not even 8 at night.”
“Suspicious activity in the area over the last week. I spoke to the mayor and had a curfew put in place out of an abundance of caution,” Sue chimed in.
“Okay, so another space alien is coming,” Ben clapped his hands together, the sound echoing as it drew everyone’s attention to him. “We threw the devourer of worlds through a portal to deep space…let’s just do that again.”
“This isn’t Galactus,” Reed muttered, voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room as he turned back to the screens before him. “This is something else.”
Before anyone else could speak again, another pulsation of blue energy directly in the center of the park this time. Bigger than the others, strands of energy moving and beating in the air. Growing brighter, bathing the park in light.
The power of the building flickered for half a second before the live feed into the park cut off suddenly. Reed tapped incessantly, trying to bring it back, but it was no use.
“Reed…what is that?”
On the main screen, right in the center of the park on the New York City map, was one single blip of energy. Unlike the other blips, this one didn’t leave. It held steady.
“Johnny-” his name had barely left Reed’s mouth before Johnny was at the windows of the lab, swinging them open before streaking through the air in a blaze of red and orange.
No one was threatening his family again.
Gramercy Park wasn’t far away from the Baxter Building, especially not for a man who could light himself on fire and streak through the air at speeds humans couldn’t comprehend.
The park and every surrounding street was quiet the second his feet touched down on the pavement, flames dissipating from his body with a single thought.
The trees rustled above him in the night time breeze, stray leaves breaking off of the branches and falling to the ground. In the distance Johnny could faintly hear the usual sound of New York traffic, the muffled sound of sirens streets and streets away.
Straight ahead of him, down the path, laid the circle of greenery and flowers planted around the statue that sat in the middle of the park.
When he approached the center of the park apprehensively, flaming fist at his side ready to attack, the last thing he expected to see was you.
Pacing back and forth until the point he was sure you’d burn lines into the ground under your feet, you were glancing up at the sky over and over, muttering something to yourself. He cocked his head as he creeped closer, taking in the clothes that adorned your body: a pain of jeans adorned with so many tears and holes he couldn’t comprehend why you were still wearing them, and a tight fitting shirt that plunged way too far down your sternum to be considered decent to wear…anywhere. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen a woman wearing a shirt quite that revealing before.
His foot hit a single branch littering the pavement, ten feet from you now, before you froze and spun on your heels to face him. Johnny was pretty sure every bit of oxygen in the air was ripped away the second his eyes locked with yours.
Well, fuck, you are the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
It was the only thought capable of filtering through Johnny’s head. Reed must have gotten something wrong in his data, been tracking something that didn’t really exist, because there was no way that you were the blip that had appeared on the map. You were just another New Yorker–a drop dead gorgeous one, at that–who was out past the mandatory curfew…even if the clothing you bore threw him for a loop.
You didn’t look scared of him, his hand still burning with flames at his side. He could see the way your eyes drifted to the fire, head almost tilting in curiosity, before you glanced back at his face. Your hands were held out at your sides, fingers flexing as if you were prepared to defend yourself if the need arose.
Johnny wasn’t going to hurt you. You were a civilian, one who should be in her home during this curfew. Just another normal civilian that he would definitely be coming back to this area for the following day so he could figure out where you worked, or which cafe you visited most often so he could orchestrate a way to run into you again-
His watch beeped, that familiar alert sound. Johnny’s eyes tore themselves away from you for just a second to glance down: an energy reading, matching the same one from Reed’s lab, pointed directly at you.
Way to go, Johnny. Get the hots for yet another alien woman that’s probably here to destroy your world and kill your family. Nice job. Way to go. Ben totally isn’t going to make fun of you for this.
“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” Johnny quipped, flames igniting on his other hands, both now burning bright at his sides. “But you’re out after curfew.”
“Curfew?” you had practically barked out a laugh, and fuck Johnny hated the fact that even your voice was pretty. Even as it was dripping in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I haven’t seen a single curfew ever go into effect in this city through the multiple alien incursions it’s seen.”
Johnny cocked his head immediately: multiple alien incursions? Given that Shalla-Bal was the only alien he’d watched descend into Times Square, he was utterly confused.
“Makes sense–given that you’re another one of those alien incursions–that you don’t know about the curfew,” flames burning just a tad bit brighter, crawling up his forearms, Johnny raised his hands in your direction as he took a cautious step forward. “I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll, so why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”
It happened in the blink of an eye. Johnny’s eyes never left you as your head tilted just slightly, a flash of blue crossing your eyes as your fingers twitched at your sides, before suddenly his arms were enveloped.
Like a casing of blue tinted energy, pulsing around his hands and up his forearms, the flames that ignited Johnny’s skin were extinguished in moments. Blue eyes shooting wide open, he shook his hands frantically. Willing himself in his head, telling his flames to ignite, but they wouldn’t. Every wave of his arms did nothing, the blue energy unmoving and shifting with him.
“No use trying, pretty boy. There’s not a single ounce of oxygen in the air around your arms right now, so I suggest you keep the flames at bay because I’d prefer not to do that to your entire body,” you shot back at him. With a single wave of your hand, the casing of energy dropped from around his arms. Johnny let the fires reignite for just a moment, confirming that he could indeed use his power again, before his wide eyes shot back to you.
“...I’m going to be so honest, I can’t tell if I’m terrified or completely turned on right now,”
“I’m, also, not an alien. I grew up upstate. And, why does Gramercy Park look so…weird?” Johnny’s comment was ignored, even though it was a valid question that he was trying to work out in his head. He instead watched you spin around on your heels, pointing around the park and up toward the surrounding buildings. “I know I haven’t left the Sanctum in a few days, but I feel like I would’ve heard construction. That building was never white, that one–wait, how did they build an above ground subway system? That wasn’t there three days ago when I got in, and I know for a fact the city doesn’t have the budget for this.”
In all of his life, Johnny Storm had never been more confused. He’d sat through countless lectures from Reed about matters of organic chemistry that he didn’t understand in the slightest, or cooking lessons from Ben that ended in him shoving his hand deep into a box of cereal, and this was more confusing then all of those combined.
Your clothing, something just about the way you talked and looked, whatever the hell this blue energy was it looked like you were controlling–and what the hell was a Sanctum?
“Back up…the Sanctum?” Johnny chose to start there as you turned back to him. He chose to keep his flames at bay, having a gut feeling that if you really did want to cut off the oxygen around him you could, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with that. “Isn’t that, like, some type of Church thing? Are you from some weird alien cult?”
“I literally just told you I wasn’t an alien. The Sanctum Sanctorum, over on Bleeker street? You know…Wong, Stephen Strange, the Masters of the Mystic Arts?” you must have seen the confusion on his face grow, because Johnny could see the moment your back seemed to straighten. “Wait, you have no clue who they are? Actually–beyond that–you have powers. How do I not know who you are?”
“Great question, sweetheart. The Fantastic Four kind of just saved the world a year ago, so I’m about as lost as you are,”
Johnny wanted to be apprehensive, wanted not to trust a word you were saying. He wanted to be cautious, to put his walls up, because the last time someone had come down into his world like this, he’d almost lost everything.
But you weren’t Shalla-Bal. You weren’t standing on a silver surfboard, speaking with confidence and heralding the end of the world.
No, when Johnny looked at you now, he saw pieces of himself. Of little him, hugging Sue, losing their mother forever. Of the version of him that came back to Earth over four years ago forever changed: confused and scared. The version of him that locked himself away in Building Q, charring the sheets and everything around him as he cried, trying to understand what was happening.
“I meant what I said, by the way,” Johnny cut in, that usual charm infiltrating his words. You were still the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he was curious, more curious then he was the moment a woman coated in silver appeared in the air. You had his full attention, even if he was still trying to figure out who the hell you were, but he hoped showing off his charm would ease the tensions a bit. “You’re a very pretty woman…and I might be turned on right now, the jury is definitely still out on that one. Took my breath away when I first saw you, and you could literally do that if you wanted to. That’s hot.”
He watched as you huffed out the semblance of a laugh, still teetering back and forth on if he was a danger to you. Given the fact that you had demonstrated your ability to cut off his oxygen…he was hoping you wouldn’t see him as a threat anymore.
“Ah, a charmer, aren’t you? Knew someone like that, been awhile since I’ve seen someone so brazenly flirt with a woman,”
“Oh darling, that’s my whole brand,”
You hummed across from him, but he caught your body language. Slightly more at ease, not as rigid anymore.
“The Fantastic Four?” your eyebrow shot up, eyes still wide with confusion, but slightly less apprehensive than before, as you brought the conversation back to that name he’d dropped. “Bit of a pretentious name to give yourselves.”
“That was all the fans,” Johnny shot back with a hint of a grin. A ghost of a smile seemed to find your mouth as well, and Johnny mentally cheered to himself that it seemed he was able to convince you he wasn’t a threat to your life.
“Fair enough. The Avengers was chosen for us…I feel like I would’ve heard about another new superhero team being formed in our absence, though,”
Johnny’s confusion was back again as he mulled over your words.
“Avengers? What are they, some superpowered band?”
It was your turn to mull over his words.
“You…you don’t know who the Avengers are?”
There was a whirl through the air as Johnny watched you glance behind him. He turned too, eyes landing on the familiar blue of the Fantasti-Car landing behind him on the pavement, Sue, Reed and Ben stepping out just moments later, practically running down the pavement toward him.
“Johnny-!”
“No, no, wait!” he called out frantically, glancing back at you again. Your hands were rigid at your sides again, fingers flexing, eyes narrowed in a terrified glare in their direction. He glanced back at his family, holding out a hand for them to stop just behind him. “She’s not a threat, I swear!”
Ben’s thunderous steps came to a halt, his head thrown back to the sky as he let out the loudest sigh in the world. “Johnny, seriously, you can’t keep falling for every alien woman you meet-”
Johnny didn’t let him finish, spinning back around to face you. His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would see his hesitance to hurt you, feet shuffling forward a few steps. You took one back for each step he made forward, that same blue energy dancing around your hands once again.
“I really don’t want to hurt you,” you spoke, voice steady and loud enough to carry through the air. Your eyes glanced past Johnny, to his family. “Any of you. It’s not who I am, that’s not what I do. But if I have to, I will.”
“We won’t,” Johnny promised, taking a glance back at his family. Ben seemed unsure, Reed apprehensive, but Sue watched him. Curious, unsure of what he might do next. He glanced back at you. “I won’t. We’re just as confused as you are right now.”
You laughed. “I really doubt that.”
Reed brought a device out from his pocket, that same alert that came from Johnny’s watch ringing through the air as he pointed it in your direction.
“It’s coming from her,” Reed announced. Johnny tried desperately not to roll his eyes and make a comment of ‘obviously’ toward his brother-in-law. “These readings are coming from her. I was right: she’s controlling this dimensional energy, bending it to her will.”
Johnny hung his head with a sigh, still mulling over making a comment as he turned his gaze back to you. It was apologetic, accented with an eyeroll, one that brought a hint of a smirk back to your face. It worked, though, as you dropped your hands, body relaxing once more as Johnny confirmed for you once again that they didn’t want to hurt you.
With a single flick of your wrist, the device in Reed’s hands was enveloped in that same energy, wrapping around it and carrying it over to your hands before their very eyes. Johnny froze, along with the three directly behind him, as they watched it happen.
“Not energy–well, not technically–it’s magic,” you explained, never taking your eyes off the device in your hands as you fiddled with the controls. “This thing is…so strange. It looks like such a primitive piece of tech but functions so modernly. Did you get this from Stark Industries? Is this some old prototype of Tony’s that Pepper sold you?”
“I designed it,” Reed answered after a moment. You hummed, flicking your hand again as the device made its way through the air and back to Reed’s hands. “Stark Industries, are they a foreign company? Do you work for them?”
Johnny watched that confusion bubble up in your features again, tinged with nerves now. He caught it, the way your leg began to shake as the pacing you’d been doing when he first showed up resumed once again. All he could do was watch.
“T-This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard of you guys, everything about New York looks different, you don’t know the Avengers, hell you don’t even know who Tony is!” you laughed, incredulously this time, as your eyes locked with Johnny’s again. “This has to be a joke, right? A-Are one of you Wong in disguise, trying to teach me a lesson for opening a book to perform a spell that I wasn’t supposed to touch-”
You stopped in the middle of your sentence.
Johnny took another step forward the second you cut your own words off with a gasp. Hand flying up to cover your mouth, your wide eyes never left him as he took a cautious step forward.
“We just want to help you. What are you talking about? Help us understand,”
“The Book of Vishanti,” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, like the four standing in front of you were supposed to understand it. “Wong thought I was ready for powerful light magic, h-he invited me so that he could show it to me, so that I could learn from it. I should’ve listened to him, I shouldn’t have snuck down there-”
Sue stepped up to Johnny’s side. He watched his sister, the easy look on her face, the understanding in her eyes, as she spoke softly to you.
“What happened before you showed up in this park?”
“I touched the book without him, I thought I could teach myself things without him,” you spoke quickly, shaking your head frantically. “I could barely read the spell and yet I performed it anyway. Either I fucked it up, or I did it right and I didn’t know what I was doing because…this isn’t my earth. It can’t be, not with all the differences.”
Reed and Ben joined either side of Johnny and Sue now, all four of them staring down at you in front of them as you came to a realization of what had truly happened.
Through it all, Johnny just couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Curiosity pulled at him, more than it ever had before.
“What are you saying?” Reed chimed in.
“I’m saying this isn’t my universe…I think I accidentally traveled the multiverse, and I have no idea how to get back,”
❤︎
Performing a spell from the Book of Vishanti that you couldn’t yet read was, in hindsight, probably the worst idea that you had ever had in your entire young adult life.
When the Sorcerer Supreme believes that you’re ready to handle a book such as that, lined with the most powerful magic and spells and knowledge of light magic that have ever existed…it’s not hard to get an ego about it and jump the gun. You could already hear the berating you’d get from Wong, the things that Steve would’ve said to you if he was still around, the things that Sam most definitely would say to you when you got back to Washington.
If you ever got home, that is.
It was a thought you tried not to dwell on. Every night, as you closed your eyes, you saw them. The ones still here, the ones taken from you even as you fought with every ounce of you to save them all. The final look in your best friend’s eyes before she destroyed the version of herself that she had become, destroying what felt like a piece of you in the process. All so you could wind up in a world without any of them, a universe so far away from your own, nursing what felt like a shattered heart as you tried to find a way home.
You cried enough every time your head hit the pillow of the bed that wasn’t yours, you wouldn’t let the tears find you during the day too.
To their credit, the Fantastic Four were the most welcoming and kind group of people you’d ever met. If a strange woman basically crash landed in your universe, claiming to be a witch, you too would probably have hesitated. But here you were, a week later, having taken up the space on the unused guest floor of the Baxter Building at the insistence of Susan Storm. Trapped in a universe so similar to your own, but so different.
You weren’t alive in the 60s of your Earth, but now you got the chance to experience it firsthand…with a twist. It was strange how retro and yet futuristic this Earth was. The technology was advanced, sometimes more advanced than anything you had seen in your own universe, and that was all thanks to Dr. Reed Richards. You had thought that Bruce Banner and his 7 PhDs was the smartest person you would ever meet, but Reed and his 18 Doctorate degrees blew him out of the water by miles. But beyond the advanced technology of the world, everything else was still so primitive.
The clothing was different, more modest and brightly colored than anything you were used to seeing before. The hairstyles were different, sometimes shorter, almost always poofier than they were in the 2020s. They talked differently, the music was different, everything felt so familiar and yet so wrong at the same time.
This little team, this family you had stumbled upon, had been nothing but helpful, even if they were still wrapping their minds around the idea of the multiverse. The protectors of their Earth, the only superheroes this universe had compared to the plethora yours seemed to have, but some of the most down to earth people you had ever met. Reed Richards was abrasive sometimes, but curious, asking a thousand questions when you would venture out of the guest floor about your magic and the scientific properties surrounding it and its composition. Ben Grimm was kind, giving you space, but always dropping off something to eat on the guest floor for you every day. Sue Storm was kind and bright, strolling in with confidence and her son, Franklin, perched on her hip, filling your closet with an array of clothing to wear so that you would be comfortable.
Johnny Storm followed you like a puppy dog, hanging off every word you spoke and popping up in every corner of the building you found yourself in, much like he was now.
“Find anything in there?”
You rolled your eyes, tossing the book borrowed from the city library onto the coffee table of the guest floor living room. It landed with a thud on the multiple other books that Sue had picked up for you before you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Johnny stalking toward the couch you were sitting upon from the elevator.
“Just more confirmation that witches don’t seem to exist in your universe, except in the fairy tales," you shot back with a sigh. Your gaze turned to the floor to ceiling windows adorning the wall before you, giving you a glimpse of the New York skyline as night crept in on it, the sun dipping below the horizon line in the distance. “Which leaves me with exactly what I started with: nothing.”
Johnny hummed, hands grasping the back of the couch from beside you as he too glanced out over the skyline. The record player in the corner played some Elvis tune, something to fill the silence.
“Can’t you just, like, do the spell again to get home?”
“If I knew what spell I did, probably,” came your answer as you glanced over to him, finding his blue eyes already watching you. “No clue what spell I did, so without that I have no means of traversing the multiverse.”
Your gaze watched him as he left the couch, stalking across the room toward the record player. Another eye roll left you as he plucked the Elvis record off the turntable in seconds, muttering something about how that record ‘wasn’t good enough,’ before combing the collection beside it for another one.
This wasn’t the first time he’d done this over the course of the week. It felt like Johnny Storm practically lived on this guest floor with you: he’d brought his dinner down every night to eat with you, lounged around the living room while you searched through book after book, and had gone through every bit of clothing his sister had procured for you and made comments about which ones he thought you’d look best in (spoiler alert: it was every single item).
You didn’t entirely mind. His presence felt like a soothing balm over the pain that still sat within you, his ability to joke and make anyone around him smile, able to slap a bandaid over what felt like a gunshot.
“What’s music like in the 2020s?” he called out from across the room, settling on a Bob Dylan record instead that he dropped the needle down onto. “Does everyone have giant record collections now, ones that would rival my own?”
“Music is…much different than what you’re used to now,” was the response you settled on, chuckling slightly as you tried to imagine the man across the room listening to the likes of Eminem or even Taylor Swift. Taking a sip of your drink settled on the table in front of you, you dug your now dead cell phone out of your pocket, waving it around. “We listen off our phones, can connect headphones to them wirelessly. Vinyl collections are usually just collections now, not typically used to play music.”
Your cell phone was plucked straight out of your hands by Johnny himself, who had crossed the room with impressive speed. With a chuckle, you shook your head at his antics, leaning your head against your hand as you watched him inspect the dead device.
“I should tell Reed to invent this thing. Have to use that big brain for something useful,”
“And somewhere in Chicago, I can hear Martin Cooper crying that his invention is about to be stolen,”
Johnny tossed your phone back onto the cushion next to you without another thought, plopping down right next to it. Head thrown back against the back of the couch, he turned to look at you again with a giddy grin.
“Ignore the little talking box device for now, can you show me more of your magic?”
That was the question Johnny had asked at least three times a day in the week you had been on his earth. It was cute, the way his eyes would light up with excitement like a little kid every single time you showed him something new. That sparkle in them, the grin that lit up his face every single time, as he’d beg you to show him again.
You tried not to focus too much on how cute it actually was.
“What haven’t I shown you at this point?” you laughed, smile bright, though you already knew the answer. There was a neverending stream of things you could show him.
“There has to be something,” he sat up a little straighter, leaning even more into your personal space now. “Come on, I have a witch sitting in front of me. I thought those only existed in movies and books. You can’t blame a guy for being interested, baby.”
Ignoring that pet name that so easily fell from Johnny’s lips, you took a quick glance around the room. Acting as the centerpiece of the table sat a fresh bouquet of wildflowers, curated by Sue herself and brought up as a gift. Leaning forward, you plucked a single daisy from the bunch, leaning back and holding it in the space between you and Johnny.
Your eyes never stopped watching him as that familiar swirl of blue magic seeped from you, enveloping the delicate flower. The thin, white petals merged together into five beautiful petals, the white coloring fading into an enchanting ombre of orange and pink. Then, as fast as it started, your magic dissipated and the blue hue that lit up Johnny’s face disappeared.
He took the new flower from you with the brightest of grins, a sight that stirred something deep within your chest you were keen to ignore. He took a single sniff, eyes glancing back to you as his smile slipped into a charming little smirk.
“What did that poor daisy ever do to you?”
“It wasn’t a Plumeria,” you shot back with a slight laugh, plucking the flower from his hand and slipping it back into the vase. “They’re my favorite flower.”
“Noted,” he casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch, resting it over the portion directly behind your head, as that charming smirk grew even more. “Want them incorporated into the wedding decor, or should I pin one to my suit jacket so you can see it while we stand together at the altar?”
With a bright laugh, your hand met his face, pushing him back slightly as you rose from the couch, sauntering over into the kitchen with your empty glass. You could feel his eyes on you with every step.
“I have to hand it to you, Johnny, your flirting this past week has definitely gotten more brazen with each passing hour. Be careful, you might fall in love,”
“Too late, that happened when you first turned around,” shooting a glance back at him on the couch, he dramatically flopped backward on the cushions, pretending an arrow had just struck him in the chest. It was impossible not to shake your head and laugh at the sight. “I took one look at you and thought…wow, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”
You hummed in response, pouring yourself another glass.
“Does your charm and your flattery typically get you places with the ladies?”
“Depends, is it working right now?”
Ben had warned you about Johnny’s charming personality and what would surely be incessant attempts at flirting, but you hadn’t thought the man would be as persistent as he had been this past week.
You’d taken to keeping a running list in your head of some of your favorite lines of Johnny’s that he’d thrown your way.
Are love spells a thing? You could put one on me and I wouldn’t even notice: I’m already too far gone for you, baby.
Do you think you fell into our universe because you and I were made to find each other?
Before you head back to your universe eventually, we should send you back with the last name Storm. I think it fits you nicely.
Each one had made you laugh, and you begrudgingly had to admit that most of them were quite cute. It helped that Johnny Storm was as charming as they came.
From the moment you had laid eyes on him in that park that night you’d known it. This man was a heartbreaker, a face that girls across the world surely had hanging on their bedroom walls and were fawning over. Magazines called him a playboy, his personal fan club, The Flaming Hearts, swooned at his feet over how he was the ideal man women should strive for. You saw why they fawned: Johnny was attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. Perfectly swept to the side blonde hair, blue eyes that felt deeper than the ocean, and the charm and wit to have you laughing into the night.
He could flirt all he wanted, but it was going to take more than a flirty comment and a pretty smile to make you feel a thing. Johnny Storm wasn’t the first charming man you’d ever encountered, and he surely wouldn’t be the last.
“Sorry, pretty boy,” you shook your head, finishing off your glass that you’d just poured before dumping it into the sink for later. “Takes a little more than superficial flattery to butter me up.”
“I’m pretty sure you just called me pretty, that has to count for something,”
“It doesn’t,” you shot back, leaning against the island counter as you looked across the room toward him. Johnny was rolling off the couch in the most unelegant way, hopping back up to his feet to lean against the other side of the counter from you, shooting you a wink.
“You know what they say–denial is the first step to falling in love,”
“Acceptance. The quote ends in acceptance,” you barked out another laugh, shaking your head as the man as you stood up straighter. “Now, what did you actually come up here for, or was it just to bother me?”
Johnny clapped, eyes going wide as he seemed to remember exactly why he’d come upstairs in the first place.
“Right! It’s Sunday, family dinner night. You’re invited, and I was volun-told to come and get you,”
“Of course, because I’m sure you really protested being given that job,”
As charming as ever, he shot you another wink as he banged his hands on the table.
“You already know me so well, darling,”
“Are the pet names necessary?”
“Why, are they making you swoon?” yet another wink was shot at you.
“Johnny, I’m sure your charm works on just about every other woman in this universe. You want me to swoon? It’s going to take a lot more than that,” you pointed toward the shirt on his body, the bright blue logo over his chest shining in the light. “Plus, wearing your own team merch all the time? How superficial of you.”
He feigned hurt over your comment, looking down at the logo himself.
“I’m just representing the team. Plus, it’s comfortable, like our suits are too,” Johnny instantly snapped his fingers, eyes wide again as he giddily smiled toward you across the counter. “Your suit! You’ve never shown me your superhero suit! Come on, I’m dying with anticipation here, baby.”
Even as you rolled your eyes, you indulged his request. With a single flick of your wrist, your clothing shimmered in blue tendrils of magics, transforming it into the suit you knew like it was a second skin. Reinforced black and blue fabric that trailed high up your neck and down to your wrists, down your waist and finally tucked into the black boots that sat directly below your knees. That shimmering silver “A” still sat on your belt, something you were never able to part with.
Johnny let out a low whistle, teeth biting into his bottom lip as his eyes scanned you up and down over and over again.
“Hot damn…remember that comment I made about being turned on? Yeah, yeah this is doing it for me,”
With yet another eye roll, something you were learning you did quite frequently around him, you waved off the magic and dissipated the suit once again. The look you shot at him was anything but impressed, even if you were trying to hold back laughter.
“Why are you like this?”
Before some other flirty comment could fall from his lips, the elevator dinged across the room, its large doors sliding open. Neither of you were expecting it to be little Franklin Richards stumbling out on his tiny, wobbly legs.
Tufts of blonde hair on his head, blue eyes wide as could be, a happy little smile overtook his face as he spotted the two of you in the kitchen. His little hands clapped together, incoherent but otherwise happy babbles falling from his lips.
“Frankie! What has your mom told you about playing with the elevator, little guy?”
Johnny was across the room in seconds, sweeping Franklin into his arm with a single swipe. The laughter of little Franklin echoed through the room as Johnny dipped him, practically holding the little guy upside down, before spinning him upright. The little boy wearing a matching grin to his uncle, the man he could practically be a twin of, continued to laugh as Johnny pulled his shirt up, blowing a raspberry directly into his stomach and muttering something about how ‘magic babies never listen to their mothers.’
The skip your heart did at the sight was enough to have the beginnings of a flush crawling up your skin. Maybe his charm didn’t work on you, not his flirty jokes, but this? Seeing the side of Johnny Storm that the media didn’t see, the part that wasn’t the persona he played up for the world, was enough to bring a soft smile to your face and to fully understand why people across the world fell for him so easily.
Willing the blush to go away, desperate to hide the evidence that you did, in fact, find this man cute, you stalked across the room until you came to stand beside the man and his laughing nephew. They both turned to look at you, looking like twins with their bright smiles and blue eyes. Another round of giggles fell from Franklin as you swiped your finger over the edge of his nose slightly, pushing past them both toward the waiting elevator.
“Well, come on then. Guess I shouldn’t be late for my first family dinner with the Fantastic Four,”
In all honesty, you needed Johnny to put Franklin down. He looked too adorable, making faces at the little boy as he pressed the button for the main living area on the elevator. Franklin just continued to clap, babbling nonsense.
“You’re good with him,” you cut through the silence after a moment, smile still soft as you watched the two of them beside you in the confined space.
Johnny glanced up, an air of sheepishness finding him as he laughed lightly, looking back at Franklin. The little boy was watching you once again.
“Yeah, well, what can I say? Always loved kids,”
Bringing your hand up between the two of you, with a single thought you let a little ball of blue magic appear along your fingertips. Franklin’s eyes widened, following the movement of the little ball of magic as you rolled it around your fingertips, dancing it around his head and back to your hand.
Your eyes flickered to Johnny after a moment. His head rested against the wall of the elevator still slowly moving its way down. His smile was soft, softer than you’d seen it look at you before this week, his eyes holding a gentle pensiveness as they watched you.
“What?” you questioned lightly. He shrugged, adjusting Franklin on his hip.
“Nothing. You’re just good with him, too,”
“Well, he’s not the first baby in my life,” you answered, the edges of your smile dropping just a fraction as you thought about her. The little girl that was only, what, 6 years old now? Brown hair and eyes just like her father’s, the wit and sass to match it. Universes away from you, a little piece of someone you used to hold so dear that you may never see again.
“Whoever you’re thinking about,” Johnny was more observant than you gave him credit for, picking up immediately on the thoughts that seemed to plague your mind, even if he didn’t know the full extent of them. His fingers lightly grazed your cheek, an action that you so wished didn’t feel so nice. Comforting, warm with the heat that burned within him, brushing a strand piece of hair back behind your ear, tucking it there. You met his gaze, burning with a quiet determination. “You’ll see them again. We’ll get you home.”
Ignoring the slight flutter behind your ribcage, you raised an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, you’re suddenly content with letting me go? I remember Ben telling me yesterday that you were planning to keep me trapped here forever,”
His laughter echoed into the living room as the doors to the elevator pushed open, allowing the three of you to step out into the room fully. Ben was hard at work in the kitchen, calling out things to their little helper robot, Herbie, who zoomed around the kitchen at his command. Reed’s arm stretched out across the room, setting the table without ever leaving the kitchen, his other arm wrapped around his wife as Sue laughed at something he said.
“Oh I’ll help get you home, but there are conditions to your departure,” Johnny shot back, walking alongside you toward the dining room. “The one non-negotiable is that you have to leave unequivocally in love with me-”
“Whoa, that’s a big word for you, Johnny-”
“You also have to leave admitting that I’m the most charming man that you’ve ever met-” he cut back in, cutting you off after you had cut him off.
“I mean, you’re definitely on your way to joining the ranks of Tony, Quill, and Joaquin-”
“You also have to leave with the last name Storm,” Johnny spun, back facing the kitchen, as he shot you a wink. “We can negotiate that one. I don’t want to rush our wedding, but I’d prefer you go back home with it. A little something to remember me by.”
Sue Storm was quick to slap Johnny on the shoulder as he dipped into the kitchen, practically tossing the laughing baby into his sister’s arms, before ducking around her to dip his hand into the pot of sauce that Ben was working to season. His rocky hand whacked Johnny on the shoulder, who pretended to crumble to the ground in pain as Ben cried out “you haven’t even washed your hands!”. Reed’s arm stretched across the room, coming between the two and pushing his brother-in-law to the other side of the kitchen without a word, trying to maintain a semblance of peace.
Sue sighed, pressing a kiss to her son’s head, before she turned to you: still standing still, frozen in place by the dining room table, watching the events before you unfold with a smile you couldn’t hide if you tried.
“Welcome to family dinners,” she told you with a laugh, Ben once again yelling at Johnny in the background as he dipped his hand into a cereal box. “Before you ask: yes, it is always this chaotic.”
The chaos was nice, it almost felt like home. A home you hadn’t known for years now. Watching them, you could almost picture them all, the family you used to have: a flash of Natasha’s red hair in your head, the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony’s quips that Sam always met back just as quick, Wanda muttering to you about how you worked with idiots.
Johnny’s eyes met yours again, a soft smile and a playful wink sent your way before he ducked out of the way of Ben’s arm again, and that was somehow enough to soothe that ache in your heart for just one night
❤︎
“I know people usually look exhausted after leaving Reed’s lab…but you were down there for two hours. I’m surprised you’re alive,”
Stalking across the room into the kitchen of the Baxter Building, you faked a laugh in Ben’s direction, dipping into the fridge for a bottle of water to nurse the headache you could feel approaching. The man let out a laugh at your actions, shaking off his oversized trench coat and tossing it over toward the dining room as he placed the multiple paper bags in his hands down on the counter.
“I am, too,” you shot back at him, hopping up onto the island counter beside him to sit. Ben just laughed at your antics, rifling through the bags on the counter from the market down the street. “He asked for more blood tests, so I consented even though I told him he’s not going to find any answers to why I have magic in my blood.”
“And did he?”
“NO!”
Ben’s laugh thundered through the room as he put some of the groceries away in the cupboards. Returning to the island counter, he dipped into a smaller, white paper bag, producing a small sleeve of paper holding a warm cookie within. The headache you felt coming on almost completely dissipated the second the sweet smell filled the air.
“Good thing I grabbed some of these, then. Eat, before you pass out from blood loss,” you didn’t argue, taking the gooey chocolate chip cookie from him with a smile and sinking your teeth in. “It’s from Maisie’s. Figured it was about time I showed you the best cookies in town, not sure how I held off for two months.”
Two months. It was a time period you tried not to dwell on. If you thought too long about how long you’d been stuck in another universe with no way back home, you were sure you’d start spiraling more than you did every night that your head hit the pillow of the guest floor. The guest floor that was slowly just becoming your floor.
If you thought about it too long, you’d remember how you were starting to forget the sound of Sam’s laugh. How this was the longest you’d gone without visiting Pepper, how Morgan was probably asking where you were. You hadn’t put flowers at Nat’s grave in so long, you could only hope her sister had gone and changed the flowers.
“Well, it’s quite good,” with a slight shake of your head, you sent Ben a strained grin, enjoying the taste of the cookie. It wasn’t a lie, it was quite possibly the best cookie you’d ever had.
Ben hummed, holding your gaze for a moment, before he smiled. It was soft, but you could see it woven in: the pity.
“Thinking about home?”
You swallowed, both the bite of the cookie you’d taken and the lump that formed in your throat.
“Yeah…always am. I hate how good you are at reading me, by the way,” Ben chuckled at your comment, returning to putting the rest of the groceries away in their designated spots. “Reed offered to invent multidimensional travel again today.”
“Did you say yes?”
“No, I turned him down like I do every time,” Ben returned as you shook your head with a wry laugh. “It sucks because I know he could do it, he’d have me home within a week. But multiverse traversal spells exist, they have for a very long time, which means they obviously don’t blow a hole in the space-time continuum. I don’t need Reed to accidentally blow a hole in the entire multiverse just to get me home.”
Ben hummed. Placing one hand on the counter, his other rocky hand laid across both of your legs, delivering the slightest of squeezes in comfort that he was able to. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and practically melted under the kindness and comfort in them.
“You’re going to go home, I promise you that. You’re homesick: it’s where you belong, it’s full of the people you love, and we’ll get you back there. But think of it like this: you’re in a different universe, how many people get to experience that? Take it in, enjoy it, learn from it, eat all the Maisie’s cookies this world has to offer. The people you love will still be waiting for you back home, no matter how long it takes to get there,”
He moved away, his hand sliding back down to his side and he returned to the groceries. But his words stuck with you, hung in the air, settled deep within you.
The quiet hung there in the room for a moment as you just watched him, placing cereal box after cereal box on a shelf near the fridge. He met your gaze again when he turned around, rocky brow raising in question as you let a sigh slip past your smiling lips.
“You remind me a lot of Steve,” Ben waited, letting you collect your thoughts, never pushing. “He always knew what to say, especially to me. That’s how it feels talking to you a lot, like I’m talking to him again. I…I miss being able to talk to him.”
“Well, you can talk to me anytime,” he motioned his hand toward the cupboards of the island counter blocked by your legs. Sliding off the countertop, you stepped to the side as he bent down to put another bag away. “Who do the others remind you of?”
You mulled the question over in your head, grabbing a bag from the counter and helping Ben place the rest of the groceries away across the kitchen.
“I think Reed has to be Bruce, simply because they’re both too smart of their own good. Sue reminds me a lot of Natasha, with the way she takes care of everyone. Nat was quiet about it, but she was always picking up after the boys. Johnny…unfortunately reminds me of Tony. He’s got his same sass, wit, charm and flirtatious nature,”
Ben waved his hand in the air, a grimace on his face.
“Please, no, I don’t want to think about there being another Johnny out there in the multiverse,” you laughed, catching the bottle he threw in your direction to slot into the fridge. “Speaking of matchstick, where’s he at? He’s usually attached to your hip, what with his whole plan of whatever he calls it-”
“Ah, you mean Johnny Storm’s Complete Guide to the 60s?”
It was the dumbest name in the world, but given that Johnny had named it, you weren’t surprised. He’d taken it upon himself to give you a complete guide to what the 60s were like, with the added footnote that the weirdly futuristic 60s they lived in was bound to be different than the 60s of your own universe. Johnny had claimed you were too ‘cooped up’ on your floor of the building, and it was time you got out and ‘lived a little’ since you were here.
Johnny’s guide to the 60s began with bowling. He’d been so excited, sliding into those custom shoes for the alleyways, that you didn’t have the heart to tell him until you were beating him by 70 points in the 8th frame that bowling was very much the same game in the 2020s.
“No, that’s unfair!” Johnny had called out, mouth dropped open as he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. The manual scoresheet in his hand was all but crumpled at this point. “You didn’t tell me bowling was still a thing!”
“To be fair, Johnny, you didn’t ask,” was the only response you could manage through your laughter, grabbing your ball once more and aligning yourself with the lane in front of you. “Bowling is very much still around, and very much the same game. I guess you just aren’t as good at it as you think you are.”
You weren’t laughing long, a spark of heat igniting along the back of your hand just as you let go of your ball. Your hand jerked immediately at the feeling, sending your ball rolling straight into the gutter. Mouth dropped open, it was your turn to point an accusatory finger in Johnny’s direction.
“Hey!”
“Leveling the playing field here, baby,” he teased, skirting by you as his fingers bumped your chin slightly, before he grabbed his own ball as his body was racked with laughter. “Now, let me show you how good I really am at this game.”
Johnny’s own laughter was short-lived. His ball made it halfway down the lane before coming to a sudden stop along the slick surface, surrounded by a hum of blue magic that flicked it off into the gutter. His betrayed face turned to face you, met with your smirk and hand held out toward the ball. You only batted your eyelashes at him.
“Hey, if you’re going to level the playing field with powers, then I am too. It’s only fair,”
“Oh, I’m going to show you fair-”
The laughter that poured out of you mixed with a shriek the second Johnny practically tackled you, throwing your body over his shoulder like it was nothing and parading you down the alley, highfiving little kids along the way as you could do nothing but laugh, smile never slipping for a second.
Go-Karting, on the other hand, was definitely a little different in the 60s. The karts themselves were much different, a lot less structurally sound at times and incapable of doing the speeds that you knew Johnny really had wanted to drive them at. He had claimed to win the race fair and square, even as you pointed out that he’d gone as far as to melt one of your tires right before you crossed the finish line.
Record stores, golfing, roller-skating, you named it and Johnny dragged you off to do it. He filled every moment with vibrant stories: the record store was one that Sue liked to take him to when they were growing up, golf was something he fell in love with after coming back from space with powers, and how roller skating was something he swore he’d never do, but the smile on your face the entire time had been well worth it.
The diner had been your favorite. Griddles & Waffles, nestled deep in the heart of Queens. A 24/7 joint that sold breakfast and breakfast only, a beloved place by locals. Johnny had been awake into the early hours of the morning that night, the only one still up, diving into a box of cereal buried in the kitchen when you screamed. The next thing you knew, he was practically diving out of the elevator onto your floor as you shakily grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, eyes wide and panicked as he informed you that he could hear you scream floors away. One look at the state you were in and he was shoving you into the hoodie he was wearing and shoving you out of the building and into his car.
“You took me to a place with waffles in the name, and you ordered pancakes?”
Johnny’s eyebrow shot up, half of the stack of pancakes in front of him practically shoved into his mouth as he pointed the fork in his hand in your direction.
“Don’t you ever diss these pancakes, you hear me? Best flat pieces of dough in the entire state of New York,”
You couldn’t help but laugh lightly under your breath as he barely got his words out through the food in his mouth. Taking another bite of your own waffle, it was easy to get lost in the decor of the diner. Bright colors, shiny metal gleaming under the lights, it looked exactly like the recreations that existed in your own universe. The simple thought of home brought your frown back in seconds, and Johnny was instantly snapping his fingers.
“No, there’s no frowning in Griddles & Waffles, you hear me?” you rolled your eyes, but that simple thought weighed heavy on you, lips still pulled into a frown. Johnny made some motion toward the waitress before he leaned into the table toward you, drawing your gaze to him and his waiting, patient, gentle eyes. “Honey, I’m surprised that scream didn’t wake anyone else up. What’s wrong?”
“It was nothing. Just a nightmare…a memory of a day I don’t like thinking about,” you tried to deflect, shoving your fork around your plate, scraping it against the ceramic. Johnny’s hand caught yours, his eyes still soft and gentle, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze until you relented. “It’s…I don’t like talking about it. I don’t get nightmares about it often anymore, but when I do, it feels like I’m there again: in that forest full of nothing but blood and dust.”
The blonde hummed, fingers gently rubbing small circles into your knuckles. His skin was warm, unusually warm from the heat that coursed through him, the feel of it on your skin bringing a sense of comfort. Then, he took his hand away, holding both his hands out like he was presenting something, that dazzling smirk of his lighting up his face.
“Have no fear, because Griddles & Waffles has the perfect cure for sadness!”
The waitress came back, sliding a single tall glass onto the table between the two of you with two straws tossed down onto the tabletop. You glanced at it: one large, over the top, classic chocolate milkshake with a large cherry resting right on top. You looked back up at him, your eyebrow raised this time.
“A milkshake? At two in the morning?”
“Have some faith in me, baby,” Johnny teased, slipping the two straws into the shake with ease. He took the cherry between his fingers, easily biting off the majority of the fruit as he twirled the stem between his teeth. Your eyes flicked down for just a second, to the stem between his lips and the hint of red juice that covered them, before your skin flushed and your eyes were back on his. “This is about to be the best milkshake you’ve ever had, and it’s going to cure every bit of sadness in your body.”
Johnny was known for exaggerating, but you indulged him anyway. With a short eyeroll you leaned in, taking a single sip from the straw pointed in your direction. Johnny waited, his smile wide and bright as his fingers tapped against the table, the sound echoing through the mostly empty diner in the middle of the night.
“...alright, it’s pretty damn good,”
His cheer echoed through the diner, the waitress shooting him an unimpressed look as his hands banged down on the table. Another round of laughter slipped past your lips as you shook your head at his antics.
“See? You have to trust me more often,” Johnny teased, leaning in to take a sip of the shake from his own straw. “These milkshakes are the cure to sadness.”
You didn’t have the guts in that moment to tell him the shake didn’t cure anything. No, you felt lighter simply from that boyish grin and the laughter that fell from Johnny Storm’s lips, something you weren’t keen to admit quite yet.
“Talking about me, baby? I leave you alone in the lab for a few hours and you miss me that much?”
As if hearing his name from floors away, Johnny Storm himself came strutting straight into the kitchen, charm rolling off him with every step he took. That smile of his was as bright as ever, eyes wide and full of mirth.
He practically skipped up to your side, tossing the box of food in your hand somewhere onto the counter. Cradling your hand in his, he brought it to his lips without another thought, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. His gaze never wavered from you the entire time.
With a roll of your eyes, though paired with a smile full of affection, you shoved him off, placing the box of food he’d just tossed away into its rightful place as you shot him a look over your shoulder.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Johnny. Contrary to what you think, you are not the only thing I’m thinking about,”
“You see, but that implies that I am one of the things you’re thinking about,” his response came easily as he made his way over to Ben, stealing one of Maisie’s cookies from the bag before he could be stopped. Ben only let out a sigh that could probably be heard from the other side of the city. “Nevermind that, though, I came here on a mission. The sun is setting and we’ve got a 40 minute drive, so get upstairs and attempt to look even cuter than you already do, if that’s possible.”
Exchanging a quick look with Ben as Johnny walked backwards out of the kitchen and back into the living room, you both looked back at the blonde moments later.
“Get ready for what?” you questioned. “To go where?”
“Long Island, sweetheart. Your guide to the 60s continues tonight,” he paused at the stairway, one hand on the railing and the other pointing across the room toward you. “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes, got it?”
You considered arguing, but the truth was, you didn’t want to. Every one of these excursions with Johnny so far had been fun, had been enough to fill that little hole in your chest for a fleeting moment, and right now you wanted that more than anything.
“Alright, ten minutes,”
He clapped, beginning to move up the stairs as he practically shouted across the room.
“Good girl. It’s a date-”
“It is not a date-” your words fell on deaf ears as he went sprinting up the stairs, yelling out a distant “It very much is a date!” from the next floor. It was impossible to ignore the heat spreading in your cheeks at his words, though.
The silence of the room only hung there for a minute before Ben’s laughter filled it, echoing off the walls. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you let out a deep breath, trying to understand the enigma that was Johnny Storm sometimes, before patting Ben on the shoulder as you moved toward the elevator.
“Well, wish me luck on whatever this next excursion is. Hopefully it doesn’t involve him almost whacking me in the head with a golf club again,”
“You’ll be just fine,” Ben called out from the kitchen, speaking through his laughter. You could clearly hear the underlying teasing tone to his words. “Have fun on your date-”
“Benjamin, don’t start with me!”
It might not have been a date, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try. There really was no reason to, though: Johnny had seen you at your worst over the last two months. Always arriving on your floor sometimes at the crack of dawn with an idea for the day, startling you before you even had a chance to wipe away the mess of tears streaking across your cheeks from yet another nightmare you’d just awoken from.
It wasn’t a date. Just because you chose the cutest pair of pants and a sweater that the closet full of 60s style clothes offered didn’t mean anything. Not a damn thing.
You hated to admit how good Johnny looked in just a simple grey sweater and some slacks. Strutting toward you through the lobby of the Baxter Building, employees already sent home for the day and leaving the lobby bathed in silence, he let out a short whistle as he came to a stop in front of you.
“You say it’s not a date, but you sure do look nice,”
“That’s because your sister filled my closet with all nice clothing,” you shot back.
Johnny hummed, eyes still scanning you up and down. Eyes finding yours again, he held out his arm to you, just as he typically did on these little excursions.
“Come on,”
Hand resting in the crook of his elbow, the cool night air sank deep into your bones as you stepped outside. Johnny’s hand was quick to find the handle to the passenger side door of his custom blue Corvette, swinging it open and taking your hand in his to help you into the leather seat, just as he always did.
The leather made a noise as you shifted, buckling yourself into place as Johnny cooly slid into the driver’s seat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other drumming along the knob of the gearshift as his foot hit the gas, sending you speeding out of the drive of the Baxter Building and onto the roads of New York.
“What’s today’s adventure?” you asked after a few moments of silence. Johnny’s grin simply brightened, his glance finding you beside him for a second before his fingers turned the knobs of the radio on, filling the call with music as he continued to cruise down the streets he knew like the back of his hand.
“That’s a surprise, sweetheart. Just enjoy the drive,”
It was easy to enjoy it. The same city you’d grown up in, yet so different at the same time. Every building looked new, the atmosphere felt lighter than New York had for you in years, everything about the city you knew so well felt different. The lights, the skyline, everything still felt like home as you crossed the East River, flying through the streets of Brooklyn and eventually Queens.
The heaviness eventually found you, though, just like it had every day for the last two months. As city lights shone off the windows of the Corvette, bathing you in its light, your mind still wandered back to memories. The first time Tony had driven you upstate to the new compound in the passenger seat of the god awful orange Audi. The quietness that came with the blip, the way the entire city fell still. The sweeter moments, like dragging your best friend from the compound late one night and sneaking into the city, sitting along the Brooklyn Bridge to admire the lights.
“Hey,” those memories came to a halt, Johnny’s hand brushing across your knee, settling there with a gentle squeeze. “You’re thinking hard over there.”
You hummed, head still resting on your hand as your elbow sat against the window of the car door. You let your eyes settle on his hand, just watching the way his thumb drew circles into the side of your knee.
“Reminiscing on my New York, that’s all,”
“Ah, getting homesick,” the sight of Johnny nodding was just barely visible out of the side of your eyes, His hand slid from you, joining his other hand on the wheel. “You’ll go home, back to your futuristic universe eventually, I know it. Then you can forget all about us in this little universe.”
The radio was blaring a Frank Sinatra song, something much too slow for the night time around you. The song crackled through the speakers as you glanced over, observing the side of Johnny’s face. For a man that hid behind such an extravagant persona for the media and the fans, you could see right through it. That hint of sadness in his own features, woven into the creases of his eyes and the lines around his lips, at the thought of you leaving.
I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard.
“I think you’re underestimating how much I will miss you guys when I go home,” you told him simply, the music playing lightly through the speakers. It really was that simple, it was the truth. “I’ll miss you guys a lot. I’ll miss you.”
Johnny’s hand seemed to tighten along the steering wheel for just a second, so quick you almost missed it. Those blue eyes glanced over at you, catching your gaze. His features were riddled with something you couldn’t understand, but could see how gentle it was, until his charming smile was back, wiping away any trace of the strange emotion you had seen.
“Careful there, little witch. It’s starting to sound like you’re falling unequivocally in love with me-”
His laughter filled the car, overtaking the sound from the radio as your hand reached out and shoved his shoulder, your own laughter mixing in with his own.
“You’re fucking impossible, Johnny Storm,”
Of everywhere that you could’ve thought Johnny would be dragging you to, a drive-in theater was the last place you would’ve imagined.
The entire stretch of lawn buried deep within the heart of Long Island was packed with cars of all different kinds, vintage ones you had never seen in person. There was a group of teenagers crowded around one of the cars, hugging their friends and talking animatedly between each other. Some couples walked through the lines of vehicles, giggling together under their breath as they carried their food from the little stand off to the side.
Johnny pulled the car to a stop in one of the last remaining spots, side windows immediately rolling down to allow the sound from the mounted speakers to infiltrate the car. Night had set in, an announcement projected onto the large screen that the movie would begin soon, as you turned to find Johnny already watching you with a wide grin.
“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve been to drive-in theaters too?”
“They’re still a thing, but I’ve never been,” was the response you gave, a small laugh falling from your lips as he excitedly punched the air. “I have always wanted to go to one, though”
“Then your wish, princess,” in his usual dramatic fashion, Johnny stole your hand in his. With a kiss placed to your knuckles, he was already halfway out of the car before you could truly process the moment. “Is my command. Be right back with the snacks.”
You watched him the entire time he was gone. From the moment he slipped out of the car to ordering something from the snack stand, you watched. Even as the young girl working behind the counter seemed to fangirl at the sight of the Human Torch in front of her.
His charm was stupid most of the time. Little one liners, flirtatious jokes, touches that were all but friendly in nature. You didn’t care for a single one of those moments. It had been awhile, but you’d seen Tony use the same tricks. In the briefest of time you had known Peter Quill even he had tried it. Those moments meant nothing to you, but these did.
Bringing you breakfast in the morning just so you didn’t have to be alone. Dragging you around the city to participate in a thousand activities on the off chance that you hadn’t done them before, once again so that you wouldn’t feel alone and left with your thoughts. Hearing a single scream from you, seeing a single tear, and dragging you through New York in the middle of the night just to see you smile again. Those moments worked on you–meant something to you–more than you wanted them to.
The moment he was swarmed by a bunch of little kids trying to leave the snack stand didn’t help the turmoil you felt inside either. Johnny didn’t complain, not once, simply balanced the food in one arm so he could lean down and high five one of the girls, ruffling the hair of another little boy standing right next to her. He smiled wide, you could see the shake of his chest as he threw his head back in laughter, igniting his hand quickly as the kids all clapped and gasped in awe at the sight of their own personal superhero. There was a news reporter nearby, calling out for a photo that Johnny happily posed for with the kids, leaving them with one last story that had them all looking up at him in awe and adoration.
You hated the stutter that occurred in your heart. You weren’t dumb–you knew what it meant. Johnny Storm was charming, handsome, a literal superhero that had captured the hearts of the entire world. He, also, was the most down to earth man you had ever met sometimes, more observant than you gave him credit for, and too sweet for his own good.
If you thought hard enough, you could almost hear Wong’s voice in your head, scolding you for slowly falling for a man from an entirely different universe. The definition of a man you could never have, never meant to be yours.
“Got swarmed by some little kids, had to make sure I showed off the flames,” Johnny’s voice broke through your thoughts as he slid back into the car, passing a bag of popcorn over the console and into your hands. Just as he did, the large screen in the lot changed, the beginnings of the movie beginning to play as some of those teenagers from earlier began to clap and holler. “Just in time.”
Shaking those thoughts from your head, trying to will them away, you brought your gaze back to the screen. The opening shots of the credits, directors names and actors names plastered across the screen as it dove into the first scene without hesitation, situated on some mountain with hoards of people who were dressed for an even more vastly different time period than now.
“Spartacus?” a questioning glance was thrown Johnny’s way from you as you took a quick bite of your popcorn. “An action/adventure movie was your choice for a drive-in movie date?”
“Hey, you’re the one who said this wasn’t a date,” Johnny retorted, meeting your glance as he took in another handful of popcorn himself with a cheeky grin. “Besides, I didn’t peg you to be a romance movie kind of girl.”
“On some occasions I can be,” you gave back with a shrug. “A good action movie is definitely more my speed, though, so good choice.”
“What can I say, I know you,”
He did. He really did.
It was barely an hour into this three hour movie when your mind finally began to drift off again. Legs curled up on the seat under you, your own popcorn bag finished off and discarded at your feet as you reached over to steal from Johnny’s own bag, you found your thoughts leaving the movie once more. But instead of thinking about home, about the people you lost or the ones waiting for you to come back, you found them on Johnny once again.
Watching the side of his face quietly, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him mouth some of the words to the movie under his breath, almost mimicking the accents of the actors themselves. It was enough to elicit a small giggle from your lips, bringing his gaze from the movie over to you instead.
“Are you quoting this movie word for word?”
“Hey, don’t knock it. I happen to really like this movie,” your giggles persisted, even as Johnny reached into his bag and tossed a handful of popcorn in your direction. “You should see Ben watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he could probably act that entire movie out for you. Don’t tell him I told you that.”
“You’re both such dorks,”
“Come on, don’t you have a movie you can quote?”
You hummed, letting the question sit with you for a moment, memories rushing back over you.
“Not a movie, but a show. Full House,” Johnny’s gaze never left you, the movie long abandoned in his eyes for a moment. An idea sprang to mind, your head tilting ever so slightly as you shot him a grin. “Want to see it?”
Excitement crawled into Johnny’s eyes immediately, his head nodding as he sat up straighter in the driver’s side seat.
You took a deep breath. Holding up your hand to the door beside you, that familiar blue magic seeped from your fingertips as that same color glowed in the irises of your eyes, crawling along the interior of the car until it reached the windshield. Your eyes were watching Johnny once again, the absolute wonder in his eyes as his windshield shimmered in blue, before the screen through the windshield changed before your very eyes: gone were Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier, replaced instead by John Stamos and Bob Saget in that iconic kitchen of their San Francisco home.
With another flick of your hand, the speaker at your car switched, playing the sound of the show you were now broadcasting instead of the movie.
“Don’t worry, no one else can see or hear this. Just us,”
Johnny was barely paying attention to what you said, too busy dipping his head in and out of the window in shock and awe, the screen beyond the windshield still playing Spartacus while within the confines of the car your tv show was playing.
“You…I don’t know how you do it, but you somehow get hotter every time you use your magic,”
Laughing, you reached into his popcorn bag and threw an unpopped kernel at the side of his head. Resting back into your seat, arms wound around your knees, you found yourself lost in the scene before you on the screen.
“This was one of Wanda’s favorite shows,” after a minute of silence, engrossed in the scene, you told him. You could feel Johnny’s eyes watching you instead of the show. “She always liked older shows, like Bewitched or I Love Lucy. We used to watch this one all the time in the compound, whenever Steve didn’t have us training constantly.”
Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched you.
“She was your best friend, wasn’t she? I don’t think you’ve ever said her name,”
“That’s because it’s hard to talk about her,” finding his gaze again, the gentle comfort shining in his gaze washed over you, as if draping you in a blanket. Swallowing the lump in your throat that always formed when you thought too hard about her, you offered him the smallest smile you could muster. “Just a few weeks before I wound up in your universe, I lost her. She lost herself to dark magic, let it consume her, so like the brave woman she was, she chose to protect the world from herself.”
Your words hung in the air, neither of you speaking for a moment. The scene from the show continued to play out before you swiped your hand through the air, dissipating the magic and letting the picture and sound of the movie return to the screen and the little speaker. It hurt too much to relive those moments.
“Hey, do you think by showing me a show that hasn’t come out yet in my universe, this will mess up, like, space and time? Like, what if I go pitch this show to Hollywood real quick and get it made a whole decade before it’s supposed to get made?”
The car got quiet, the only sound being the audio from the movie still playing through the speakers. Raising an eyebrow, entire face contorted in confusion, soft laughter sputtered out of your lips at the simple comment.
“I…what? Johnny that…” his smile grew, as did your laughter as you struggled to get your words out. “Johnny, that doesn’t make any sense?”
“I’m aware,” his hand reached out, thumb and index finger pinching your chin between the soft pads of his fingers. Your breath caught, laughter dying down as you just stared at him, as he drew small circles into your skin, heat blooming under his touch. “You were getting sad. I just don’t like seeing you sad.”
Johnny’s words were so sincere. Not a hint of his usual charm, not a single signature Storm smirk in sight, just genuine affection. Genuine care for you, for your thoughts, for the way your memories made you feel.
The idea of never going home again hurt, but the idea of leaving the Fantastic Four? Of never seeing Johnny Storm again? That was starting to hurt even more.
Even as his blue Corvette was parked in front of the Baxter Building again late that night, headlights flickering off and plunging the car into darkness except for the street lights around the building, your eyes kept flickering back to him.
Driving through Queens, you no longer thought back on the memories of walking through the city one night with Steve when you were younger. Now, you thought about the diner, about the smile on Johnny’s face as he watched you try that milkshake in the dead of night. As you crossed over the bridge into the city, you didn’t think of the nights you and Wanda would sit on the edge and watch the city lights, you instead watched the way the lights danced over Johnny’s skin through the glass.
The elevator of the Baxter Building popped open on the floor of the main living room. The building was quiet, just a lamp in the corner by the staircase to the bedrooms lit up, everyone else fast asleep.
Johnny stepped out of the elevator, pausing just barely still in the doorway. One arm leaning on doors, keeping them open, you both just stood still and watched one another for a moment.
“For a not date, this very much felt like a date,” you threw at him after a moment. Those blue eyes of his lit up, smile lines etching themselves into his skin as his little grin grew immediately.
“Oh sweetheart, this definitely wasn’t a date. Our first date would be a lot different, trust me,”
You hummed, taking a step forward in the elevator, eyes never leaving his. There was barely space left between the two of you now. Johnny's sharp intake of breath was evident, the smile on your lips growing as you ignored every little voice in your head telling you this was a terrible idea.
“What would our first date be like?”
Surprise crawled into his expression. Eyes wide and bright, the smile on his face warped into something you couldn’t quite place. The hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks crawled forward, gingerly placing itself against your waist. Not pulling you closer, just lying there: steady, grounding, present. You didn’t push him away.
“The Regent,” he spoke softly but certainly, eyes never straying from yours. “Exclusive little dance hall just a few blocks away. Live band every night. You’d look just as beautiful as you always do, and I’d get to spend the entire night spinning you around in circles. Making you smile, watching you laugh, holding you close. That would be our first date.”
You hummed, stepping just a hair closer to him. His fingers flexed along your waist, squeezing ever so slightly, as one of your hands came to rest on his chest, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,”
“Every night since the moment I realized you weren’t a threat that was coming to destroy my entire world…again,”
“I don’t know,” you teased, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. “According to Sue, you’re kind of into that thing. I could always coat myself in some shiny silver paint if that does it for you.”
He huffed out a puff of air in laughter, tugging you in until you were pressed to his chest in the doorway of the elevator.
“No, you just have to be you. The pretty little witch that could cut off my oxygen supply with a flick of her wrist is all I need. All I want,”
Your eyes trailed down, along the bridge of his nose, until they settled on the pink of his lips. As you spoke, you never looked away from them.
“When would this date be?”
“Tomorrow night, 8 on the dot,”
“That’s so soon, eager?”
“Extremely, I’ve only been thinking about this for two months,”
Your laughter was soft as your eyes finally trailed back to his, only to find them settled on your lips in turn.
“It’s a date, then,”
His blue eyes found yours, shining with an affection that made your knees week. The hand gripping your waist trailed up, fingers dancing along every curve of your body, until it curled around your cheek to cup it within his hand. The heat of his skin bloomed through yours, sending a single shiver down your spine.
“You know,” his voice was low, eyes blown slightly wider than they had been before, as his eyes quickly darted back down to your lips for a moment. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”
Even with the flutter of butterflies through your chest, head feeling lighter than it ever had before, your lips curled into a wide grin. Eyes glowing blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic left the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.
Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact.
“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”
Even with the amount of bravado laced into your words as the elevator doors swung shut, cutting you off from Johnny’s captivating gaze, nothing could quell the swell of emotion building behind your chest at the simple thought of the blonde man who’d managed to capture your heart without even really trying.
❤︎
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you want to go on a date with matchstick. I mean, he’s my buddy, he's a great kid, but come on. There’s no one waiting for you back in your universe?”
Ben’s comment earned him another affectionate eyeroll from you, along with a deadpan look shot across the kitchen island counter.
He was deep into making a fresh batch of cookies that he had been given the recipe for, the little old woman he’d met claiming they could match the quality of Maisie’s cookies. Reed was skeptical of the recipe, trying to offer advice from further down the counter, but Ben waved him off every single time.
Little Franklin was sitting in his highchair at the counter between you and Sue, babbling incoherently as he played with the little pieces of cereal laid on the counter in front of him. You were simply flicking the little pieces around with little tendrils of blue magic, Sue laughing every single time Franklin tried to catch a piece and you yanked it away.
“No, Ben, there’s no one waiting for me back home,” was the answer you gave the man, never looking up once as you continued to toy with the food on the counter. “Being a superhero for most of your life kind of makes dating an impossible situation.”
“I, for one, fully support this,” Sue chimed in, rising from her chair to refill Franklin’s bottle on the counter. She passed behind you, reaching out to help smooth down the white long sleeve blouse along your shoulders, forcing you to adjust it along your waist where it was tucked into the navy blue slacks she had helped you pick out earlier on. “This is the first time I’ve seen Johnny so head over heels for a woman in a way that might just stick. He worships the ground that you walk on, I love to see it.”
“It helps that you could kill him if you really wanted to,” Ben threw in for good measure, ducking the slap that Sue tried to land on his shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’s a secret kink of his-”
“Okay, I don’t want to hear about what kinks my little brother may or may not have,”
You laughed at the antics you had grown so used to from the group in front of you. Franklin got upset with the constant moving of his little cereal bits, grabbing a handful and tossing them toward you. Wide eyed at his antics, you grabbed onto his tiny hand, blowing a raspberry into the palm of his hand as his shrieks and giggles sounded throughout the room.
“Reed, I’m surprised you don’t have any comments to add in,” you threw in the super genius’ direction. “Nothing about how we’re from two different universes, or how this could blow up the entire multiverse?”
“I’ve been taking notes regarding it, actually,” Ben’s groan sounded through the room the second Reed said it, pulling a notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “Your genetic makeup, based on previous tests, seemed to align with ours, but that doesn’t mean that fundamentally there isn’t something woven into your DNA that doesn’t match with ours. There’s also the idea that, given you’re from two different universes, you were never supposed to meet, so if you managed to fall in love there could be an unforeseen breakdown of the fabric of the-”
Sue’s hand immediately clamped over her husband’s mouth, giving him an unimpressed look, as she shot you the brightest smile she could manage. She slid the now refilled cup for Franklin across the counter to you as you caught it, laughing under your breath at the entire situation as you handed it over to the little boy beside you who made grabby hands in its direction.
“What Reed means to say is that you’re good for him, and honestly, we haven’t seen you as happy as you’ve been the last few weeks since you started spending more time with him. Since you got here he hasn’t done a single PR nightmare worthy thing. I think Lynne might want to get you the keys to the city for it,”
“What are we getting my girl keys to the city for?”
Maybe his charm never worked on you, his endless flirtatious moves and jokes. But in this moment, as he descended the stairs into the living room and your heart stuttered over several beats, you finally understood the hoards of women across the universe that had Johnny Storm plastered across their walls and their hearts.
The navy blue button up he adorned clung to him, almost slightly too tight on him as the fabric pulled in the creases under his arms and by his waist. It was tucked into a pair of white chino pants, accented with navy blue dress shoes. His smile was bright, cheeky as it always was, his hands clasped together behind his back as he made his way across the living room.
Taking a semi-shaky stand on the strappy heels that Sue had helped you into before, you met him halfway across the room, a hush having fallen over the kitchen as you felt their eyes watching every movement both of you made.
Johnny’s eyes trailed up and down your body the second you came to a stop in front of him, taking in the navy blue of your pants and the white of your blouse, before he cheekily shot you a wink.
“Twinning on the first date? What’s the slang they use in your time for that? Couple goals, wasn't it?”
“Couple?” your eyebrow shot up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Storm. You have to earn that.”
“Oh, I’ll earn it,” his hands finally unclasped from behind his back, thrusting out toward you. “For you, gorgeous.”
A beautiful bouquet of flowers: Plumeria flowers. Glittering in an ombre of pinks and oranges, taking you back to one of those first nights on that couch just a few floors away.
You took the bouquet in your hands, eyes never leaving Johnny’s as you inhaled the sweet scent that wafted from the petals. The adoration that shone in his blue eyes sent your heart into another flutter.
“My favorite,” you responded.
“What, did you think I’d forget?”
“Kind of,”
“Give me a little more credit, darling,” he lifted one of your hands from the bouquet, cradling it in his as he left a kiss along your knuckles. “When it comes to you, I don’t think I could forget even if I tried.”
“Can you two leave for your date and go flirt elsewhere? My god, this is painful to watch,”
Sue laughed at Ben’s comment, and you joined in. Johnny shot the man a look, flipping him the bird that you were sure was being shot right back at him from behind your back.
Sue saddled up to your side seconds later, plucking the bouquet from your hands with a soft smile.
“I’ll put these in water for you and leave them upstairs,” she shot her eyes to Johnny, narrowing them. “Treat her well or I will cover for her when she drags your lifeless body back later tonight.”
Too busy laughing, you never even noticed Johnny’s eye roll toward his sister. The only thing you could comprehend as he pulled you into the awaiting elevator was the feeling of his fingers slipping into the empty spaces between yours, intertwining your hand with his.
It felt right. Too right for two people who should have never met one another.
The Regent was situated just a few blocks away from the Baxter Building, the perfect distance to walk straight there. You weren’t complaining, not with the way Johnny gripped your hand like he was afraid you’d pull it away, every so often tugging it gently so that your body fell into his, arm brushing against his arm.
“We fought with Moleman–well, I guess he prefers to be called Harvey–right here,” he pointed out just a few blocks from the Baxter Building, gesturing toward the blocked off area right beside a small park. There were fences up around what looked like a giant hole in the ground with just the very top of a building sticking out of it, signs indicating ‘keep out’ to everyone that walked past. “He runs Subterranea, the whole civilization under New York.”
“There’s an entire city under this city?” you questioned, looking up at him in alarm.
“Oh yeah, you guys don’t have that?” he quirked an eyebrow toward you as you shook your head in response. “He stole the entire Pan Am building, sinking it down into the ground before we could stop him. Been years and they’re still working on what to do with it.”
You took a single glance around: 45th Street and Park Avenue. The familiar intersection made you smile, one that Johnny seemed to understand all too well. Taking a quick glance around to ensure that there weren’t too many people watching, you slipped your hand from Johnny’s in order to tilt his head to look at where the building used to stand. With a single wave of your fingertips toward his temples, blue seeping into his eyes, you could see the moment they widened at the sight you were projecting to him.
“In my world, this was the site of the Avengers tower,” you could see the glamour you were showing him, but you knew it like the back of your hand. The tower that hung high above the skyline of the city, the shining ‘A’ that matched the one hanging from the belt of your suit. “It was Stark Tower, until Tony decided to fashion it into a base of operations for the team after the battle of New York.”
The vision faded, the traces of your magic leaving Johnny’s eyes, as they turned back to look at you. His hand found yours again without hesitation, fingers tangling with yours again as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him.
“How do you possibly get cooler and more interesting with every passing thing you tell me and show me? It’s not fair,”
Johnny filled every second of the walk with story after story. A diner on the corner that he’d rescued a little girl from during another fight in the city, and the way she’d hid behind her father shyly the second he’d dropped her back down on the ground. Another diner just a block away that he’d dragged Reed to after he’d locked himself in his lab for upwards of 48 hours, not having eaten a single thing to the point where Sue was concerned he’d just pass out on the floor in front of his chalkboard. The bakery that sat underneath a row of apartments that Johnny was convinced had the best pie in the world, but Ben still argued there wasn’t a single bakery in the world that could compare to Maisie’s over on Yancy Street.
Before you knew it, you were standing before The Regent. Elegant, sign shimmering and lighting up the darkened sidewalk before it. One single man stood at the door, surveying the area. With one look to Johnny, he nodded his head toward the door to grant him access.
Stepping into that room felt like entering an entirely new world. Light wooden floors that matched the light wood of the walls, which were decorated themselves with photographs upon photographs of couples and celebrities dancing and performing on the stage. The stage itself was beautiful, shining bright at the end of the room as the lights illuminated the band that was currently engrossed in some Elvis song that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The walls were all draped with velvety red curtains from the ceiling to the floor, accenting the dimly lit room, dance floor, stage and bar in color. Couples, friends, groups all mingled about, dining at the tables elevated at the back of the room, mingling along the walls, and dancing together in front of the stage.
“Of everything you’ve dragged me to these last few months,” you spoke up, voice rising to be heard over the music as the band switched songs, playing a cover of River Deep - Mountain High now. “This is the most 60s feeling thing yet.”
“And that, sweetheart, is why I saved it for a proper date,” Johnny appeared in front of you, your hand still clasped in his, as he tugged you forward. “Come on!”
Your laughter rang through the room as Johnny pulled you into the throws of people, finding an open spot among the crowd on the floor.
He spun you, that smile never dropping from his lips as you twirled in circles. Each twirl left you dizzy as the song played on in the background, the groups of people around you clapping along to the beat from the band. It was inevitable that you’d eventually stumble in the heels you weren’t accustomed to. Johnny’s arm was there, like you somehow knew it would be, curling around your waist. He dipped you, cheekily pretending as if it was all meant to happen, before spinning you back up onto your heels and pulling you into his chest.
“Come on, I can’t have you tripping and falling for me just yet,” he teased, hands holding yours as he spun you out once again just to pull you right back in.
“You try dancing in heels!” you shot back at him, earning a bright laugh from the man still dancing you around in circles. “We never danced like this at Tony’s parties.”
“I thought you said he threw a lot of those,”
“Yeah, but they were more stand around, drink, and talk parties than dancing,” you took a single glance around the room, at every woman being danced around by their friends and their partners. Swishing skirts, some almost touching the floor, loosely hanging from their bodies. “Not that the dresses I was forced to wear would've allowed for dancing. Too tight fitting–the one had a slit almost the entire way up my thigh.”
Johnny’s hand tugged you in at that moment, your chest flush against his. His lips skimmed over the edge of your ear, voice husky as he whispered into it just loudly enough for you to hear.
“I need you to not give me a mental image of your 21st century clothing while we’re in public, honey,”
A laugh bubbled from your throat as you pulled back to see him fully. The ways his eyes had darkened just slightly, the blue of his eyes almost completely overtaken, had your stomach doing a flip. But it wasn’t enough to stop the slightly sadistic smile that overtook your lips.
“Why? It’s so much fun, seeing you all worked up,” you let your fingers touch his jaw gently, nails dragging down the expanse of his neck and to the small bit of skin just barely visible along his collarbone, before you pushed away from him. “Come on, let’s get drinks!”
You could just barely hear his groan of “You’re going to be the death of me,” behind you as he followed you diligently through the crowd, his hand finding the small of your back within seconds so that you were never quite far from him.
Seated on one of the barstools, sipping gingerly at the drink Johnny had procured for you, it was impossible not to watch Johnny.
The way he animatedly retold a story about how they’d been invited to a fundraiser years ago in a dance hall, how he’d talked Ben into getting up onto the stage to dance. The way he so enthusiastically greeted those around the bar that did recognize him, as they slid in little comments about if you were the “mystery woman” that the papers had begun to pick up on over the last two months. He deflected them with ease, remembering many of those that said hello to him, asking such personal things about their families, their jobs, as if they were his best friends.
Your laughter spilled into your drink as the band played their own version of The Twist, and Johnny chose to demonstrate his moves directly in front of you. He smiled wide, eyes never leaving you, as he mouthed the words in your direction, following along with the dance every other person in the club was doing along with him.
“Johnny Storm: a superhero, an avid golfer, a lover of space, and now we can add dancer to that extensive list,” you teased, taking the final sip of your drink before leaving the empty glass on the counter behind you. “Do you frequent these dance halls a lot?”
“When I was a teenager I found my way here pretty often,” he answered easily as the song came to an end, the room cheering out and erupting in applause for the band. With one arm, he leaned against the counter beside you, looking up at you. “I wouldn't call myself a dancer, though. Just had enough practice to be semi-decent.”
“Practice, huh?” you questioned, just as the band started back up again. “How many girls have you taken dancing before?”
The band kicked back up, their next song already ready to go. You recognized it immediately: that same Frank Sinatra song that had played in the car through Long Island barely 24 hours prior. Johnny only smiled softly, standing out in front of you with his hand outstretched toward you.
“None. Promised myself that only one woman would ever have the pleasure of seeing me dance. Now, will you do me the honor?”
It wasn’t a line, not one of his usually charming, flirtatious lines. Not the way in which he said it: so genuinely, so vulnerably. You slipped your hand into his without a second thought.
Johnny guided you back out onto the dance floor, finding another open space among the couples around with ease. His arm slid around your waist, resting there as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it really did feel so right, in a way you had never felt before.
His hand pressed firmly into your lower back, holding your body close to his. You could feel that unnatural heat that radiated off of his skin through the layers of clothing that adorned your body. One of your arms found its place around his shoulder, hand curled around the back of his neck and tangling just slightly with the hairs that laid there. Your other hand was clasped in his, taking in every bit of warmth that seeped from his palm into yours.
I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked him quietly, nose just barely brushing along the edge of his jawline as you danced together, swayed back and forth across the floor with him.
“Anything,”
“You didn’t have to trust me that day in the park. You could’ve assumed I was a threat, taken me out. Instead, you took me in,” you closed your eyes, leaning in just slightly as your nose brushed over his jawline once again. “Then, you took it upon yourself to make me feel comfortable, to not let me feel alone in a universe that isn’t mine…why?”
“I mean, from the moment I saw you I thought you were pretty, but it was because I felt like I was looking at me,” Johnny’s answer was simple. No charm, no jokes, just the truth. “I saw myself for a moment, the me I was when we came home from space with powers. Confused, angry, terrified of what I had become. I didn’t know what to do. You looked so lost, so alone, and you continued to look that way every day. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to feel alone. I didn’t want you to feel like I did when I came home that day, when I felt like I had to lock myself away. It didn’t help that…I kind of fell for you along the way.”
Any hesitation in your heart, any thought in your brain still telling you that this was a terrible idea, that it could never work, melted away in that single second.
My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.
“Can I ask you something?” he tacked on as your brain and heart still searched for a way to respond to him. All you could give him was a nod, one he could feel from where your skin touched his. “I’ve been flirting with you every day since we met. What made you finally say yes to a date?”
“Because I wasn’t saying yes to Jonathan Storm, the Human Torch, one of the four protectors of this Earth,” you told him simply, leaning back just slightly so that you could catch his gaze as you spoke, bodies still swaying back and forth to the swell of the violin. “I was saying yes to Johnny. The flame boy who decided to trust me. The guy that does the dumbest shit just to make his nephew laugh. The only one who’s made the pain of what I’ve lost lessen these last few months. I didn’t fall for all the bravado, or the charming lines, I just fell for him.”
Your confession was laid bare, as was his. He didn’t say a single word. Johnny simply smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, before letting his eyes close and his forehead rest against yours. You followed suit, mirroring him, simply existing in the space within his arms.
My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.
What felt like hours later, while also feeling like no time had passed at all, you found your hand clasped in Johnny’s once more. Roaming the streets of New York in the cool air of the night, a giddiness present in each of you that could only be compared to the feeling of pure childlike wonder and joy.
All you could think about was how right it felt, being with him. Having his hand in yours. Being in his arms. Universes separated you, but in this moment, you felt as if you had never belonged somewhere more than you did right now.
“Okay, okay,” Johnny forced out through his laughter, leaning into you as you turned another street corner, trying to find the next question to ask in the long line of questions you had been throwing back and forth. “Favorite fight that you had with the Avengers?”
“Oh god, I don’t know if I can answer that,” you responded easily with a laugh, shaking your head at the thought. “None of them were really fun, they all kind of left immense damage in their wake. One ended with me locked in a high security prison in the middle of the ocean for a short period of time, so, I guess that was fun.”
“That…that sounds like the opposite of fun,”
“Oh, it was. It sucked immensely,” he shoved his shoulder into yours for the comment. “Okay, my turn. Favorite memory with Reed?”
“When he asked me permission to marry Sue. I thought he was going to piss himself, I’ve never seen the man look so nervous,” Johnny laughed, tugging on your hand to bring you in closer to his side again. “Okay, how about your favorite thing you can do with your magic?”
Now that was a show instead of a tell question. Dropping his hand, you slid into the space in front of Johnny on the side walk, shuffling backwards against the pavement. He cocked an eyebrow as you shot him a tiny grin, before your hands at your sides began to glow in that familiar blue as your body lifted off of the grow by just a few feet, uncaring for anyone that could possibly see you in the area.
Johnny stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as his wide eyes looked up at you. He sputtered for a moment, trying to find his words.
“Wait–you could fly this entire time, and you didn’t tell me?”
“You never asked!”
Johnny’s body ignited in flames, a sight you’d sparingly seen over your time in their world. From the chest down, every bit of him burned in those bright orange and red licks of fire as he, too, flew above the ground before you, back to being level with you once more.
“We could’ve been flying everywhere instead of driving!”
“Well, let’s just have some fun with it now,” you shot back with a wink, before propelling yourself upward. “Keep up, flame boy!”
The chill in the New York breeze was a familiar feeling, beating against your face as you propelled yourself up into the air, flying along the edge of the buildings. Johnny followed along right beside you, the heat of his flames fanning out over you and cancelling out the chill that night air brought with it.
His eyes never left yours as you spun around a corner of the building, propelling yourself further up into the air. You looked down, watching him with a smile as you hung there high above the buildings and the city of New York. Johnny joined you in seconds, hovering just in front of you. The clouds practically kissed your body, the city so far down below you both, leaving you alone together among the clouds.
You could see it, the glint in his eyes, the way they flickered down to your lips for just a second before glancing back up, pretending as if they’d never strayed away. He leaned in, and you let him for just a moment, before letting your body fall backward and freefall through the air back toward the city.
His laughter echoed through the sky as he flew down after you, following the sound of your own laughter. He saddled up to your side, flying down alongside you once again before you took a sudden turn, propelling yourself toward the rooftop of a building just barely in the distance.
Your feet touched down on the private rooftop moments later, magic dissipating from your fingertips as you landed, taking in a deep breath as the rush of flying left your body in one fell swoop. The rooftop garden you’d landed in was clearly one for a private residence, somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, but you didn’t care. Not with the smell of the flowers invading your senses, the glint of the dim fairy lights strung around the roof bathing you in their light, and the view of the Baxter Building dead ahead.
Johnny’s feet touched the ground just moments after you, the sound of his shoes hitting the flooring alerting you. Spinning, he was standing just a few feet away, watching you with a little smile as he shook his head with laughter.
“You might be insane,”
“Sorry,” your giggles fell into the mix with his own laughter. “It’s been a minute since I’ve flown. I’ve missed it.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever flown with someone on a first date,” Johnny countered, taking just a few steps forward toward you. “Unless you count Shalla-Bal throwing me off her surfboard in space, but that wasn’t really a date.”
“Guess this was a first for both of us, then,”
You matched his steps, barely a few feet between the two of you now. Johnny didn’t make another step forward, though, didn’t close the space separating you.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, his foot tapped against the ground, and his hands clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.
“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, even though you could practically see the nerves rolling off of him. He laughed, shaking his head as he glanced to the ground for just a moment, before back to you.
“I…I’m kind of nervous, if you can believe it,”
You hummed, taking the initiative to step up into his space, barely a few inches separating the two of you now. Your eyes never left him.
“Why? I thought the charming Johnny Storm had been on a bunch of first dates?” you teased.
He laughed breathily, eyes darting to your lips for just a second.
“Not ones that mattered…not like you do,”
You barely let him finish his sentence before you curled your hands around the back of his neck, tugging him down to you and slotting your lips against his.
It was short, but poured every bit of passion into it that swarmed through your heart and your head. Your lips moved against his just slightly, still testing the waters as the heat that coursed through his skin and into yours felt as if it was sinking straight down into your bones. Johnny’s lips were soft, supple, a shaky breath leaving his lips and fanning out over yours the second that they touched for the first time. Something in your head clicked at the feeling, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, making you light-headed as your fingers just barely curled into the hair kissing the nape of his neck.
It was you that pulled away first. Barely a few inches away, the heat of his body still filling the air between you. His blue eyes bore down into your, wide and full of awe, lips slightly parted. A smile stretched across his face first, a matching once crawling across your own as you let your hands fully dive into his hair.
Johnny moved first, hands enveloping your waist and tugging you until your body was almost one with his, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that had your knees almost crumbling to the ground.
Those heated hands swarmed your body desperate to touch every single expanse of you that they could in the way you were sure he’d thought about, in the way you never wanted to admit you sometimes dreamed about. Goosebumps crawled across your skin with every move of his hands, with every flex of his fingers and they pressed into you. His lips moved against yours like a starved man, slick with spit as your mouth opened to him, letting him invade every bit of you that you could, his tongue slipping just barely in and grazing over your bottom lip. A moan fell–from you or Johnny, neither of you knew–but the sound only spurred you both on.
His hands tightened their grip around your waist, holding him to you like a possession, one he couldn’t bear to lose. Claiming you. Your hand wound into his hair, tugging to elicit a groan from him, as you let your other trail down to rest over the patch of skin just barely visible under the single unbuttoned part of his shirt.
When your lips finally broke, soft pants filling the air between you, neither of you dared to look away. You couldn’t. It was like being in a trance, being pulled to the man in front of you almost magnetically. He leaned in, pressing a series of soft pecks against your lips, hands still flexing across your hips with each little peck that sent the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.
“This is crazy, right?” he muttered out between kisses. You hummed in response, matching each kiss of his with your own through your grin, hands still carding through his hair.
“What, falling for each other when we come from completely different universes?”
“Exactly that,” he responded, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, before his forehead rested against yours. Those blue eyes bore down into yours, a soft smile over taking his kiss bitten lips again. “I don’t care much, though. Not when it just…feels so right.”
Your smile matched his in seconds as you leaned forward, stealing yet another kiss that flooded your body with warmth.
“Me too,”
Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so crazy: falling for someone universes away from you. Even universes away, maybe Johnny Storm was always meant to be yours, always meant to be the missing piece to your incomplete puzzle.
❤︎
Johnny Storm had been called many things over the years by the media. A playboy, a womanizer, noncommittal. They were all wrong.
He preferred the term hopeless romantic, especially when it came to you.
Especially in this exact moment, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom in the early hours of the afternoon to see you sprawled out, tangled in the covers that were halfway off his bed. You looked as if you belonged there, and in Johnny’s eyes, you did. There was nowhere else that you belonged than right by his side.
Crossing the room quietly, trying not to disturb you, he gently placed the glass of water he’d ventured into the kitchen for down on the bedside table. He got distracted, as he typically did, at the sight of the polaroids splayed out across the wooden table. Taking them gingerly in his hands, terrified to ruin them, the smile that crossed his face couldn’t be wiped away.
You wrapped in his arms along the Coney Island beach in the early hours of the morning. One of just you, sprawled out in his bed in nothing but one of his button downs that fell down to your thighs. You on the couch, Franklin curled into your lap as you read him a book. His favorite one, sneakily taken by Sue late one night, wrapped in his arms on the balcony of the Baxter Building, lips pressed together through smiles.
He loved you. Johnny loved you more than he ever believed he could love someone in life. Multiverse be damned, you were it for him. You were meant to be his and his alone, and he was hell bent on loving you to the fullest extent every single day that he could, knowing someone could come along and rip you away at any moment.
But the universe had given him a year. An entire year to love you in every way that he could, to prove to you that you were it for him. He thanked whatever being out there in the multiverse he needed to every single day for the time he’d been given with you.
Johnny crawled onto the bed, tugging the comforter down from around your shoulders so he could fully see you. His pillow was clutched between your arms, the space in which he usually occupied. His white t-shirt, bearing the 4 logo that you’d made fun of him for months ago, covered your body, falling to the middle of your bare thighs.
He leaned in with a smile, pressing kiss after kiss to the bare skin of your arms he could see, trailing down to leave heat filled kisses to the bare skin of your thighs. He’d barely left three there before he could hear your giggle, body flipping over onto your back so that you could look down on him with a raised eyebrow and a grin.
“You left me,” you teased with a fake little pout. “I had nothing to hold but a pillow.”
“I’m so sorry, princess,” Johnny mumbled through his smirk, pressing yet another kiss into your thighs. His hands traveled up the sides of your legs, pushing his t-shirt with them as his kisses trailed further up the expanse of your skin. “How could I ever make it up to you?”
“I-I don’t know…round three doesn’t sound that bad,”
Johnny hummed through his laughter, mumbling a quiet “I love you” into your skin. He knew you could hear it, though, he knew that you knew it.
He reveled in every little noise that left your lips, every puff of air that was on the cusp of being a moan as he lavished every inch of your skin in a kiss.
“Look, you’re both adults so I try not to tell you what to do, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and–JESUS CHRIST, JOHNNY!”
He’d never sprang away so fast, throwing himself so hard to the side of the bed that he fell straight off of it to the floor with a thud. Your laughter filled the room as he crawled back up the side of the bed, your hand covering your mouth to conceal your laughter and the comforter pulled back up your legs.
Johnny immediately shot a glare at his sister, standing in the doorway of his room with her eyes covered by her hand.
“Sue, you have no one to blame but yourself for this–”
“You could have closed the door! I don’t need to see you doing all of that, my god,” Sue shook her head, peaking between her fingers to finally see that there was nothing happening, before dropping her hand. “Reed wants you in the lab for a few more tests, okay, he promised those would be the last ones this week. Just…look decent and meet us down there, okay?”
She grumbled the entire way out of the room, muttering comments about scarring her for life.
Johnny only rolled his eyes, throwing himself back onto the bed to hover above you. Nothing could ruin his mood, not when you looked up at him like that, smile bright and eyes full of adoration.
“That’s the third time this month she’s done that,” you managed to speak through giggles, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “She’s going to kill us one of these days.”
Johnny only hummed, ignoring the comment. Instead, his fingers trailed down your neck, grasping the chain of the necklace that rested against your chest, a little charm of a Plumeria dangling off the end. His Christmas gift to you, one of the many you received as you were showered in them by his entire family. He pressed a kiss to the flower, looking up to you, only to see that same soft look in your eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered out, leaning in to capture your lips in his before you could speak back. He could feel you sigh into the feeling, your fingers dancing over his cheek lightly as you kissed him back just as softly.
“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his lips, before your hand rested on his chest with a little push. “But we’re going to go down to that lab because if we stay here another second, Sue is going to be walking in on a sight that she really doesn’t want to see.”
Johnny groaned, but relented. Falling back to his knees, his hands wound under the covers to your hips, pulling you up to your knees quickly on the bed. His mouth found yours in an instant, cementing another kiss there just for good measure.
“Round three after, right?”
It was your magic this time that pushed him, sending him tumbling back off the bed as your laughter rang out through the room.
“If you can behave, then maybe,”
Still clad in his t-shirt, having thrown on the old pair of ripped jeans you’d arrived in this universe in over a year ago, Johnny tucked you under his arm the second you stepped out of his bedroom, unable to go a second without touching you in any way shape or form. You never complained, even leaned into him as he pressed a kiss to your hairline.
“Lynne was able to get us reservations at that one restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for tonight, by the way,” he told you as you stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for Reed’s lab instantly. He grinned at the way your smile brightened, eyes turning to look up at him.
“Oh my god, that new one in Times Square?”
“That’s the one,” Johnny shot back. He let his arm fall from your shoulders, letting it wrap around your waist. His hand found the edge of his shirt, dipping beneath it so that his hand could press against the skin of your bare back. “Thinking maybe afterward we could go for a little fly around the city, sit down on the Brooklyn Bridge for a little while.”
Your hands cupped his cheeks almost instantly after he spoke, pulling him into a kiss. A feeling Johnny was sure he would never grow tired of, never get enough of.
“It’s a date,”
Stepping out into Reed’s lab, the entire team was gathered around. Reed was fussing over a machine, just as he normally was, with Sue trying desperately to calm him down. Ben was entertaining Franklin over on the couch, reading to him one of his favorite books.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Reed called out, ignoring the doting of Johnny’s sister as he waved you over frantically. “I just want to run a few more tests for this week. I changed some of the parameters, I just want to make sure that we have all of our bases covered.”
You gave Johnny’s hand a quick squeeze before crossing the room, sliding into the same chair you always sat in for Reed’s tests, presenting your arm for the usual blood draw. Reed was convinced that it was necessary to test your blood, to do weekly scans of your body, to ensure that there were no lasting effects on your from staying in the wrong universe for an extended period of time like you had.
Johnny joined Ben and Franklin over on the couch, leaning down to leave a little kiss on his little nephew’s forehead, one that left the boy smiling and giggling.
“Johnny,” Franklin was barely able to say his name, stumbling over most of the letters, but he heard him loud and clear. He ruffled the boy's hair with a laugh, kneeling down in front of the couch.
“Hey buddy,” Johnny glanced over at Ben, at the smirk on the man’s rocky mouth, and raised an eyebrow in question. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Love just looks good on you, kid,” Ben teased.
Johnny shot a look over his shoulder, straight toward you. Smiling in that chair, laughing at something Sue said, as Reed drew the blood from your arm with a practiced ease for his various tests.
“Nah, it’s just loving her,” Johnny glanced back at Ben, a hint of a sheepish grin on his lips as he shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it, man. She’s just…I think she’s just it.”
Ben smiled, that knowing one that he always had, as his rocky hand came down to pat Johnny’s back.
“I think so too. You deserve this, matchstick. You were practically made for each other,”
Johnny agreed. He was trying to decide mentally if one year was too soon to officially make your last name Storm like he had promised months ago.
The quiet, the lightheartedness that filled the lab, couldn’t stay forever. Not when the alarms across the room began to blare.
Every head shot up at once, turning to look down the length of the lab to the computers where the alarm was blaring. Reed shot to his feet, taking a step in front of Sue as you ripped the needle from your arm in seconds to join them.
“Johnny-”
“On it!”
He’d practically sprinted halfway down the lab at that point, pulling up the alarm system at the designated workstation. That same map that had foreshadowed your arrival blinked on the screen, the same blip that showed your arrival in Gramercy Park blinking on the screen–right on the Baxter Building.
“It’s the same readings as when she got here,” Johnny called out down the lab, eyes frantically darting back and forth between you and Reed. “The blip, though, it’s right here on the building-”
There was sound from right beside him, startling him. Johnny whipped around, little sparks of yellow and gold flashing in the air beside him.
He instantly took steps back, shuffling backward and away from the growing sparks until his legs hit the back of the couch. Ben stood somewhere behind him, holding Franklin protectively in his arms. Reed held onto Sue across the room from where Johnny stood, keeping her at his side, as you stepped up in front of them: eyes glowing, magic dancing at your finger tips.
Until those sparks of energy grew, larger and larger, until they formed the makings of a small circle. Johnny could hear the second your breath caught, that glow in your eyes fading and the magic at your fingertips vanishing in seconds as you took another step forward.
“O-Oh my god…”
The sparking circle grew, almost the size of an entire person, before it stabilized, and out of what Johnny could only assume was a portal stepped a man. Older, tired, short hair and the remnants of cuts along his face. Body draped in elegant robes of purple and yellow he’d never seen before. His eyes darted around the room, before they landed on you, and he let out the loudest sigh Johnny had ever heard.
“Oh, thank god-”
“WONG!”
You’d practically flown across the room and into the man’s arms. Wong hadn’t wasted a second, hugging you back just as tightly as you cried, holding onto the man for dear life.
Johnny froze: Wong. He’d heard that name before. You talked about him all the time. The Sorcerer Supreme, the man you were supposed to wait for before you performed the spell that had landed you here in the first place. Johnny felt his heart break at the realization. He could feel the eyes of his sister on him from across the room.
His time had finally run out. Home had finally come to take you back from him.
“When I tell you that you aren’t to touch the Book of Vishanti without me, it is not a suggestion,” Wong scolded, hands clasping your shoulders as you violently wiped your tears across the room. “I already had to deal with Stephen breaking into the restricted section years ago, I do not want a repeat of that again. Do you know how difficult it is to find your energy signature through the vast multiverse?”
“I know, I know,” you nodded your head, before shaking it back and forth. “No performing any spells from an ancient book without your supervision. I got it.”
Wong nodded once, before his eyes finally glanced over the rest of the room. They settled on Reed and Sue, Ben and Franklin, and finally on Johnny.
“Do I need to worry about-”
“No, no, they’re friends. They’re practically family,” you assured the man, turning and gesturing out to the room. “This is the Fantastic Four. They’re essentially the Avengers of their universe…”
Your words trailed off as you finally met Johnny’s eyes again. He could see it, the moment that the realization seemed to settle in over you like it already had for him, and he thought his heart was going to break all over again.
From the corner of his eyes, he could see the glance that Wong sent between both you and him. A knowing one, one that spoke volumes without having to speak at all. He sighed, the sound ringing through the otherwise quiet lab, as he squeezed your shoulder.
“Five minutes,” Wong told you gently, his gaze drifting back to Johnny for just a minute. “There’s no telling if your time here has done any damage to the time streams. We need to get you home…I can give you five minutes.”
You only nodded, tearing your eyes away from Johnny. There was no arguing.
He knew this day would come, even if selfishly he wished it never would.
His eyes never left you as you crossed the room, practically flying into Sue’s arms. Johnny felt as if his head was under water. He could see your lips moved, Sue’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word either of you said.
In his head, Johnny could guess what you were saying. A thank you for taking you in, for taking care of you, for all the times Sue had helped you dress for a date or taken you out into the city with her. He was sure Sue was thanking you for simply loving her little brother.
Reed pulled you into a tentative hug, short but still sweet. You didn’t exchange many words, but he could make out a “thank you” on his brother-in-law's lips.A thank you that simply encompassed everything, everything that he was sure Reed struggled to say.
Johnny saw your tears again when you stepped into Ben’s arms finally. A conversation that he was sure detailed the many early morning trips you’d made to Maisie’s together, or the late night talks that happened on the couch over drinks as some movie played on TV.
Franklin’s cries pierced the air, his hands making grabby motions toward you as he cried. You placed a single kiss to his head, walking away before you broke down.
Finally, you stood before him. Mascara running just slightly, tear stains littering your cheeks and down to your chin. You mustered the smallest of smiles that you could for him, albeit watery. Johnny tried to do the same, feeling the lump in his throat beginning to form.
“I thought I had three rules for you before you went home,” he managed to say, trying to swallow back the burning need to cry. You laughed, though the sound almost sounded like a sob, as you nodded your head.
“I’m leaving having accomplished two of those things. I guess that counts as a win,”
Johnny nodded, the beginnings of a sob almost bubbling out of his throat. Like two magnets pulled together, you fell into his arms. Head buried into his neck, Johnny’s one hand curled into your hair, tears slipping down his cheeks and soaking into the skin of the side of your head as your own tears soaked into his neck, your cries muffled by his skin.
“I love you,” he muttered into the side of your head, pressing kiss after kiss to your skin. “I don’t care. I love you. I love you more than anything.”
You pulled away, those red rimmed and watery eyes finding him, as you cupped his cheeks in your shaking hands.
“I love you too,” you whispered, stealing a kiss from his lips that took every bit of breath out of him. Your next words were whispered against his mouth. “This isn’t goodbye. I promise.”
Johnny managed a laugh, stealing another kiss as he gripped you as tightly as possible, hoping if he held on tight enough you wouldn’t slip away.
“What, you’re going to find a way to defy the multiverse to see me again? Abandon your home?”
“For you? Yeah,” you answer was short, meaningful, determined, definitive. Johnny believed every word. “I’ll see you again. And next time, I won’t have to leave. Because you’re my home, too.”
Johnny managed a smile, hoping it was as comforting as he wanted it to be, as he stole one last kiss. Not a goodbye, he wasn’t sure he could handle a goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could handle the idea of never seeing you again. This kiss was a promise. To what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe just a simple promise that he was yours.
“I’ll be counting the days,”
He couldn’t bear to look down at you again, afraid if he kissed you again he’d shove Wong back through that portal and find a way to hold you here forever. Johnny settled for a single kiss to your forehead, accented with the tears that were still running silently down his cheeks, before he let you go.
You slotted yourself back to Wong’s side, wiping at the tears that stained your cheeks. He placed a hand on your shoulder, and even Johnny could see how much it pained him to do this to you. He caught the slight flick of your hand, though, the slight burst of your magic, so small he wasn’t sure at first if he’d seen it correctly.
The room was silent as you and Wong stepped back through the glittering gold portal and onto the floor of the other side. Your eyes met his one last time, a watery smile crossing your lips, before it closed.
And in the blink of an eye, you were gone. Gone as if you’d never been there in the first place.
Franklin’s cries were still the only thing he could hear in the room, No one dared to speak, dared to break through the air, as Johnny’s eyes stayed locked on the last spot you had stood in.
“Johnny…”
He turned, tear filled eyes meeting with his family. The heartbroken look on Ben’s face, the conflicted look on Reed’s, and the absolute pity that shone through on Sue’s. She took a single step forward, but Johnny waved her off immediately, shaking his head as he wiped at his tears, forcing a smile.
“I-I’m fine. I just…I just need a minute,”
No one rushed after him, and he was thankful for it.
The entire elevator ride back up to his room was done in a daze, in a haze of emotions. His vision was blurry the entire time, but no more tears fell. He wasn’t sure he had more to cry.
Stepping into his room again, he felt like he could muster a few more tears. The bed was still unmade. The scent of your perfume, one you’d picked a few months ago with Sue, lingered in the air. Your clothes from the night before were strewn over a chair by his record player.
It was the only sign that you had, in fact, existed here in his universe. You weren’t a figment of his imagination.
Approaching his bed, wanting to bury himself in the lingering scent of you, his breath caught.
Lying there, on the unmade sheets, was a single flower. A single little Plumeria, remnants of blue magic dancing over and around its petals. Right below it? That same Polaroid Johnny loved so dearly.
He clutched it in his hands, willing himself to be back in the moment: holding you on the balcony that night, kissing you, telling you he loved you. As he did, your magic seeped across the bottom white edge of the photo, scrawling your handwriting across the bottom.
Unequivocally yours.
That, alone, was enough to bring a smile back to his lips.
Multiverse be damned: you were his. There was no one in this life or the next that Johnny Storm was convinced he could love more, just as there was no one that could love you the way he could.
In that moment, he knew for a fact he’d see you again. And next time, he was never letting you go.
READ PART 1: Unequivocally : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader
Pairing: Johnny Storm x Witch!Reader
Summary: You didn't mean to fall in love with Johnny Storm, nor did he with you. Two different universes, two people that should have never met to begin with...but then why did it just feel so right? Why did home suddenly feel like a person instead of a place...why did it feel like it was destined to be the two of you from the start?
Warnings: so much fluff, some angst, some adult themes mentioned, pre-established lovers torn apart by the multiverse, Johnny is a little shit sometimes, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, MCU spoilers, female reader but no characteristics described, reader is kind of depressed but so is Johnny, can we consider this a soulmate AU at this point cause we might be able to, VERY lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
Word Count: 22,620 words
A/N: I am so sorry this took so damn long for a part two, that's what happens when your mental health takes a nosedive for a hot minute because of other health related things lmao but we're all good now we're back baby
“Honey–no–that’s the gas pedal. You want the clutch-”
“What the hell is the clutch?”
“The second one in on the left, you have to press that down-”
Johnny bit into his bottom lip, trying desperately to try and conceal the laughter that was threatening to fall from his lips. In dramatic fashion, you threw your head back into the headrest of his blue Corvette. The sigh that tumbled from your lips was probably loud enough to be heard from Lower Manhattan at this point.
Gaze turning on him, stern and annoyed, Johnny could still see the notes of playfulness under it all.
“Stick shift is stupid, Johnny,”
“It’s not stupid-”
“Where I’m from, we can hit a single button to start our cars these days,” you accented your comment by pressing your finger into the space next to the steering wheel. “Hell, we can start some of them with our phones. They even drive themselves!”
The laughter Johnny tried so hard to keep at bay came tumbling out anyways, further cementing the annoyed look that crossed your face. He reached into the car, taking your hand in his, cradling it and littering soft kiss after kiss along each of your knuckles.
For just a split second, he saw that look in your eyes soften, that familiar affection he’d grown so used to creeping in along the edges. It always happened when he did this, and Johnny would take advantage of it every single time.
“This is the 60s, sweetheart, we aren’t that advanced. Unless I go tell Reed to make it happen,” you tried to drag your hand away but Johnny held tight, still kneeling on the ground in the open driver’s side door in front of you. “Also: be nice to the car. She’s my prized possession.”
“Prized possession?” you questioned, eyebrow lifting up immediately at the remark.
“Well, she’s been demoted to second place now,” Johnny’s lips turned into their usual smirk. Rising to his feet, he tugged your hand without giving you a second to think. Stumbling from the car and straight into his arms, Johnny’s wound around your waist to lock you in tightly to his body, nose just barely brushing the tip of yours. “My real prized possession has to be the little witch I managed to wrangle into loving me.”
You laughed, and Johnny could see it then like he saw so many times before: love. Written so clearly across your face, hidden in the lines of your smile and in the creases around your eyes as you laughed. A love her truly didn’t understand how he’d been blessed with, but was prepared to do whatever it took to keep it.
“I’m still trying to figure out how you managed it, too,”
Johnny just hummed, his lips finding yours with a practiced ease. A simple action that lit his skin on fire in a different way than he was very literally used to. Kissing you the moment you woke up in the morning, in front of his family until Ben complained, or in every little moment he could find, Johnny would never get tired of it. He’d simply never get tired of you.
He’d said it before, and he’d keep saying it until the end of time: you were it for him, ruined him in the best way, and he never wanted to go back to a life without you.
“It’s not good to mope, you know?”
As fast as that memory had overtaken him, invaded every single one of his thoughts, it was gone. The weight of your hand in his, the scent of your perfume, the feel of your lips pressed to his was resigned, once again, to what it was: a memory.
And suddenly, Johnny was back right where he didn’t want to be…in a life without you.
Standing by the window of his bedroom, gazing out at the Excelsior was where Johnny found himself as his sister’s voice invaded his thoughts. His room hadn’t changed much. Your favorite record had never left the player across the room, and in every single corner, on every single piece of furniture in the room, there was a memory of you burned into the very fabric of it.
“I’m not moping,” Johnny immediately shot Sue a look where she stood in his doorway, before looking back to the ship standing tall outside the window. Gesturing wildly with his hands, even he wasn’t sure what he was doing. “I’m simply…admiring the craftsmanship.”
“The craftsmanship-”
“Reed made some upgrades, it looks good,” Johnny shrugged, not having to look to feel Sue walking further into the room to stand beside him. “Darker blue around the windows, larger engines in the back, freshly painted logo–hey, has your husband ever thought about a career in interior design?”
“Given that everything you just said is on the outside of the ship, I don’t think it counts as interior,” Sue’s knowing gaze was already trained on him when Johnny finally met her eyes. “And you are trying to deflect.”
Johnny simply rolled his eyes at his sister’s words. Clapping her quickly on the shoulder, he stalked across the room to his bed, his freshly dried laundry sitting on top of the bed where he had neglected to actually put it all away. Busying his hands, he didn’t look back up at her as he talked.
“It’s not deflecting, you act like I refuse to talk about her. I talk about her all the time,” halfway through folding one of his shirts, Johnny simply gave up and tossed it across his bed, deciding it could just get hung up instead of folded. “We all talk about her all the time. I’m allowed to miss her, you know?”
“I didn’t even mention her, Johnny-”
“Not the point. I did love her, you know? I’m allowed to miss her,”
“Did, as in past tense?”
Sue was standing on the other side of the bed now when Johnny finally looked up. He sent her an unimpressed look as she folded her arms across her chest.
“You know what I mean,”
“Yes, because I know you. Which means I also know that you typically hide your moping and pining better than staring longingly out of a window. There was only one other time you looked this pathetically sad, and that was last year,” Johnny returned to the pile of clothes before him, refusing to meet his sister’s eyes as she slowly settled herself down onto the bed in front of him. “It’s almost the anniversary, isn’t it?”
Of course it was. Johnny knew it, Sue knew it, Reed knew it, Ben knew it–hell, even Franklin and Herbie probably knew it.
Hanging on the wall of his bedroom, right by his dresser, sat that stupid little calendar. And five days from now there was one simple, tiny little blue heart drawn on the date. The day you had to leave him, turning his world upside down more than you had when you first arrived, and left him feeling as if a part of him was missing.
“Two years, Sue,” Johnny took a single glance up at her, shrugging his shoulders. “I think I’m allowed to be a little depressed around this time, okay? Give a guy a break, I smile in all our interviews and in every Ted Gilbert appearance.”
“A half-assed smile,”
Tossing one of his shirts at Sue, she caught it easily. But that look remained in her eyes, that knowing look. The one that, for his entire life, was able to see right through Johnny as if he was made of glass.
“Put yourself in my shoes, think about it as if it was you and Reed, and he got ripped away from you,” he tried to explain, getting frustrated with folding yet another shirt and tossing it off to the side. “It’s stupid, because I know she had to leave. I knew the entire time that, one day, she’d have to leave because she didn’t belong here. But it just…felt like she did, you know? Like she belonged with me. She didn’t see the Human Torch, she just saw me…the same way you see me.”
Quiet enveloped the room again. Johnny let the shirts in his hands fall to the bed, giving up on focusing on something else, as he met Sue’s eyes again. There wasn’t a second of judgement in them, not a single ounce of pity, just understanding. An understanding that for Johnny’s entire life he was sure only his sister could have for him, until you came along.
With his usual dramatic flair, Johnny threw himself down onto the bed. Clothing be damned, strewn out across the comforter, Sue’s light laughter filled the room as his head landed beside her leg. Her hand found its way to his shoulder, rubbing little circles into it in the most comforting way she could.
“I get it Johnny, we all do. We all miss her, too,” she quietly reminded him. He could feel her watching him, even as his eyes stayed trained on the ceiling above them. “Franklin asked about her today…asked where his auntie was.”
“He always asks where she is,” Johnny mumbled, still not looking away from the ceiling as Sue hummed.
“True, but he doesn’t usually cry. Doesn’t usually tell me how much he misses her, how he can’t feel her magic and it makes him sad,”
Johnny really thought, two years in, it would get easier. That maybe, after a few months, he’d stop missing you as much as he did those first few weeks.
He’d eventually forced himself to put away the few pieces of your clothing that had still been littered around his bedroom from that fateful day. Your perfume had begun to fade from his pillowcases. He thought it would get easier then, that he’d just be able to look at the photos of you and him that still sat on his bedside table or hung on his wall and smile at the memories. That he could move on, look back on them for what they had to be: memories. Thank you for showing him what it felt like to be loved and how to give it so that he could give it to someone else. Because as much as you had promised him that it wasn’t a goodbye that day, and as much as he told himself he’d see you again, he knew the likelihood was slim. Two different worlds, two different universes, two different people who were just never meant to be. Who never should’ve met to begin with.
It was month three without you when Johnny decided that maybe, just maybe, he could try again. But the second Ben came home from a night out and cautiously told him that there was a nice young woman Rachel wanted to introduce him to, Johnny broke down into tears for the first time since that sparkling gold portal had opened in Reed Richards’ lab.
You had ruined Johnny Storm completely, and he knew right then and there he wasn’t going to be able to ever love someone again. Not like he loved you.
“I’m pathetic,” Johnny muttered in mock disdain, eyes still trained on the ceiling. “Little witch turned me into a pathetic, hopeless romantic. Maybe she really did put a spell on me.”
“No, Johnny, you just fell in love. That’s the beautiful tragedy of it,” Sue laughed, her fingers reaching out and bumping with Johnny’s cheek gently to grab his attention. He let his head lull to the side, catching her gaze and the soft smile on her face, the one that spoke a thousand words without having to say a single thing.
“Two different worlds, Sue. How real can that love really be?”
“Tell me: if she was standing here right now, and I handed you mom’s ring, would you ask her to marry you?”
“Yes,” it was the easiest thing Johnny had ever said. As easy as the first time he’d told you he loved you. Like he knew it in his heart.
“Then who cares if it makes sense? It was real, it still is,” Sue gave a little shrug, an easy smile on her face. “Love doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes it’s complicated, but at the same time…when you know, you know. That’s the only girl I’ve ever seen you like that with, Johnny, and I’ll forever be thankful to her for the man she helped you become.”
“I sent you up here to stop his pity fest, did you turn it into a heart-to-heart?”
Ben’s voice cut into the conversation, his large form looming in the doorway as he raised his rocky eyebrow in the direction of the siblings. Johnny simply rolled his eyes at his friend, practically vaulting himself off the bed and back to his feet, laundry wrinkled across the bed now and a problem for a later time as he tried to shake himself awake from the conversation that loomed heavily in the back of his mind.
Sue shook her head, rising to her feet as well as she walked over to join Ben in the doorway.
“His pity fest was worse than usual. He was staring longing out the window. I almost saw some tears,”
“Damn, haven’t seen tears in a hot minute from matchstick,” Ben whistled, clicking his tongue. “The window is pretty bad. Worst I saw was his birthday–don’t think he took that sweater she got him off the entire day-”
“When did today become ‘Make Fun of Johnny Day’ huh?” Johnny cut in, eyebrow raised and arms thrown out as he cast a glance between both Sue and Ben on the far side of his room. “What, did you make it a city-wide holiday? Call up the mayor?”
“Not a bad idea-”
“Come on,” Sue cut in, landing a light slap to Ben’s chest, even as he laughed at his own comment. The pair were already turning to walk down the hallway together as Sue threw in another comment over her shoulder. “Reed wants you in the lab, it’s not an option!”
There was no point in arguing with the pair, especially if Reed was requesting his presence. He let his eyes drift to his bedside table, to that familiar polaroid photo that sat leaning against his lamp, of you wrapped in his arms on the living room balcony. He’d lost that magically preserved Plumeria flower weeks ago, spent days upending his room trying to find it, but your hand writing was still scrawled across the edge of the photo in your magic.
Unequivocally yours.
With a sigh, tearing himself away, Johnny followed the pair through the hallway and down the stairs and into the living room of the Baxter Building. His mind was far from in the moment, though, too lost in his own memories.
The memory of walking down those exact stairs into the living room to see you, dolled up for your first official date together. The many mornings he’d walked down those stairs to see you cooking breakfast with Ben in the kitchen, or sitting with Sue and Reed in the living room, laughing with Franklin on your lap.
Even the elevator brought memories as he stepped into it beside Sue and Ben.
“You know,” Johnny’s voice was low, twinged with a heat that he hadn’t felt before. His eyes took just a moment to glance down at your lips, flickering back to your eyes before you could catch him. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”
He waited with bated breath, a flurry of butterflies hammering against his chest the second your brilliant smile lit up your face. But then your eyes glowed blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic leaving the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.
Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact as he felt every ounce of breath rush out of him in a single moment.
“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”
Ben’s rocky hand collided with Johnny’s shoulder gently, knocking him out of his own head.
“Come on, buddy, quit daydreaming,” Ben teased, but his words were gentle. Almost pitying as the elevator descended down to the lab. “I know I said love looks good on you…but I hate seeing you like this.”
“Yeah, well, blame the wizard dude,” Johnny huffed out, waving his hand off-handedly as he tried to change the subject, trying not to let his mind wander once against and get lost in his own head for the hundredth time in the last hour. “Next time I see him, I might punch him.”
“That I might pay to see,” Sue chimed in, sharing a laugh with Ben as the elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to the familiar lab.
Reed Richards was down near his chalk board, handing a set of papers off to Herbie as he wrote what Johnny could only assume was another long-winded equation across the board. Herbie took the papers from him, rolling across the room to feed them into the computer down at the far end of the lab and wait for the results to print out.
Sue and Ben continued to converse with one another as they moved to join Reed at the chalkboard. Johnny, though, was in no rush. He lagged behind, arms crossed over his chest as he took tentative steps into the room, simply watching the three converse quietly in their little huddle by the chalkboard.
That is, until a little ball of blonde hair collided with his leg, latching onto him like a little leech.
“Uncle Johnny! You left your room!”
If anything, or anyone, was going to bring a smile to Johnny’s face right now, it was always going to be Franklin. With a single swoop of his arm, Johnny positioned his nephew onto his hip. The smiling four year old giggled, wrapping his little arounds tightly around his uncle’s shoulders to hold on as Johnny reached up to ruffle his hair playfully, tugging just barely on his ear to make the boy squirm in his hold as he shot him a bright smile.
“Hey buddy. I was told your crazy dad wanted to see me, I didn’t think this was a family meeting,”
“We made you a present!” Franklin excitedly announced, hands curling into Johnny’s shirt as he practically bounced in his arms. Johnny held on tighter, trying not to let the boy slip from his hold. “I even helped.”
“Did you now?”
Taking a few more steps into the room, Johnny shot his inquisitive look toward Ben, his sister, and his brother-in-law. The former two both shoved Reed forward, who simply shot them both looks for their actions, before he tossed the little device in his hands in Johnny’s direction. He caught it easily in one hand, turning it over in his palm.
“I’ve been working on it for a few months. Franklin just got to pick the color,”
Johnny…had no clue what he was looking at. The rectangular device was slightly larger than the palm of his hand, an opening in the back revealing a set of exposed wires that he was sure were meant to be connected to something else.
The lit screen showcased a series of complicated numbers and equations. Multiple strings of numbers looked almost like coordinates, some looked like jump points that they used to calculate jumps through wormholes in space, but they all led to one number on the screen, highlighted in bold: 616.
“My gift is a little box with numbers…thanks?” Johnny raised an eyebrow in Reed’s direction.
Sue sighed, tugging on her husband’s arm and gesturing toward the chalkboard beside them. He nodded, waving Johnny over in their direction. He complied, albeit warily, standing in front of the couch with Franklin still positioned over his hip as Ben and Sue stood at Reed’s side while he ran him through the series of equations littering the board.
“We’ve been mulling over the idea for months now. Close to a year. More so the ethical implications of it,” Reed underlined one of the longest equations on the board, accenting the end of it with his chalk. “You’ve been in a funk, it’s been clear. I knew that I could accomplish this, but it came down to whether or not it was ethical for me to do this, to build this. But in looking back on my own notes, from my own data collected from her time here, nothing seemed thrown out of balance. From quick studies, I see no sign of any incursions. Which–theoretically–would suggest that the same could work in reverse. The construction of the device was simple, really. A device that could allow our ship to break through a jump point and use quantum physics in order to cross through a multidimensional stream was simple to construct-”
Multidimensional stream.
Johnny couldn’t breathe. Reed kept talking, his mouth kept moving, his hand kept sweeping across the chalkboard, but Johnny couldn’t comprehend a single word that came out of his mouth.
It wasn’t until he placed Franklin down on the couch behind him that he realized he was shaking. With both hands, Johnny clutched that device in his hands, staring down at that three digit number staring back at him. When he finally looked back up at his family, they were already staring back at him.
“You…you’re saying that t-this thing?” he held the device up, shaking it in the air in Reed’s direction with wide eyes. “Can help our ship travel the multiverse?”
Reed stalked across the room to his workstation without another word, digging around for something. Johnny caught Ben and Sue’s eyes. Their smiles were prevalent, those encouraging ones, the ones that screamed ‘you deserve this,’ that said ‘we did this for you’.
“Did you know, in the infinite multiverse, I was able to find approximately 17,835,239 other versions of your witch with energy signatures that are almost identical to hers? All slightly different, but very similar, almost impossible to tell apart,” Reed spoke up as he stepped back toward Johnny, pulling his hand out from behind his back and holding it out in Johnny’s direction. “Luckily, I knew just how to find yours.”
The Plumeria flower. Still shimmering, encased in your blue magic, forever keeping it alive.
Johnny glanced down at the device again, eyes catching that number once more: 616. A lump formed in his throat, every emotion he’d felt for the last two years swelling in him all at once as he let his finger drift over the screen, right over the number.
“So…616-”
His sister’s hand found his upper arm, curling around it, squeezing it in comfort. Johnny leaned into it without a second thought, too overwhelmed to think twice.
“It stands for Earth-616,” Sue told him softly. He could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s her earth, Johnny. Reed found it. He found her.”
❤︎
Dear Johnny,
It’s been awhile since I’ve written you one of these, probably since I stopped seeing my “Wong Appointed” therapist. He’s still upset about that, but therapists don’t exactly understand how to help me deal with falling in love with a man from an entirely different universe, so I felt like it was just a waste of both of our times. The letters were her idea, and they sometimes helped, so I guess she was good for something.
Today is the two year mark. I don’t like thinking about it. I’ve been trying not to think about it all day, actually. Joaquín and I left for a mission at almost three in the morning today, that’s how badly I didn’t want to think about what today was. The mission was easy, barely took half of the day. I threw two dudes out of a window, then I laughed to myself because I could almost hear you in my head saying “wow, that was so hot.”
I miss you. That’s the whole point of me writing this, because I’m really trying not to cry right now. We’re on the quinjet back, and at some point in the middle of this data retrieval it just hit me that it’s been two years since I’ve seen you. Since I’ve held you. Since I’ve kissed you. I thought maybe writing down how much I miss you, how much I love you, would make me feel better. Honestly, I think it might just be making it worse-
“OW! Joaquín, I swear to god-”
“It’s not exactly easy to stitch your arm when you’re writing. Put the pen down for two seconds and let me finish the damn stitches first, please and thank you,”
He had a point, even if you didn’t want to admit it. The quinjet was cruising on autopilot, the overhead indicator calling out that you’d just passed over Baltimore and the ETA to the compound was now ten minutes.
The pen in your hand dropped as a sigh escaped your lips. Joaquín shot you a mockingly thankful look, focusing back in on the exposed area of your forearm where the bullet had grazed, cutting through your suit and leaving a deep enough cut to warrant stitches. Thankfully, your teammate and friend knew you well enough to know you weren’t stopping by the hospital, and had volunteered his services before Sam forced you to be seen by a doctor the second you stepped foot off the jet.
“Did you finish off the report for Sam?” you managed out through gritted teeth, hand flexing as Joaquín finished off the final stitch, tying it closed and wiping down the area with a final anti-septic pad that had you inhaling another hiss of pain. You took the bandage he passed your way with a nod of thanks as he packed away the med kit laid out in front of him.
“Did it the second we got in the air, it’s on the table,” he nodded his head toward the main table of the room, stashing the medkit in its rightful place across the room before heading back toward the cockpit, double checking on all the indicators to ensure that everything was in place and holding steady. “So, are we going to talk about it?”
You hummed, rubbing at the now bandaged part of your arm over the torn portion of your suit. Rising from your chair, letter abandoned, you did a quick flip through of the report to ensure everything was in order: SERPENT base, files recovered concerning resurfaced HYDRA activity, no casualties, single gunshot graze.
“Talk about what?”
“Uh, the fact that the all powerful witch got so distracted she basically got shot?” you glanced in Joaquín’s direction as he spoke. He stood with his arms crossed, still donning his suit, raising an eyebrow in your direction as he gave a little shrug. “Come on, I’m the one who always needs a second pair of eyes watching his back in the field. You’re, like, a model of perfection on missions. You never slip up. What happened back there?”
“It was stupid,” you tried to deflect, but Joaquín held your gaze. With a sigh, you cast your eyes down to the table, drumming your fingers along the edge. “The two agents were just making callouts to each other. One of them…his name was Johnny. I just froze for a second when I heard it, that’s all.”
It really was stupid. Such a trivial thing. A name, just a name was all it took for you to freeze in a moment where you shouldn’t have frozen. Any other day and it wouldn’t have affected you, wouldn’t have stopped you in your tracks the way it had.
But not today. Not on the anniversary of the day you’d been forced to leave behind the little family you’d found for yourself, leaving a piece of yourself forever behind with the Human Torch himself.
Joaquín’s laughter cut through the silence of the jet, and the glare you sent his way immediately at the sound was piercing. He was hunched over, arm wrapped around his middle and one hand on the back of the pilot’s chair to try and steady himself. Each time his eyes met yours, he only doubled over more in laughter, waving his hand in your direction.
“I-I’m sorry, all it took was his name?” you crossed your arms over your chest, leaning against the table as you fixed your friend with an unimpressed look. He howled with laughter again, wiping at his under eyes with his hand. You couldn’t tell if it was an exaggeration, or if he really was crying from here. “Jesus, sweetheart, you really are pathetic when it comes to him.”
Stalking past him, a wave of magic rolled off you with a single thought, shoving him out of the way to allow you to climb into the pilot’s chair. Ignoring the tail end of his laughter as Joaquín clung to the back of your chair, you disengaged the autopilot feature of the jet, locking in the controls to prepare for landing at the compound
“Thanks, Joaquín, I can always count on you to make me feel better,” your words grumbled out under your breath, hands tight on the controls. Joaquín climbed into the seat next to you, wings shoved off onto the floor behind him to allow him to settle into the seat comfortably next to you. Even without looking, you could see the stupid smirk on his face.
“Sorry, sorry, you know I’m just teasing. Everyone knows you’re always pathetic when it comes to your flame boy,” the only response you gave was a hum as he scoffed, reaching over and lightly hitting you on the shoulder with his hand. “Come on, lighten up! You’re my friend, you think I don’t know today is the anniversary? I’m trying to cheer you up, make you laugh, you know?”
“Might want to try a comedy class at this rate,” you shot back, head rolling over as you shot him a smirk of your own. “Maybe we should visit Isaiah. Watching him kick your ass in the gym might bring a smile to my face.”
That comment brought a laugh out of Joaquín, one that was enough to momentarily distract your mind enough to let a soft smile make its way to your lips.
“Damn, you’re one cold witch sometimes, you know?” the comment earned him a slap on his shoulder from you. His laughter died down, a soft smile mirroring yours finding its way to Joaquín’s face. “You’re allowed to talk about him with me, you know? I’ll listen.”
Your smile fell, just slightly. It got tighter by just a pinch, jaw tightening just a little, as your eyes turned back to the skies as you nodded.
“I know that,”
“You sure? Because you really don’t talk about him much. Not out loud,”
“It’s not easy to. If Johnny wants to talk about me, he has an entire building full of people that got to know me for a year to talk to. I don’t have that,” a bitter laugh found its way out of you before you could stop it. You didn’t want to be bitter about the situation, but it was impossible not to. There was no one you were made at except the situation itself, except the universe as a whole. “I love you and Sam dearly, but you two don’t know him. Chances are you never will. I can talk about how much I miss him, how much I miss all of them, but will you ever really understand why when you don’t know them like I do?”
Casting your eyes back over to him for just a moment, Joaquín still held that soft smile toward you. He gave a little shrug.
“Maybe not, but I’m still your friend. I’d still listen,”
Quiet enveloped the two of you for a few moments, the weight of the conversation settling between you both. You tried to shake it from you, to will away the memories that threatened to creep into your mind anytime you were left to stew alone in your head for too long. Suddenly, Joaquín shot up in his seat. Leaning closer to the windows of the jet, eyes wide and full of excitement, he cast a quick glance back at you and he pointed out of the glass. “God, I love when we fly back into the compound this way and can see the monument from the sky. One hell of a skyline, isn’t it?”
“One hell of a skyline, isn’t it?”
The nighttime breeze of New York City drifted over you, the cool feeling dancing over your skin. That cool feeling didn’t stay long, not when that familiar deep burgundy jacket slid over your shoulders, it’s warmth enveloping you. That same warmth suddenly found your waist, seeping straight from Johnny Storm’s hands and through your shirt, straight into your skin as he squeezed, the tip of his nose brushing along the edge of your ear as he slotted himself into the space behind you on the Baxter Building balcony.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you hummed back, leaning back into the warmth reflexively, hands gripping the railing of the balcony. The lights of the city glittered in the distance, car horns beeping and distant sounds of sirens could be heard from miles away. “Grew up here, remember?”
“Come on, our skylines can’t be the exact same,”
“Pretty damn close, baby,” you shot back, turning your head just barely to catch his eyes. Even in the night, those baby blue eyes were still so brilliantly bright. The smile that stretched across your lips was easy. “Sorry, guess your city isn’t that special.”
Johnny rolled his eyes. You moved then, stepping out of his arms and trying to step away from him, turning away to walk inside, but of course, he wouldn’t let you. His hand caught your waist again, spinning you back into him, hands landing on his chest as his grip held firm against your lower back.
Laughter bubbled out of you before you could stop it, smile bright, as your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. Before a single word could slip past your lips he surged forward, slotting his against your own, a sigh of pure contentment falling from your lips instead as you let your fingers curl into his hair instead. Relishing the feel of his hands along the small of your back.
“You’re such a dork,” the words were muttered against his lips through a smile. “But I love you.”
His smile matched yours, lips never leaving yours either as he spoke.
“Your dork, who loves you, too,”
A flash of light interrupted the kiss, tearing the two of you away from one another, but only by an inch. Sue stood sheepishly in the doorway of the balcony, balancing a giggling Franklin on one hip and a Polaroid camera in her other hand, muttering apology after apology, quickly trying to sneak away with the newly printed photo.
You could only laugh, leaning into Johnny as his lips pressed into the crown of your head over and over again, a rush of something shooting through you in the moment that you hadn’t felt in so long: safety. That comforting feeling, where in that moment, everything just felt right.
You hated memories. You hated how easy it was for something so simple–something so trivial–to invoke them.
“Yeah…it’s great,” was the only response you could muster back to Joaquín at that moment. Your smile was gone again, that youthful glow and that playful tone replaced once more with the wistfulness that had engulfed you since you’d stepped foot back in your own universe two years ago.
Not another word was said as you landed the quinjet further up the Potomac River on the landing pad outside of the compound, the one specially designed for the new team formed under Sam Wilson’s own Avengers team. Being left a sizable fund in your name by an old teammate and mentor left plenty to fund a compound for your new team.
If Joaquín noticed your quick change in demeanor, which he certainly did, he chose not to mention it as you strode side by side into the compound together. You were grateful for it. Talking about your feelings was, quite frankly, the last thing you wanted to do.
Wallowing in self pity in bed, all by yourself, sounded like the better option for the rest of the night.
The crumpled, unfinished note was tucked into the back pocket of your suit as you trailed through the empty compound behind Joaquín. He was flicking through the mission report, ensuring that everything was in place and he hadn’t screwed anything up, knowing that Sam preferred everything on these reports accurate when he wasn’t on the mission with either of you.
Both you and Joaquín came to a halt the second you saw the sight before you in the compound’s main kitchen.
“Uh…Sam?”
The man turned on his heel, sending a bright smile in the direction of you both, before he put the pot of noodles in his hand on the burner behind him, flicking it on just like the others were on their own pans. The entire island counter looked as if the local grocery store had thrown up on it: empty boxes of noodles, some flour littering the counter, homemade garlic bread sitting on a baking sheet waiting for the oven to most likely preheat. Enough food to, probably, feed the entire US military if Sam Wilson really wanted to.
“Who is this guy and what happened to our Sam?” Joaquín muttered toward you, thought not discreetly at all as you could see the roll of Sam’s eyes from the other side of the island. “He never cooks. At least, not for us.”
“Tonight is different,” Sam cut in, checking on everything on the stove quickly before turning back to look at the both of you. His hands gripped the edge of the counter as his eyes roamed over both of you, eyes landing on the bandage wrapped around the torn forearm of your suit. “What happened? I thought it was mission success?”
“It was,” you waved him off, taking the file from Joaquín’s hands and tossing it across the counter to Sam, letting him flick through the report. “I got grazed by a bullet, it was nothing. Don’t try and change the subject, Wilson, why is tonight different? We never do ‘team meals’ together, that’s not our thing.”
Sam was silent, didn’t answer your question for a moment, as he flicked through the rest of the report. Letting it fall back to the counter in front of him, the bright smile was back on his face in seconds as he glanced back up, specifically right at you.
“We have guests tonight,”
Joaquín stood a little straighter next to you, his own smile growing as he excitedly clapped his hand down on your shoulder.
“Guests? You finally make up with Bucky and invite those guys down here? Or is this a, like, military-strategy type of dinner meeting and we should go get out of our suits?”
You just watched Sam, whose eyes never left you. He just smiled, that cheeky smile that said he had something to hide. Before you could question it, he tilted his head over to the side toward the dining room, forcing your gaze to follow.
Wong stood, rigid, hands tucked behind his back. His robes billowed out down by his feet as he just silently watched you, face unreadable.
It was enough to make you tense, as well as Joaquín, who patted your shoulder this time in comfort.
“He kind of looks like he wants to kill you,” Joaquín whispered in your direction. You only nodded in response, taking a slight step toward the man as you gave him a hesitant smile. A tiny, miniscule nervous laugh fell from your lips.
“Wong…nice to see you?” he hummed in response as you quickly jerked your thumb backwards toward Joaquín. “I promise, whatever it is you think I did, Joaquín is probably the one that did it. I’ve been a perfect angel, no performing spells that I don’t already know.”
“Hey…” Joaquín muttered out behind you, fake-hurt laced in his voice.
Wong stayed silent for a moment before he let out a deep sigh, running a hand down his face. His eyes stayed watching you the entire time.
“You didn’t do anything, though at first, I thought you had. If that was true, we’d be having a much different conversation right now,” the Sorcerer Supreme crossed his arms over his chest, taking in another deep breath. “It’s been a long day, I’ve been dealing with your guests since they entered Earth’s atmosphere. So…I expect a thank you for the fact that I even brought them here and did not send them home immediately.”
Wong was making no sense. Not a single thing he said was registering with you. Earth’s atmosphere? They’d entered it? The only thing you could think of was Carol, but you were pretty sure she was back on Earth permanently at the moment. Plus, why would Wong send Carol of all people away?
Your eyes drifted to Joaquín, who looked just as lost. They drifted then to Sam, who still held that knowing smile, like he was biting back a thousand secrets he was dying to tell you.
Before you could utter a single question, something collided with your leg, wrapping itself around it and latching onto you like it never wanted to let go.
“Auntie!”
The word froze you in place. The feeling on your leg was clear in that moment–two tiny little hands gripping onto the fabric of your suit like their life depended on it. Morgan was the only one who ever called you that. There was only one other person that could–or would–call you that.
And when that thought hit you, your breath caught, and your eyes drifted down to the little body wrapped around your leg.
Your head told you it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be him. But your heart? Your heart knew when you looked at his little body. Taller than the last time you’d seen him, held him. More hair, but still just as blonde. As bright as his mother’s. And those eyes…as blue as the ones he’d inherited, the ones you’d accidentally fallen in love with.
He let go the second you dropped to your knees, eyes level with him now. Your chest felt like it was constricting, like it couldn’t decide if you couldn’t breathe at all or if you were about to start hyperventilating. It was him, you knew it was him. Hands reaching out, cupping his cheeks, a breathless little laugh left your lips in a whisper as he smiled at you through his little gapped toothed smile.
“F-Franklin?” his name just barely made it past your lips. You could feel a sob burning in you, your throat tightening, as he nodded his little head.
“I missed you, auntie,”
Tears finally found their way down your cheeks the second you wrapped him in your arms, tugging his little body into you and holding him as tightly as you possibly could. That sob threatened to escape, hiccuping out of you as Franklin wrapped his arms around your neck, hugging you back. You gripped to the back of his shirt, trying to comprehend it: little Franklin Richards, the little boy you hadn’t held since he was a baby, was here. He was here, on your earth, in your arms.
“I told him to wait and not jump on you, but he really missed his aunt,”
If Franklin almost pulled a sob out of you, this was the end of you. You let go of him, looking over, just to see her standing there: Sue Storm. In those blue and white suits you hadn’t seen in so long. Her hair was longer than it was before, just a tad bit straighter, but it was her. Smiling across the room at you, with that same warm, motherly grin that you hadn’t seen in so long you were beginning to forget the sight of it.
“Sue-!”
Her name had barely left your lips before a sob tore through you. On shaky legs, you practically bolted across the room, throwing yourself into her arms as you simply just let yourself cry without a care in the world. She laughed, her arms coming around your body and holding you back just as tightly, hand running down over the back of your head to smooth your hair as you held onto her.
“I missed you, too,” she said quietly, sweetly, pulling back to wipe the tears that were streaming down your cheeks. She reached down, grabbing your forearm and quickly giving you a pointed look at the bandage wrapped around your arm. “We told you to take care of yourself, remember? This doesn’t look like that.”
You laughed, pulling back to furiously rub at the tears on your face. You could faintly hear Joaquín behind you conversing with Sam, most likely having finally caught on to what was happening.
“If I remember the story correctly, you died at one point, so you don’t get to make comments about a tiny injury,”
“I prefer if we don’t talk about that day,” Reed Richards himself cut in, stepping up beside his wife. Still the same man you remembered, maybe an extra line or two around his face, but a warm smile on his lips none the less as he nodded his head to you. “Good to know it worked and I found the right version of you. You wouldn’t believe how many of you exist in the multiverse.”
You laughed. The brightest, happiest laugh you had let out in what had surely been two years. It was like a weight you hadn’t even realized had been sitting on your chest had finally lifted, like the grey clouds that had invaded every corner of your life had finally cleared away. You reached out, squeezing Reed’s hand as you gave him a watery smile.
“I thought I told you not to invent multidimensional travel?”
“Well, I do like being the first person to do things, so-”
“Alright, alright, quit hogging her! Let me see the girl!”
Ben’s voice commanded the room. Sue and Reed both laughed, parting, letting you practically run through them and straight into Ben’s awaiting arms. His laugh bellowed in your ears as his rocky form enveloped you in a hug, his head resting down on top of yours as he gave you a light squeeze.
“God, Ben, I can’t tell you how much I missed you,”
“I missed you too, little witch,” Ben pulled back, reaching behind him and grabbing something from the table behind him, presenting it in front of you with a large grin. “Don’t worry, I made sure to bring you the good stuff.”
You laughed the second you saw the logo on the paper bag: Maisie’s.
With one of Ben’s hands still resting against your shoulders, you turned back to Sue and Reed. Franklin was back in his father’s arms, messing with the edges of his suit, and something about just looking at them all in front of you, to seeing Sam and Joaquín smiling and watching the entire thing in the background, just filled you with a feeling that you hadn’t known for quite some time.
Not since you’d lost them, the people you had called your first family. Having all of them in this room, though, it finally brought back that feeling–that feeling of being well and truly home.
“This can’t be permanent,”
Wong’s voice cut through the moment, bringing your attention back to him, along with everyone else in the room. You straightened up, wiping at the tears on your cheeks, nodding your head toward him.
“I know-”
“A week, that’s the best I can give,” Wong cut you off, a sense of urgency in his tone as he spoke. He was making it clear that this could not, in any way, be permanent. No matter how much it would hurt in the end. “I’m still studying your magic and if your extended time in their universe had any lasting effects on the strands of time. In the interest of knowledge, you can have a week, so I can see what effects their presence here has. A week, though. Nothing more.”
You nodded, and Wong continued on. Something about how, if he found that their presence here was affecting the timelines, they’d have to leave immediately. How the fate of the universe, how ensuring that the strands of time themselves stayed intact was more important than anything else. You were barely listening at that point.
It was impossible not to just look at them. To admire in awe at the fact that they were really here. Sue, Reed, Franklin, Ben-
They were missing someone.
Sue’s eyes found yours the second that realization seemed to hit you. And like always, it was as if she knew. A soft smile crossed her face as she simply nodded her head toward the rest of the compound.
“He got curious, went snooping for your room,”
That was all you needed to hear before you took off running, anything else from Wong’s mouth ignored in your haste to get to your room.
The twists and turns of the compound passed by in a blur, your feet pounding down them. You knew them like the back of your hand, it didn’t matter if you couldn’t see anything through the blur of tears covering your eyes with every single step you took.
Your bedroom door was open down the hallway, something it never was when you weren’t here. It was always shut, a habit you had always had for privacy reasons. The soft lighting from the lamp inside spilling out of it and into the hallway, the beams of light crawling across the floor and up the opposite wall. You had to hang onto the edge of the doorframe to fully stop yourself.
There he was.
A sight that made your heart skip a beat, that had your chest clenching at the thought that you were finally–finally–seeing him again. Two years, 730 some days since you had last seen Johnny Storm, and there he was. Standing in your bedroom like he belonged there, like he wasn’t universes away from his own.
His back was turned to you, but you knew him. You knew that blue and white ribbed suit, you knew that blonde hair, and you knew those hands. Those hands that were discarded of their gloves, that were rifling through a stack of papers he’d surely taken off your bedside table.
You knew those papers. Your letters, every single one you’d ever written. The first line of them was memorized, from the first letter, to the last one you’d written.
I still think this exercise is stupid, but I’m going to do it anyway. Joaquín said I moped today, told me I looked like a sad, wet kitten that had been abandoned in an alleyway. I didn’t have it in me to tell him it’s your birthday today.
To be completely honest, I kind of hate you right now. I hate that I’m crying in bed, in the middle of the night, trying to write a stupid letter to you that you’ll never see because I woke up from a dream where you were holding me and I realized how cold reality was without you. It’s not fair. I really hate you for this.
Sam was showing me stupid tweets on his phone today and I saw one that said “I didn’t fall for you, you fucking tripped me.” It made me think of you…you kind of did, in a way.
Today’s my birthday. Sam and Joaquín got me a cake, and then Pepper brought Morgan by so I could have dinner with her. I visited the makeshift grave I made for Wanda. Went to Nat’s and Tony’s, too. And through all of that…I just wanted you. I just miss you. I miss the drive-in, I miss kicking your ass at bowling, I miss dancing at The Regent. I miss you…and I don’t know how to stop. I’m not sure I ever will.
Sam asked me today if I regret falling in love with you, if it’s worth the pain I’ve carried since I had to leave. Without a second thought I told him no, no I don’t regret it. Getting to love you, and be loved by you, is worth any amount of pain I have to endure. Doesn’t mean it sucks any less, though.
As if he could feel you, feel your gaze watching him, Johnny finally turned.
There was no way to describe it. No way to accurately explain the flutter of your heart in your chest, the trail of goosebumps that seemed to travel your skin in seconds, or the utter pull that you felt in your gut to just run into his arms. There wasn’t a book, a song, a movie scene, a single thing in the world that could accurately describe the way in which simply looking into those blue eyes–no longer just a staple of your dreams–had you wanting to break down sobbing while simultaneously dancing across the room.
Johnny Storm wasn’t always the easiest person to read, not when you had first met him. But over time, as you’d let yourself fall in love with the man standing before you, you’d come to understand him better than you feared you understood yourself at times. You could see it all in his face, in his body language: the instant sag in his shoulders, like the weight that had been sitting on your chest had been sitting heavily on him all this time, too. The slight twitch of his lips, the way they curled up into that smirk that you had missed so desperately.
He raised his hands, waving the letters slightly in the air, eyes never leaving you for a second.
“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” even just his voice, just hearing it again, had a single tear rolling back down your cheek. Even as his voice was laced with his usual teasing tone, a contrast to the softness he carried in his eyes reserved just for you. Saying that same line, the first thing he’d ever said to you all those years ago. “But it’s not safe to just leave private letters like these sitting around. You never know who might find them.”
“W-Well, I don’t usually have curious blonde men from the ‘60s combing through my personal belongings,” you managed out, wiping at the tears that were silently falling from your cheeks. “Joaquín snooped in here once and found out the hard way why my room is off limits.”
“What, you give him a stern talking to?”
“Hexed his suit for a week so that his wings always did the exact opposite of what he wanted them to,”
His laughter filled the room. Warm, inviting, a sound that felt like a hug. A sound you had missed so dearly. Carefully, he laid the letters back on your bedside table, eyes never leaving you for a moment as he stepped out into the middle of the room.
“That’s my girl,”
Every step you took was shaky, still at war with yourself in your head on how this could be real, as you gingerly stepped into your own bedroom. How they invented multiversal travel, how they were here. How after two whole years of feeling like you left a part of yourself in another dimension, it was finally standing in front of you again.
“This really is real, right?” you asked softly, just a few feet in front of him now.
Johnny hummed, tilting his head slightly, before holding out his hand in front of you. Within a millisecond those familiar flames burst to life, burning bright within his hand. The heat that accompanied them enveloped you, warming your skin. A new set of tears managed to fall at the feeling.
“I hope it’s real,” Johnny shot back, but that teasing tone left his voice quickly. It was replaced with a soft smile, almost a hesitant one, like he was just as scared as you were that somehow this wasn’t real. Somehow, he’d wake up back home to this all having been a dream, and you’d wake up in your room alone again. “I’ve been kind of miserable without you. Really pathetic, if I do say so myself. It’s pretty depressing, I don’t know how they’ve put up with it for two years.”
“It’s not like I’ve been much better. I’ve missed you…so much,” you shot back at him.
“Baby, Reed invented multiversal travel because that’s how sick he was of seeing me mope around. I think we know who missed the other more,”
The flames in his hand died, but it stayed stretched out toward you. An invitation, calling you in.
You ignored it, launching yourself into his arms instead.
Johnny wrapped himself around you, molding and conforming to your body just as you did to him. Like two puzzle pieces that snapped together perfectly. His hands found your waist, curling up your back, splayed out between your shoulder blades and across your lower back. Heat bloomed everywhere his hands touched you as his fingers curled into the fabric of your suit, pressing into your body, pulling you as close as he could physically hold you, but never close enough. You could feel the exhale that left him, that one that felt like relief now that he was holding you again. You understood it all too well.
One of your hands curled into his hair on instinct, feeling the soft strands of blonde between your fingers again, while the other simply clung around his neck as you buried your head as far into his neck as you possibly could force yourself. You took in a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of him wash over you, as another round of cries racked through your body.
Being in his arms again: a feeling that both was overwhelming and made you feel lighter than you had in years.
Johnny’s hand moved itself, leaving a trail of warmth from your upper back, over your arm, and up the side of your neck until he fully cupped your face within his hand. Pulling you back just slightly so he could see you, tears stained cheeks and all, you leaned into that hand, into that warmth, chasing after the feeling. Your eyes met his for just a moment before you surged forward, stealing from him the kiss you’d dreamt about for the last two years.
Shaky breaths mingled together, intertwining in the lack of space between your bodies and Johnny’s lips devoured you in a way that had your knees threatening to buckle beneath you. The heat within his touch seemed to climb, burning the feeling of his skin into every piece of you he touched, but you didn’t care. You craved the feeling of it, the fire it lit within you, as your fingers dug into his hair and tugged him as close as possible.
“I love you,” Johnny’s words were mumbled against your lips, never straying far from you. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, biting down just slightly until a moan tumbled from your lips, swallowed by him. The moan that fell from his own matched yours–low and full of longing–as his hips pressed forward, feet shuffling along the ground.
“I love you, too,” you barely managed to mutter out before your back was pressed up against the front of your dresser, caged in by his body. His hands cradled your face, pads of his fingers digging into the nape of your neck as his lips found the hollow of your throat, languishing heated kiss after kiss as your head fell back. Hands gripping at his forearms, the sides of his body, anywhere you could for leverage.
“Kind of the bane of my existence, though,”
It was the first time he’d pulled away enough since your lips found one another for you to see his face. That charming smirk, full of mirth, eyes slightly squinted as he looked down at you. But even through all the bravado that was Johnny Storm, you could see it clear as day in his features, in the way his fingers still flexed and pressed into your skin. He was relishing every second of this, of having you back, just as you were him.
“Bane of your existence?”
“Very much so,” the kiss he stole from you then was lighter, softer, but still just as deep. Still just as full of love. His hands trailed their way down your sides, sending a shiver straight up your spine as they ghosted over your hips, fingertips grazing right over the sides of your thighs as his words were spoken against your lips. “A hot witch from another universe comes and steals my heart and then leaves me pathetically pining for two years. Insane. Absolutely unfair, you should be jailed for these crimes.”
The laughter that fell from you was different, different from what it sounded like these last two years, and you knew it. Lighter, freer, happier than it had been in so long. Genuine.
“You only have yourself to blame, you pursued me!” a shriek tumbled from your lips the second that the words left your mouth, as Johnny’s hands swept under your thighs and hoisted you up on top of your dresser without a care in the world. His hand swept out behind you, sweeping everything sitting on top of the furniture out of the way as you laughed, quickly trying to stop him and grab the frames he was knocking over before they could break. “Johnny! You can’t just mess up my room!”
“I’m just trying to kiss my girl,” the shit-eating grin on his face could be felt against your skin as he pressed yet another kiss to your cheek, moving down to lavish them along the line of your jaw.
“You can kiss me without destroying priceless photographs,”
He hummed, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he plucked the frame from your hands that you were still clutching onto. You watched as he pulled back, inspecting the photo in the frame, eyebrow raising quizzically as he turned it toward you.
“You’re holding up a middle finger and the man next to you looks like he’s screaming in terror–this is a priceless photo?”
“When it’s one of the first photos I ever took with Tony, yes,” you plucked it from his hands, gently tossing it across the room onto your bed so it was as far from Johnny as it could be. The look you shot at him was unimpressed, but nothing could keep the smile from your lips. “I’ve had you back for all of five minutes and you’ve already managed to get on my nerves.”
“I haven’t been able to annoy you daily for 17,520 hours,” Johnny shot back before he pressed in closer. Your legs parted just slightly on instinct, making space for him between them as he invaded every inch of your personal space. “Making up for lost time.”
The playfulness of the moment dissipated in that moment as his hand came back up, curling around your cheek to cradle you in his palm. You leaned into the feeling, eyes never leaving his, as his thumb drew circles back and forth across your skin. His eyes visibly softened, that smirk falling into a smile as he watched you.
“That’s a lot of hours,” you shot back softly, turning your head just barely to place a light kiss to the palm of his hand. “You've been keeping track?”
“Every day since you walked through the gold, sparkly portal,” you hummed in response, finger curling into one of the belt loops of his suit as you tugged him in closer. His eyes trailed down, taking in your own suit, a low whistle leaving his lips. “All this time later and–yeah–it’s still true, this suit is still doing it for me. God damn.”
Your laughter filled the air again as you tugged him in, chasing after another kiss that neither of you were able to stop smiling into, even as you nipped lightly at the reddened skin of his bottom lip.
“Maybe you’re right, maybe you are pathetically in love,”
“Unequivocally,” his answer was easy, rolling off his tongue without a second thought. “And maybe a little irrevocably.”
“That’s a big word for you, Johnny, don’t hurt yourself,” you shot back, his fingers pinching into your sides as a cascade of laughter fell from your lips.
Love. It was a feeling you didn’t need to describe, and honestly, you weren’t sure you could if you tried. You could explain the way you loved Joaquín like a brother, or the way you loved Wanda like a sister, or even Sam, Tony, or Steve like they were family. But the way you loved Johnny Storm? You couldn’t explain that, not in a thousand years, but you didn’t need to. You didn’t want to.
When he looked at you like he did now, with that light smile playing at his lips, face still twinged with the same nerves he had that day on the rooftop, you just knew. Loving him made sense in a way that nothing else ever had.
Like a well oiled machine, like you understood one another without having to speak, you crashed into one another again. Your hands were back in his hair, combing through those blonde stands, while his hands settled on your waist, digging into your sides as they held you close. That heat fluttered through you, that familiar one of his, as your lips moved against his in a tango, leg curling up around his hip higher to keep him as close as physically possible.
“Sam said that he’ll have the food done–JESUS CHRIST, DUDE!”
The sound of Joaquín’s voice at your door didn’t even deter you. You didn’t jump back, you barely even pulled away from Johnny at all. If anything, you gave him a single inch of space before turning your head to shoot Joaquín a murderous glare.
“Yes, Joaquín?”
“What–dude, I get you missed your boyfriend, but if you’re going to fuck him, can you shut the door?”
Johnny’s forehead fell to your shoulder, his entire body shaking with laughter as you kept your glare centered on Joaquín, who was peeking through his fingers as if terrified he’d see something he didn’t want to see.
“We weren’t there yet, don’t worry,” Johnny shot back, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before pulling back, a mischievous grin in your sights. “We learned our lesson about locking doors for that.”
“You mean that one time when Ben walked in because he wanted me to try a new cookie from Maisie’s, but you were about to press me up against the window-”
“Oh my god, you two are actually disgusting,” the fake gagging Joaquín did outside the door sent both you and Johnny into your own fit of laughter, still wrapped up in one another. But beyond the theatrics, you could see it on Joaquín’s face. The happiness for you, just seeing you happy, seeing that light back in your eyes. “Look, catch up on two years of physical activities later, Sam made dinner and it looks good as fuck but he won’t let me touch it until you both come downstairs.”
Johnny let out a low whistle, and before you could react, he’d stepped out of your hold completely. Your mouth dropped open in betrayal, lips fighting against curving up into a smile as Johnny shot you an apologetic look, backing out of the doorframe and clapping a hand down on Joaquín’s shoulder.
“Sorry baby, but multiversal travel did make me pretty hungry,” he shot you a wink, hand still grasping Joaquín’s shoulder as he tugged him down the hall, before speaking very dramatically and loudly from down the hall so that you could hear. “Now that we’re nowhere near her, I need you to give me every embarrassing story you’ve got.”
All you could do was laugh at the absurdity that was Johnny Storm, at the man you loved more than you could express. The man who managed to steal your heart while helping heal the wounds you hadn’t been able to close for years, who went on to be one of your hearts biggest wounds, only to close it right back up just by standing in front of you again.
And walking back down the stairs of the compound, and glancing out over that dining room table–Johnny laughing at something that Joaquín said as Sam regaled Ben, Sue, and Franklin with a story, while Wong spoke quietly off to the side with Reed–everything in the world finally felt right.
❤︎
“So, let me make sure I have this right: he was from the ‘40s, he was a stuck up billionaire, he’s a literal god, she was an assassin, and he brought a bow and arrow of all things to fight aliens half the time?”
“Put some respect on Clint’s name, baby. The one time he wasn’t there we did, in fact, lose,” with a short laugh, you reached over and swiped the photo from his hand, sliding it back into its protective sleeve in the binder laid out in front of him at the island counter. “These aren’t the originals, these are magical recreations, so please keep them in the sleeves. Also, you act like I didn’t talk about them all the time?”
“Seeing them is completely different,” respecting your wishes, Johnny didn’t remove the photo, this time instead holding the entire binder up near his head as he pointed toward the super soldier standing beside the young version of you in the photo. “This dude’s bicep is the literal size of my head, and he’s not even made out of rocks like Ben!”
It didn’t surprise you that the first thing that Johnny had dug around your room to find were photos. Most of the original photos, which had decorated the walls of your room in the Upstate New York compound had been destroyed years ago, prior to the final fight with Thanos. Magically recreated and preserved in a photo album you ensured to hex to be fire proof, bomb proof, and truly anything proof, it had become Johnny’s favorite thing over the last 16 hours they’d been in your universe.
From the Battle of New York, to photos you’d taken late at night in New York with Wanda or ones you had snuck of Steve when he wasn’t looking, it was like looking straight into your past. A past that Johnny hadn’t gotten to know, that he clearly adored.
“Well, he was a super soldier,” you chuckled lightly under your breath, turning back to the paperwork laid out in the manila folder in front of you.
Johnny was quiet for a moment, and you snuck a glance over at him. He was still looking at that same photo, taken all those years ago in the aftermath of New York, of Loki’s invasion. There was a softer look in his eyes, though, as he let a single finger trail over the protective layer lying over the photo, right over where you stood.
“You were so young,”
“I was. I was just a kid,” you nodded your head, glancing at the little version of you for a second longer, before focusing back on the papers in front of you. “Dedicated my life to saving the world. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, and neither did you. Signing your name along the lines that Sam had indicated he needed your signature on, Johnny eventually continued to flip through the photos beside you at the island counter.
“Oh…oh, baby, tell me this is the dress?”
You didn’t have to look over to know what photo Johnny had stumbled upon. Instead, a light laugh left your lips as you looked over at him: red had crawled into his cheeks, his eyes wide as he looked down at the photo. He met your gaze for a single moment, and you could see his eyes dilate in real time.
“We had just found Loki’s scepter, which had the Mind Stone in it, and brought it back to the tower. Tony threw a party in celebration,” you explained, still laughing, as you reached over and tapped on the photo with a smirk across your lips. You were younger, but still you. Standing beside Natasha by the Avengers tower bar in that gorgeous black dress she’d bought for you, the slit on your thigh much too high for your age. “Nat had bought me that dress. To answer your question: yes, that is the one I mentioned.”
A low whistle left Johnny’s lips as he shoved the photo album to the side. His hands found the island chair you were seated on, spinning it before you could stop him and pressing your back into the edge of the counter, paperwork long forgotten. You didn’t mind, though, not when those heated hands found your sides as he stepped up into your space, dilated eyes roaming up and down your figure.
“These 21st century clothes really are going to be the death of me,”
“How do you think I feel?” you shot back, hands traveling up the bare skin of his arms until they caught the edges of the t-shirt sleeves handing around his biceps. Adorned in a t-shirt you’d stolen from Joaquín’s closet, as well as jeans and shoes you’d quickly ran to the local mall early in the morning to procure (along with clothing for the rest of the team), it was unfair how good Johnny Storm looked in clothing decades removed from his own. “21st century men’s fashion suits you. You should bring some back with you.”
“Nah, this stuff isn’t fireproof like my own clothes,” he shot back, lips pulled up on the edges into a soft smirk. Johnny leaned in, breath fanning out over your lips as, but never quite touching. “Besides, the only 21st century thing I care about is my 21st century girl.”
Another laugh left you, hands trailing up his arm until it cupped the heated skin of his cheek. You pinched at the skin lightly, giggling once more at the exaggerated wince he gave.
“Cheesy, Storm. Where’s that effortless charm? Have you gone soft these last few years?”
“Oh, darling,” fingers flexed against your hips, lips practically pressed to yours as he spoke. “I went soft the second you kissed me on the rooftop.”
A sigh of pure contentment fell from your lips the second Johnny fully surged forward, bringing you into a kiss. Soft, sweet, as if he was pouring every ounce of love he couldn’t show you for the last two years into it. It differed from every kiss you’d shared since that dinner the night before, the ones full of desperation and longing, the ones that seemed to consume you whole and fill your mind with nothing but thoughts of Johnny Storm.
You clung to him, lightly wet lips moving against his: slow, sensual, soft. His hands curled around to your back, pressing against your spine to bring you in as close as he could, though you weren’t sure there would ever be anything quite close enough. You let your hand thread back into his hair, tugging lightly to elicit a groan from his lips, head tilting to the side for a new angle as Johnny pressed forward more.
“Oh my god, were rounds one through five not enough for the two of you last night?”
Ben’s groans sounded through the living room, forcing you and Johnny apart. He didn’t let you stray far, arms staying locked around your waist and body still pressed into your personal space as you both tilted your heads in the direction of the others, just now walking into the room.
“You brought him to my universe because he was moping, and now that we’re together you all keep complaining,” you shot back at Ben with a teasing lit to your voice, able to see his eyeroll from across the room. “That’s so hypocritical of you.”
“In all fairness,” Sam’s voice shot in as he walked into the room, flanked by Sue and Reed as they donned their own 21st century clothing. “It was a bit overkill after round 2. I thought my ears were going to start bleeding.”
“Told you you should’ve put a spell on the room so they couldn’t hear us,”
Johnny’s comment, and subsequent nip at your earlobe, earned him another laugh and a shove against his chest. A small burst of blue magic from your hand sent him stumbling backwards, giving you enough space to hop off the chair and collect the paperwork on the counter behind you, stalking over to Sam to hand it to him in the living room.
Sam hummed, flipping through the paperwork to ensure everything was signed as needed. Johnny launched himself over the back of the living room couch, landing beside his nephew and ruffling his hair, as the others all settled into spots on the couch themselves.
“Looks in order,” Sam shot you a grateful nod, before passing over the data pad in his hands. The screen instantly lit up, flipping through multiple surveillance photos as you projected it onto the living room screen. “Had an informant send these over about an hour ago, wanted you to take a look and tell me what it looks like to you.”
“Looks to me like Sidewinder got out of jail early,” you shot back easily, flipping through the surveillance images across the screen. “Escaped, more like it. It probably didn’t take him long to find out we recovered those files yesterday. Seems like a simple enough job for you and Joaquín to handle.”
With the data pad placed back in Sam’s hands, you turned to face Johnny. His eyes trailed from the screen full of images back to you, raising an eyebrow in your direction.
“Please, don’t stop your day job just because we’re here,” he shot at you, along with a wink, holding his hands up beside him. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you go full superhero mode. I’m sure that suit looks real good in action-”
A wave of transparent energy flew across the room, the slight hues of the rainbow visible as the invisible field of energy slammed into Johnny’s shoulder, jolting him to the side. You covered your mouth to conceal your laughter, as did Sam, as Ben and Reed laughed at the look on Johnny’s face as he shot his sister an unimpressed look.
“Do you ever stop objectifying her?”
“It’s not objectifying her, it’s admiring her many assets,”
You shook your head, stalking out of the room with a grin to unplug your phone from its place on the kitchen counter. The sound of the others groaning floated through the room, along with Sam’s laughter.
“She’s relieved from superhero duty for the week while you guys are here, unless another purple alien decides to try and destroy the world,” the look you shot Sam over your shoulder was anything but impressed. He ignored it, though, shooting Johnny a smirk. “Joaquín and I can handle Sidewinder without her. Besides…it’s date night for you.”
By the time Johnny had fully turned in your direction, you were standing beside the island counter with a sly smile on your face. He didn’t get a single word out before that usual glow of blue enveloped your hand, and you gave a single flick of your wrist in the air beside you.
The room was practically bathed in energy and in the hues of blue that encompassed your magic as it essentially tore into the area, a long streak of pulsing magic hanging in the air beside you. With another flick of your wrist, it tore itself open, widening as a pulsing magic portal hung in the air.
Multiple pairs of eyes and smiles watched as Johnny crossed the room, staring at the shimmering blue magic in awe. His feet came to a stop just in front of you, his hand reaching out as he let his fingers drift right through the magic. Those blue eyes found yours, head tilting to the side slightly as a grin crossed his lips.
“Magic portals…that’s a new development,”
“It’s amazing what you learn to do when you actually read and learn from a book, instead of blindly performing a spell,” Johnny laughed lightly as you reached forward, poking him just slightly in the side, as you stepped closer to the portal itself. “Come on, like Sam said: it’s date night.”
That grin grew cheeky, Johnny’s eyebrows furrowing slightly as he hummed, nodding his head.
“Right, date night. Thought that was my job to plan the dates?”
“This isn’t the 60s, baby,” you shot back immediately. Reaching forward, you let your hand wind itself into the fabric of his t-shirt, before you stepped back through the portal and tugged him along with you before he could say another word.
Wind immediately whipped around your face, a familiar sensation, as the quiet of the D.C. compound was replaced with the hustle and bustle of the city. Johnny stumbled forward, feet stumbling as you laughed, holding onto his arms to keep him upright as he practically fell through the portal and to your side. His own hands gripped right back on your forearms, steadying himself as the portal snapped shut right behind you both with a flick of your fingers.
Johnny’s blue eyes were wide as he looked at you, before looking at the now closed portal behind him, and back to you once again. It was impossible not to laugh at the adorably shocked look on his face.
“I’m afraid you have to take us back,” was the first thing he said, hands leaving your arms to slide down onto your hips instead, tugging you against him. “I’ve warned you how incredibly hot using your powers is to me. That-That was unfair.”
“It was a portal, Johnny,”
“Still hot, my overpowered little witch,” his fingers pinched at your sides, eliciting another laugh out of you as you whacked lightly at his chest. The wind continued to whip around you both as Johnny squinted at the feeling of the air hitting his face. “Where the hell did you even take us?”
“Well,” you took a single step back, letting your hands find his own and lace your fingers through his. “I spent a year getting to know your New York. Thought you might want to see mine.”
It was then that Johnny turned his head, and you could see it in his eyes immediately: the awe at the sight laid out before you both.
New York was beautiful, in your world and his, but nothing quite compared to New York City as the sun was setting. Situated on the rooftop of a building down 8th Avenue, the entirety of the city skyline was laid out before you both. The oranges and pinks of the setting sun glinted off of every building, reflecting right back along Johnny’s face as he took a step toward the edge of the building, eyes still wide as he took in the sight.
You couldn’t tear your eyes from him. At the cascading colors that fell over his face. Every moment you looked at him, it was impossible not to think about how you had gotten to this moment. Crash landing in a universe so different, yet similar, to your own and his face being the first thing you saw. His face being the first thing you saw through every high and low moment for an entire year. The face of the man you didn’t mean to fall in love with, but stole your heart somewhere between late night breakfast and a drive-in movie.
“You know, I think you’re supposed to be looking at the skyline. Even if my face could be considered the eighth wonder of the world,”
Johnny’s voice snapped you out of your reminiscing, of your mind wandering over every second of the last three years of your life. His eyes were back on you, one hand still laced with yours, that soft yet cocky smirk on his lips. You rolled your eyes.
“That might be a bit of a stretch,” his hand left yours as you slotted yourself into his side without hesitation, curling around him. His hand came up to rest around your waist, and you could almost feel the way that he pushed some of his heat through his skin and into you as the cool, night air began to slowly set in. “I used to look at this skyline every day from this exact spot.”
You pointed off in the distance, and Johnny followed your finger toward the building you knew so well. It had lost the color it used to have, lost the giant glowing “A” that hung from the helicopter pad, but you recognized it all the same. All this time later and it was still the same structure, the same place you used to call home. Johnny gave a low whistle at the sight.
“Your old home might rival the Baxter Building,” his words were mumbled into the side of your head as he placed a kiss there gently, a feeling that all this time later could still send a cascade of butterflies crazy deep within your chest. “Is that what date night is? A sightseeing tour of the city I already live in?”
His comment earned him a pinch to the side, which earned you one in retaliation.
“Not entirely. I didn’t really have a plan, to be honest,” tilting your head back to look up at him, you gave him a tiny shrug in response. “I just…wanted to be with you.”
“Missed me that much?” he teased, even as his hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb gliding over the skin.
“More than I think I could ever explain,”
Your two New York Cities weren’t all that different, not once you were walking the streets down below and not up on the rooftops. Unlike Johnny’s, your own lacked the futuristic advancements and stylized buildings, but almost everything else laid out the same. The roads, where the buildings lay, even the colors of many of them.
The people were different. From the clothing, to the attitudes, those who walked the streets in your New York were vastly different from the ones who walked Johnny’s. Johnny Storm and the Fantastic Four could walk from Upper to Lower Manhattan and only be stopped a handful of times. The people of their world treated them like people, like normal citizens who could come and go as they pleased. You, on the other hand, were a spectacle. You were something to gawk at for those that recognized you, someone that they treated like a celebrity. It was something you tried to ignore, even if it felt impossible at times.
Hand resting in the crook of Johnny’s arm, you laughed as he took a sip of the boba tea you’d forced into his hands, begging him to try it. You watched him every second he held it, with every sip, as he too tried to decipher how he felt about the drink as groups walked past you on the sidewalks of the city as the sun fully set and the night set in.
“It’s not terrible,” Johnny finally came to a conclusion, passing the drink over to you so that you could take a sip from it as well. He wiggled his hand back and forth in a ‘so-so’ motion as he explained his thoughts. “It’s pretty sweet. Not sure how I feel about the little, floating balls at the bottom.”
“Tapioca pearls, Johnny,” you giggled back, taking a final sip of the drink before tossing it into one of the trash cans lining the sidewalk. “Pretty sure it was invented in the 80s, which is why you’ve never heard of it before.”
“I take you go-karting and to a dance hall, and you get me a chewy drink. I think I might have to give you a failing grade so far on this date,” your elbow dug into his side as he laughed, elbowing you right back. It grew quiet between you both for a moment, before he spoke up once more. “I went back there once, last year. To The Regent.”
You watched him as he spoke. That soft smile on his face, the fond one, as he reminisced. Looked back on the years without you, let you in on the memories.
“What was it like?”
“Felt empty,” he said simply, looking down at you with a shrug of his own. “It was the anniversary of our first date, I had refused to go the year before. Sue thought it could be good for me to go back, to think about the happy memories. But standing in there, without my pretty little witch on my arm, it felt like that whole place had lost its magic.”
It wasn’t hard to understand where he was coming from. You felt it too, in everything you’d done the last two years. The absence of him was loud.
“I woke up from a nightmare one time and couldn't fall back asleep. Joaquín found me at three in the morning attempting to make a milkshake in the compound kitchen,” Johnny’s eyes stayed locked with yours as you spoke. Even as a group of young adults, obviously in a rush to get somewhere for the night, shoved past you both. Even then, as their bodies collided with his shoulder, he never looked away from you. Hung off every word you spoke. “He thought I was insane, especially because I’d fucked up with the blender so badly there was ice cream everywhere. Told him about that one night at Griddles and Waffles, told him it was the only thing that seemed to help after nightmares.”
Johnny nodded, giving a low whistle. That soft smile on his face turned up into a smirk, his eyebrows wiggling as he leaned his head in closer to yours.
“If we’re going to make this a competition about which one of us was more pathetic the last two years, you might win-”
“As if!” you shot back with a laugh immediately, letting go of his arm to shove him to the side. Johnny laughed, his body bouncing back to your side immediately as you pointed a finger at him. “Ben told me this morning that you spent your birthday in that sweater that I bought for you!”
“It’s the softest thing! A pure cashmere sweater, bought for me by the love of my life. Sue me for enjoying the feel of it,”
You laughed again. Warm, genuine, one of the realest laughs you’d let out in years. It didn’t feel forced, you didn’t feel like you were trying to put on a show and pretend to me fine. You felt fine. You felt happy for the first time in so long.
Johnny’s hand was laced back in yours within seconds, and it never left it as you wandered the streets aimlessly. There was no objective in mind, there was just him. Just endless hours, endless possibilities, with just him at your side.
The streets gave way to the lush greenery of the park nestled between the high rise buildings. The trees rustled in the nighttime breeze. Leaves that had fallen to the ground crunched under your feet, breaking into a thousand little pieces as they broke apart. The sounds of the city could still be heard, bouncing between the buildings, but it was quiet. An elderly couple was walking the other end of the park together, a young family was just leaving the park, but other than them it was quiet.
Not much about the park was different, not since the last time you stood in it. The path was still paved in light grey concrete. The statue in the middle was the same, the edges of it decorated with different bushes and flowers than before. Benches still lined the area, illuminated by the soft light of the lamps surrounding the path. It felt like it had that night, three years ago.
You let Johnny’s hand slip from your own as you came to a stop, right in that same place in front of the statue you had been years ago. Johnny didn’t stop you, taking a few steps further along the path, simply looking around and admiring the sights of the falling leaves, of the buildings all around, before he finally turned back to look at you. Standing just feet away, in the same spot he was all those years ago. A smile seemed to cross his lips as he realized exactly where you both were, throwing his arms out to the side exaggeratedly.
“I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll,” it was impossible not to laugh at the performance that he was putting on, at the tone of his voice as he spoke. The most dramatic rendition of your first meeting, which had already been dramatic enough. Careful not to burn his non-fireproof clothing, Johnny lit just his hand on fire. “So why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”
In the same way you had all those years ago, you flicked your fingers, encasing his hand in that wall of blue magic. And years ago when you’d done it, he’d freaked out, tried everything to get it to go away.
This time? His eyes never left yours, full of nothing but love and adoration.
“No use trying, pretty boy,” you shot back, softer than the first time you’d ever said it. With another flick of your fingers, that magic dissipated with ease.
Johnny shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, taking a step closer to you. You took a set along the concrete wall surrounding the park’s statue behind you, crossing your legs out in front of you as you simply watched him. The way he bounced on the balls of his feet, the smile that never seemed to leave his face since the moment he’d seen you again.
“Pretty sure after that I made a comment about being turned on,”
“Oh, you did,” you laughed, shaking your head at the memory. Johnny sat down along the wall beside you as you turned your body to face him, poking a finger into his chest. “And for some reason, it worked on me.”
Before you could pull your hand away, he caught it in his own. Those blue eyes you adored never left yours as Johnny gingerly brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the pad of your finger, before pressing another one gently along your knuckles.
“Why…why does everything feel right the second I have you back?”
The question was heavy, holding the weight of a thousand things with it. In the quiet of the night, you let your fingers stretch out in his hold, ghosting over his cheek and jawline. He let his hand slip down to your wrist, keeping a hold on you, as you let yourself caress the skin beneath your fingertips.
“I don’t know,” it was the only answer you could give. “All I know is I meant what I said all those years ago. You’re my home, just as much as this earth is.”
Johnny smiled, turning his head for a moment to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, sending a flurry of soft heat through your skin and your veins themselves.
“What if we just tell the multiverse to fuck off?” The laugh you let out was soft, and Johnny’s own matched it. “No, seriously. Why does the universe get to tell us if we can be together? What if I’ve already decided that you’re it for me.”
“Because it put us in two different universes, Johnny. There’s no correcting that, as much as we want to. Not when us jumping between earths could alter the fabric of reality itself,”
“You spent a year with me, you’ve been back here for two, and the multiverse hasn’t fallen apart…as far as I know,” you shook your head, even as his hands took yours between them, letting them fall into your lap. “You came into my life and you fucked it up, baby. There is no amount of time, there is no multiversal distance, that will ever change the fact that I love you. I don’t care what the multiverse wants–I don’t care about the multiverse at all–or what fate and destiny want, I want you.”
Your lips quirked up on the side just slightly, into the tiniest of smiles. Fingers clutched between his hands, you let the pads of your fingers draw little circles into the soft skin of his palm.
“That’s selfish,”
“Don’t we deserve to be selfish?” he shot back. “The battle in New York, against the greasy haired god you always told me about–how old were you?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. Young. Too young, truly-”
“Exactly,” Johnny shifted, his face becoming serious. But you could see it in his features, those same nerves you’d seen on him before. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the way his hands fidgeted against your own. “You have dedicated your entire life to the people of your world, just like we did when we came back with cosmically altered DNA. That doesn’t mean we have to sacrifice everything, the things and the people we want, for them too.”
A sigh left your lips, your eyes trailing down to his hands. Watching the way his fingers fidgeted, the way the veins of his hands strained as he clenched up with every passing moment.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about it. Defying Wong, performing the spell you now knew how to perform so you could see him again. Taking off to their world, but this time, never coming back. But you loved what you did, you loved being a hero. For all this world had taken from you, it was still your home, still held people that you loved and cherished and needed. But you needed Johnny Storm as much as you needed them too.
“I’ve thought about it,” you spoke after a moment of silence. “I told you that the next time I saw you, I wouldn’t let you go. That we wouldn’t have to leave each other again. But you have a duty to your world, and I have a duty to mine. The stars have told us no, as much as I wish they’d tell us yes.”
Johnny grew quiet, those blue eyes never leaving yours, as you simply sat together. Holding hands, staring at one another, and letting the weight of the words settle between you both.
“Close your eyes,”
You didn’t argue. Your eyelids fluttered shut without another word, plunging you into darkness. Johnny’s hands left yours. You could hear the shuffling of fabric, the sound of a tiny chain rattling, before those warm hands hovered around your neck, the feel of a cool chain hitting your skin as his hands found their way back to his lap.
When you opened your eyes again, they landed on the silver chain now lying around your neck. It was the end of that chain that caught your eye, allowing what hung from the end to lie in your hand as you brought it closer, rolling it around in your fingers.
A simple silver band. A sparkling diamond, shaped into a square, resting in the middle. Smaller diamonds encrusted the band on either side of the main little gem, glinting in the soft moonlight of the park at night.
A wedding ring.
“It was our mother’s,” your eyes drifted back up to him, mouth hung open slightly in awe as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. His own were locked on the ring between your fingers, a soft grin stretched across his lips. “Before I found out that Reed invented time travel, Sue asked me if I’d ask you if she gave me her ring. I told her yes.”
“Johnny-”
“We have duties to our worlds as superheroes, I know. I’m not asking…as much as I want to,” his hands came up to cup around yours, the one still holding the ring, as his eyes found yours again. It felt as if the wind had been knocked from your chest, your lungs unable to draw in the air needed to breathe. “I just need you to have it, because there’s no one else that I’d ever give it to. Universe be damned, you are it for me, sweetheart. And if we can’t be together, I just need you to know that I am still 100%, unequivocally and irrevocably, yours.”
The tears that threatened to fall did in that moment, cascading down your cheeks and leaving a wet trail behind them. Johnny’s fingers caught them before they could fall too far, wiping them away.
“I-I don’t know,” were the first words you spoke after a moment of silence, of letting your tears fall. A watery smile grew on your lips, hints of a teasing tone finding their way into your voice. “What if the Silver Surfer comes back some day and professes her undying love for you?”
Johnny made a small hissing sound, squinting his eyes as he thought about it for a moment. He nodded them, giving you an apologetic smile that was threatening to let laughter break through as he let his fingers take hold of the chain around your neck again.
“Actually, that’s a great point. Maybe I should take this back-”
You launched yourself into him, lips colliding with his in a flurry of laughter from you both. Kiss after kiss you laid onto his lips was reciprocated in kind, the hands around your waist holding you firmly against him as you let your hands travel every piece of skin of his you could possibly touch. The smiles on your faces never faded, not through every move of lips against lips, or every kiss seared into skin.
Neither of you moved until the late hours of the morning, time spent right there in Johnny Storm’s arms as you recounted to one another every possible thing you could think of: dinners with Morgan, appearances on Ted Gilbert’s show, conferences with nations, one of Reed’s new designs knocking out the city’s power for an entire week.
That ring laid against your chest, feeling as if it was burning a hole through your sternum with every passing minute though, Johnny’s words never quite leaving your head.
Don’t we deserve to be selfish?
❤︎
A week wasn’t enough. You knew it the moment Wong said it. Seven whole days with Reed Richards, Franklin Richards, Ben Grimm, Sue Storm, and Johnny Storm would never be enough.
You made the most out of every single day, though. Of all 168 hours that you were gifted with the people who had become family to you.
Morgan Stark adored them, just as you knew she would. She had often asked you over the last two years to recount stories for her, to tell her about the man who could set himself on fire and the man who could stretch his body to his will. The second you’d strolled up to the door of the familiar cabin and she’d burst through the door, excitedly calling out the names of the people she’d only heard stories about, before dragging Franklin off to show him something in her room full of toys, you knew just how much she adored them. Getting to watch her drag Johnny outside and force him to play ‘heroes and villains’ with her was also the most adorable sight you’d ever seen.
Ben had found a comparable bakery to Maisie’s nestled in Hell’s Kitchen. It would never beat Maisie’s, you knew that, but you also could see the look of disbelief on Ben’s rocky face the second he’d bit into one of their world famous chocolate chip cookies.
Reed loved all the technology, fascinated by the advancements that your world had compared to theirs, even if some of their own technology surely rivaled the power of your own. He asked so many questions you were sure Sam’s head was going to explode at one point, taking both his wings and Joaquín’s wings to mess with them, trying to understand their mechanics and how they were built. The conversation surrounding vibranium had a look on Reed’s face that said he was determined to discover if their own universe hosted any deposits of the metal.
Sue just wanted to know the history. She wanted to know all your world had been through, all you had been through. Luckily for her, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, the debut exhibition that chronicled the entire story of The Avengers, had opened just months prior in the heart of New York. You’d walked them through it, through the photos and mementos on display and the memories: the battle against Loki, Sokovia and Ultron, the downfall of the Avengers, all the way to the arrival and defeat of Thanos. Sam took every opportunity to throw in an embarrassing story pertaining to you.
Johnny? He didn’t care for any of it. Not the cities, not the history, not a single thing besides you. There wasn’t a moment of any day where he willingly left your side. A warm hand resting on the small of your back, or curled around your hip rubbing circles into your skin, or fingers laced between your own. He was glued to your side, even if he had his moments where he was more like a thorn in it, unwillingly to let you out of his sight. Those crystal blue eyes were the first thing you saw every morning, and the last thing you saw every night, and there was nothing else that mattered to you than that.
You had filled those seven days with as much love for the Fantastic Four as they’d spent a year showing you. But through every moment, that lingering thought that when your time was up they’d have to leave again never left your mind. It had buried itself there, unwilling to move, constantly reminding you that your time with them was finite. That no matter how much you loved them, no matter how much you loved Johnny, he simply couldn’t be yours.
That ring still felt as if it was burning a hole into your sternum every time you thought about it.
“All systems are go for launch,”
Those were the words you had been dreading to hear. Standing in a field in Upstate New York, not entirely far from the ground that had held your former home, the compound, the Excelsior was uncloaked from the spell that Wong had put over it. It stood tall, the light of the sun glinting off of it, and all it did was fill you with dread.
Sam’s hand rested comfortingly against your back, rubbing soft circles into your muscles that were tensed tight, threatening to snap. The breath you took shuddered, your entire body shaking, as you saw them: Ben, Sue with Franklin on her hip, and Johnny stepped out of the ship and back onto the grass, wearing those white and blue spacesuits of theirs you’d never had the privilege of seeing in person. Reed stood not far from you, conversing with Wong in hushed tones, as the others made their way toward the area in which you stood.
“Don’t go crying on me now, witchy,” Joaquín shot at you, his tone teasing but still light, as he bumped his hip into your otherside. You spared him a single glance, the nail of your thumb resting between your teeth as the nerves radiated off of you. “You’ve been so vibrant–so fun–this last week, I don’t want to have the depressed version of you back.”
“Wow, you really do have a way with words,” Sam muttered just loud enough for the three of you to hear, shaking his head at Joaquín’s words. His hands traveled to your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “At least you got to see them again.”
Johnny’s eyes locked with yours as they fell into step beside Reed, all walking in your direction now.
“All so I could lose them again…as if I haven’t lost enough,” was all you could manage to say.
Reed shook hands with both Joaquín and Sam, thanking them for their hospitality over the last week. The pair thanked him back, wishing him safe travels, before moving on to Ben standing behind him.
Your eyes locked with Reed’s as he stepped up in front of you.
“It’s been nice seeing you again,” his voice was quiet, firm, as he gave you a small smile. “It was nice to see Johnny so…not mopey.”
His words gained a short laugh from you, along with a shake of your head.
“Just don’t go inventing any other forms of dimensional travel,” you shot at him lightly with a grin of your own. “I don’t want to hear that you went dimension hopping.”
Laughter was shared between both of you for a moment. Reed’s arms opened, and you stepped into them without hesitation. That burn in your eyes appeared almost instantly the second he wrapped his arms around you.
You let yourself sit in his hold for a moment, taking it in, as he muttered his next words right by the curve of your ear.
“I’ll see you soon,”
Reed pulled away without another word. Just a simple nod of his head before he backed away to stand off to the side. Your eyes followed him, a question hanging from your lips as your head cocked to the side at his words, but Ben was quick to saddle up to you and pull you into a crushing hug before you could.
“I fear bringing flame brain here was a terrible idea…I feel like he’s just going to mope more when we get home,”
You laughed, pulling back to look at the man before you with a wide grin, one that matched his own. With a pat to his shoulder, your smile fell just slightly as your mind drifted, eyes darting back to his.
“You told me once that the people I love will be waiting for me back home, no matter how long it took me to get there,” Ben nodded as you spoke those words he’d told you so long ago in the kitchen of the Baxter Building. “Will you guys be waiting for me, even if…if I can never get there?”
Ben’s smile softened, his rocky hand coming up to cup the side of your head. Stroking over your hair lightly, he gave you a tiny nod.
“You’ll find your way back to us, kid, I know it. I’m not sure there’s anything in this universe that could stop you from getting back to him,”
Those words hung with you for a moment as Ben stepped away, joining Reed in the distance. There was no reprieve from the goodbyes, not when Sue stepped up in front of you, adjusting Franklin on her hip.
A shuddering sigh fell from your lips, those tears burning once again in your eyes. Lip quivering, you laughed, unable to find the words to say as you fumbled to find the right thing to say.
“I-I don’t even know what to say,”
Sue only smiled, reaching forward and tugging you into a hug. You reciprocated without a second thought, wrapping your arms around both her and Franklin, the little boy’s arm slotting itself around your neck in a tight hug. The first tear finally fell at that moment.
“Thank you for loving him,” her voice spoke softly, just loud enough for you to hear. You pulled away, wiping at the tears on your cheeks as you gave her a watery smile.
“It’s a privilege, even if he’s a pain in my ass,” you shared a laugh, before you turned your gaze over to Franklin. The little frown on his face, the tears that were pooling in his own red rimmed eyes. He leaned into the hand you brought up to cup his cheek, pinching at the skin. “Hey buddy.”
“Hi auntie,” his voice broke a little bit as he spoke, and god you were terrified that was going to be what broke the dam holding back most of your tears. Pulling your hand back, you let a little ball of magic roam over your fingers again, watching the way the blue light lit up his face, illuminating that little smile it was able to bring to his lips for a split second. “I love you.”
You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you did so.
“I love you too, buddy,”
You weren’t ready to stand in front of Johnny Storm again. You weren’t ready to say goodbye. But the moment was here, and there was no running from it.
There were no tears this time. Not like the day you left, not like when you both cried into each other's arms, promising that it wasn’t a goodbye.
“Earth-616 is alright,” Johnny quipped. You could see the difference in him, though. It wasn’t the overconfident cockiness and teasing tone you were used to. It was more subdued, more quiet. “It’s got nothing on our earth, though.”
You laughed, those tears burning in your eyes, but this time refusing to fall.
“Sorry to disappoint. Did it have any redeeming qualities?”
“Just the one. It’s this pretty little witch that I still think put a love spell on me. I wish I could take her with me…”
No, this time was different. This time felt like a goodbye.
You stepped into Johnny’s arms without another word, curling around him. He did the same, glove covered hands cradling the back of your head as he pressed kiss after kiss to your forehead: soft, gentle, loving. You shut your eyes, basking in the feeling, wishing to stay in that moment for the rest of time.
“I really do want to be selfish,” you muttered out, eyes still shut as your hands curled into the fabric of his space suit. Johnny’s laugh was light, reverberating against your skin as he kissed your forehead again.
“You won’t be. There’s not a selfish bone in your body, unlike me,” one of his hands slid down to the back of your neck, tilting your head back just enough that when your eyes popped open, you were looking up at his smiling face. “Guess we’re just destined to be star-crossed lovers.”
You made a face of disgust, a giggle falling from your lips as you shook your head.
“Absolutely not. That’s, like, Romeo and Juliet type shit,”
“Weren’t they madly in love like us?”
“Yeah, but star-crossed lovers always end in tragedy. You know…like those two dying?”
“Hm, that’s a good point,” Johnny’s grin grew, his gloved hand rubbing back and forth against the skin of your neck. “Soulmates, then.”
Soulmates. A trivial word, a cliche one, a word you had never really thought of until Johnny Storm had just uttered it between you both.
Your love for him hadn’t appeared at first sight. It sunk into you with every passing moment, with every chance you got to see behind the curtain at the man behind the Human Torch. A love that had rooted itself so deeply inside of you that you knew you’d never love someone else the same way. A love that came so suddenly and unexpectedly, in the height of everything you’d ever lost. Your family, your best friend, your home was all torn away from you in a matter of years to the point where you felt lost. You’d lost little pieces of yourself along the way. Until you’d crash landed in that park, and Johnny Storm waltz into your life with an arm on fire, and helped you rebuild new pieces for the ones you had lost.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, but right on time.
You took one of his hands in yours, grasping that gloved hand in your bare palms. Your eyes never left him as you laid that hand right over the center of your chest, so he could feel the beat of your heart right underneath the diamond ring, still dangling on that chain tucked under your clothes. His hands curled in on itself slightly, grasping at that ring, as a bright smile lit up your face.
“Soulmates,”
You crashed into one another without another word, lips finding lips, falling into the feel of one another again. His hand curled around your waist to tug you as close as humanly possible, the other never moving from the outline of that ring. Yours curled into his hair, lips moving desperately against his as you tried to memorize every single bit of him: the soft skin of his lips, the warmth that bloomed under his skin, the feel of every strand of blonde hair between your fingers.
It was only when air was fighting to enter both of your lungs that you finally parted. Foreheads pressed together, noses just barely brushing, breathing heavily into the shared space between you both.
“I love you,” Johnny whispered one final time.
“I love you too. Always,” you whispered back.
The second he pulled away, almost having to drag himself out of your arms, you could feel it. That ache in your chest was back, those pieces of you threatening to break away again.
Sam and Joaquín were back at your side in seconds, each with a hand resting on your back as Wong stood off to the side.
The Fantastic Four walked up the ramp of that ship, casting one last look back at you, before the doors shut them in.
With a shaky hand, you tugged that chain out from under your clothes, grasping that diamond ring in your hand. You let the feel of it try to ground you, running your finger back and forth across every ridge and bump of each and every diamond.
You didn’t stop as the engines of the Excelsior roared to life. You only gripped the ring harder, never letting go. Even when the ship disappeared into the atmosphere, nothing more than a blip in the sky
The wind settled, the trees and grass stopped rustling in the wind created by the ship, as the entire field was plunged back into quiet. It was then that you turned to Sam, eyes red rimmed as the tears began to fall, breaths uneven and short as you tried to take in a deep breath.
“I-It’s not fair,” you barely managed the words out as Sam nodded his head, turning your body fully toward him.
“I know-”
“H-Haven’t I given enough?” you hiccuped through the words, almost sobbing by the end of it. That ring was still grasped tight in your palm, digging its shape into your skin. “Haven’t I-I lost enough?”
“You have-”
“Nat, Tony, Steve, Wanda, a-and now I can’t even have him-” a sob finally tore through your throat as Sam tugged you into him, burying your head into the crook of his neck as you sobbed. One hand gripped his t-shirt, while the other refused to let go of the ring. “I-I’ve given this world everything a-and I can’t even have this! It just keeps taking, and taking, and taking from me.”
Sam simply shushed you, hand cupping the back of your head as he let you cry. For the people you’d lost, the life you’d given up in service of the world, and for the man you loved that you let walk away.
It was a pain you couldn’t describe. A pain that only a hero would know: the sacrifice of a hero.
“Do you remember when Steve Rogers chose Peggy?”
Wong’s voice cut through the air, the only words spoke in the silence of the field amidst your cries. Sam’s hand on your head paused, the hand Joaquín had placed against your shoulder blades froze.
You pulled away, a mess of tears still littering your face as you wiped them away. Your chest still heaved, struggling for air, as you watched Wong. He stood in front of all three of you, hands clasped behind his back, that same stoic look on his face not giving away a single thing.
“W-What does that have to do with-”
“Rogers’ choice should have broken the sacred timeline. It should have created an alternate reality, started an incursion that destroyed the timeline as we know it. It didn’t,” Wong took a single step forward. Sam’s hand glided down, resting against your back, as you all turned toward the Sorcerer Supreme. “His choice did not break the timeline, it did not create a new reality, it simply worked. It defied the rules of time travel. It worked because that is the way it was written, that is how his story was always meant to end.”
You cocked your head, wiping away the trails of tears under your eyes once more as you shook your head.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because neither of you broke anything either,”
Wong’s hands flourished through the air in front of you all, shimmering in that familiar yellow and gold of magic. Hanging in the air in front of you all were two lines of pulsing, deep orange energy, stretching parallel to one another from one end of the field to the other, disappearing between the trees. Little stars almost seemed to twinkle in the spaces around the streams of energy.
“These are flows of time. This one represents us here, on Earth-616. This one represents Earth-828…their world,” you gingerly took a step forward, hand hovering over the flows of time pulsating in the air, Sam and Joaquín still glued to your sides as Wong pointed along the streams. “When something interrupts that flow of time, interrupts what is meant to happen, that branch splits. This creates alternate timelines, this creates incursions that can destroy the multiverse. I studied your time on Earth-828 for the last two years, trying to make sense of the year you spent there. Both of these branches should’ve been splintered, breaking apart at the seams: ours because it didn’t have you, and theirs because it had someone it wasn’t supposed to. These branches never split. Not once.”
The gears were turning in your head, but not fast enough. Wong continued on, waving his hand as the flows of time shifted, moving down until he stopped those streams of energy in the air at a new point.
“This section represents now, and the last seven days. I have studied these, night and day, since they arrived on this earth. I have waited for a single piece to break, for a single part to crack, but it never did. You didn’t break their timeline, and they didn’t break ours, for the same reason that Steve Rogers didn’t break it either…because it was always meant to happen,”
It was still hard to catch your breath, and it was harder then in that moment as Wong spoke those words: always meant to happen.
Your eyes widened a fraction, lips parting as your jaw went slack as the weight of his words settled in on you. Sam let out a breathless laugh from beside you, and Joaquín muttered an ‘oh shit’ just barely under his breath. Your legs felt numb, your hands were beginning to shake as you gripped onto the chain in your hand, looking up at Wong.
“I…I was always meant to meet Johnny?”
Wong waved his hand, the flows of time dissipating in front of him, as his hands settled behind his back once more.
“I have kept you apart, forbade you from performing that spell again, in the interest of protecting the timelines. In the interest of protecting the multiverse. All I have done, though, is stand in the way of something that was always meant to be,” for a fraction of a second, Wong’s lips quirked up into a miniscule smile. “There is no fundamental proof that soulmates exist in the vast multiverse, but if there was, you two would be the best example there is.”
Sam launched into a thousand questions, the logistics of it all. Could you freely travel between worlds? Could travel, eventually, break the flow of time? Every question that you knew needed to be answered, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
Not when you opened the palm of your hand, and that diamond ring was glinting back up at you in the light, and Johnny’s voice could be heard in your head.
Don’t we deserve to be selfish?
❤︎
Johnny Storm wasn’t the same man he was three years ago. He knew that.
He had searched for love in all the wrong places all his life, finding it with the wrong people. He’d taken on the public persona of a playboy, the kind of man who would never settle down, when that’s all he wanted. He wanted the life, the love, the family that Sue and Reed had built together. It was all he’d ever wanted, but something he never thought he’d find.
Then, you appeared.
The witch from another universe, holding a power that could quite literally kill him if he didn’t watch his mouth. You matched his wit, you ignored his charms, and you fell in love with the version of him he was sometimes afraid to show the world. The version of him that he wanted someone to love. You’d done it so easily, too, captured his heart somewhere between that day in the park, that night with the milkshakes, and that late night on that New York rooftop.
You had changed him in a way he could never understand, fundamentally at his core. His entire life was changed irrevocably the second you had turned around in that park and looked at him.
“We’ve been home for two hours and you’re sulking already,”
Johnny rolled his eyes at Ben’s comment, picking at the pieces of meat in his to-go Chinese container before flicking them across the table at Ben. Franklin laughed from his seat at the moment as Johnny shot Ben a smirk, laughing along with his nephew as the man threw the stray pieces of meat back onto the table.
“I’m not sulking-”
“You haven’t said a single word since dinner arrived,” Ben shot back. Johnny opened his mouth, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t come up with one. “Yeah, exactly. That’s what I thought.”
“Give him a break, Ben,” Sue told him gently, reaching over to pat his arm as she took another bite of one of the pieces of chicken in her own container. “Not every day you have to say goodbye to the woman you love.”
“I still vote we should’ve left him there with her,”
Johnny barely looked up from his food, just shooting a little ball of fire in the direction of Ben, burning the meat currently on his chopsticks to a crisp in seconds. Franklin laughed even louder at the sight from the other end of the table, as Sue shot her brother a look that screamed for him to behave.
He was trying not to sulk, but it wasn’t easy. Not when he could already feel himself forgetting the feel of your skin, the scent of your perfume, or the exact shade of your eyes.
At that moment, Johnny let his eyes drift to Reed. Sitting across from him at the table, just as quiet as he had been the entire dinner. Reed glanced up, looking back down, before double-taking to meet Johnny’s eyes.
“What?”
“I’ll admit, I’ve been quiet, but you’ve been way quieter. It’s weird,” Johnny threw his container down, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in the dining room chair. “Thought you’d be talking about the success of the trip, or about how much cooler some of their technology is and how you want to recreate it and totally not wipe out all the power on the Eastern half of the country in the process.”
Sue gave a small hum of agreement to Johnny's comment, but Reed only shrugged, averting his eyes down to his plate. The shifty behavior set Johnny off immediately, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward.
“What’s going on in that supersized brain of yours?”
Reed made a move to comment, when the watch on his wrist beeped. It was that same alert, that familiar sound that Johnny had heard so many times before. That day in Gramercy Park, that day in the lab…Reed only smiled, silencing the alert and taking another bite of his food.
“Uh, stretch?” Ben jabbed his thumb in the direction of Reed’s watch. “Is everything good there?”
“Nothing I wasn’t already expecting,” Reed glanced back up at Johnny, nodding toward the stairs behind him. “Why don’t you freshen up for the night since you’re obviously not eating anything else. We’ll handle the dishes.”
The three adults around the table exchanged curious glances, confusion prevalent among everyone at that moment. Johnny was tired, though, and he wasn’t going to fight him on it.
The dining room chair squeaked against the floors as Johnny left the rest of his family at the table, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Franklin’s head, before leaving the room. Ascending the stairs, trying not to let his mind wander to the thousand moments that were littered in every square inch of this building of you.
Maybe he needed to move out of the Baxter Building. He was only going to be depressed for the rest of his life if he lived in a building crawling with memories of you hidden in every crevice.
The door of his bedroom was already slightly ajar. Johnny barely paid it any mind, swinging it open without a second thought as he entered the darkened room.
He’d yet to set foot in his room, not since the day they’d left a week ago to traverse the multiverse. The polaroid of you both was still lying on his bed, right where he’d left it, your handwriting still magically scribbled across the bottom half.
Unequivocally yours.
Johnny held it in his hands, letting his thumb brush over the words for a moment. Smiling, letting the memory of you satiate his broken heart for just a moment.
“Hi,”
The photo fell from his hands the second he heard it, that voice. All it took was one word, and he knew it. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t trust his own head. There was no way what he was hearing was real.
But there you were. Standing by that record player, the soft light of the moon through the windows streaming in, illuminating you from the back. You looked the same as you had hours ago in that field. The same clothes, the same hair, the same little smile on your face. The same woman he loved.
Johnny’s breath was caught in his throat. His mouth opened and closed, trying to find the words, stumbling over himself. Your smile only grew, hands tucked behind your back.
“...did you fuck up a spell again?”
You laughed, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, teeth digging into the plush pink of your bottom lip for a split second.
“More like performed it right,”
The shock on Johnny’s face, somehow, grew more prevalent. He wasn’t sure if his brain had fully caught up with the sight before him, if he had fully processed that it was you standing in front of him yet. He’d left you, he’d said his goodbye, but here you were.
“You purposefully came here?” you nodded your head. “Isn’t that, like, against everything the monk dude has been drilling into you for the last two years?”
“That’s the thing,” you shook your head, taking another step forward until you were on the single step that led off that elevated platform in the center of his room. “Apparently Wong was wrong.”
“He was wrong? Sounds like something he wouldn’t like,”
“Not at all,” the giggle you let out shot straight into his veins, Johnny’s body almost feeling weightless at the simple sound. “It’s…it’s complicated. I’ll explain everything to you, I promise, because it’s complicated.”
Johnny took a single step forward, still hesitant, still unable to believe the sight in front of him.
“How complicated?”
“Let’s just say that, when I call my world my home but you my home too, I’m not wrong,” you gave a tiny shrug, accented with a grin. “But for now, let me just answer the question I never did the other night…yes, we do deserve to be selfish.”
Johnny didn’t need to question your words, not when you took your hands out from behind your back and held your left hand up into the light in front of him: that diamond ring, the same one that always sat on his mother’s hand, glinting in the light and reflecting off the walls, now sitting on your finger.
Every question died on Johnny’s lips at that moment. He didn’t need to ask any questions, not when that simple action spoke a thousand words. He knew, in that moment, at least a semblance of what it was you were trying to say.
A squeal left your lips as Johnny practically rushed at you. His arms wound around your waist, squeezing the life out of you while yours clung to his shoulders for even just a moment of balance. He spun you, your laughter floating through the air as he finally let your feet touch the ground again.
Johnny’s hands cupped your cheeks, cradling your face as he looked down at you. Astonished, adoring, completely and utterly in love. Your hands laid on top of his, and he couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn straight to that ring once again.
“Better late than never on that third rule, right?” you laughed, smile wide, as the tip of Johnny’s nose bumped the tip of yours. “I think the last name Storm will suit you nicely.”
“I think so too,” you shot right back, squeezing affectionately at his hands as your face scrunched up just slightly, smile still impossibly wide as you looked up at him.
And when his lips found yours, when his hands trailed down your sides and tugged you in, and when you fell back against the comforter of his bed in a heap of laughter of pure love as the sound of his family bounding up the stairs echoed in the hallway, Johnny had never felt more at peace. More at home. More loved.
Multiverse be damned, he loved you, and Johnny Storm was never letting you go. You were unequivocally, and irrevocably, his.
Wordcount: 21.531k
Warning: Contains Smut
Summary: You leave your quiet hometown for the bowels of a dazzling, slightly chaotic Boston, in the hopes of reinventing yourself. But old habits die hard and your taste in men remains predictably disastrous. (Who knows? Maybe this one doesn't need any fixing?)
Rhett Abbott
The Disappointment Club
"Oh, why didn't you say so? Always a pleasure to meet a fellow embarrassment."
Wordcount: 13.239k
Warning: Contains Smut
Summary: After a rough couple of years in California, you move to the quiet pastures of Wabang to work in your sister's bakery, finding solace in the life she's built for herself there. A fresh start would've been a lot easier if a certain six-foot, blue-eyed cowboy hadn't waltzed into the shop with his Stetson pulled low.
Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!
Summary: After a rough couple of years in California, you move to the quiet pastures of Wabang to work in your sister's bakery, finding solace in the life she's built for herself there. A fresh start would've been a lot easier if a certain six-foot, blue-eyed cowboy hadn't waltzed into the shop with his Stetson pulled low.
Wordcount: 13.239k (sorry)
Warnings: SMUT! (it gets filthy pls don't look at me - oral sex f!receiving, fingering, handjob, spit play??, corny dirty talk), Soft Dom!Rhett Abbott, Possessive!RhettAbbott, Sub!Reader, Sub Space (adjacent? Sub-space-ish?), Mentions of Daddy Kink, Massive Praise Kink, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Porn with a lot of Plot, Angst (can't write anything without it lmao), Fluff, Humor, Slow Burn, Mentions of Drug/Alcohol Use, Implied Bar Fights, Reader has a troubled past, CORNY THIS GETS SO CORNY.
A/N: (this is my belated unsolicited two cents on the Sabrina Carpenter album cover discourse, like let a woman SUB BRO let a gal be a whiny bottom!) Yes, I've been temporarily Rhett-Abbott-pilled...Yes, I've been yee-haw-ed so hard...this was a one-time thing to exorcise my demons
The Disappointment Club
The first time you saw Rhett Abbott, you were behind the counter of your sister’s bakery, piping lemon-thyme curd onto a fresh batch of muffins with the precision of someone who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a piping bag—or a convection oven; or anything sharp, really; anything inside of a bakery, possibly.
“So, you’re the new hire?” The man said, all six feet, Wyoming drawl, and his Stetson pulled so low all you could see was his mouth.
You were about to speak up when a glob of curd plopped onto your boot.
“That’s my little sister, Rhett,” Maya warned, kicking open the swinging doors as she emerged from the kitchen, a batch of mint-green pastry boxes piled in her arms. “So you better not get any funny ideas.”
“Alright, I hear you.” He huffed a low laugh, rifling through his wallet before handing your sister a couple of bills. “I’ll make sure to keep my ideas void of humor.”
“Good, and keep them to yourself while you’re at it. Greet your mom for me!” Maya added with biting faux sweetness that had haunted you throughout your childhood. She handed him the pastry boxes, and the two of you watched in silence as he lumbered out of the bakery. The ding of the shop bell, the cuff of his boots on the tiles. He looked back once through the shop windows, the brim of his hat revealing a surprisingly tender face. The shape of it there, for a moment, in a soft bar of sunlight—before he disappeared from view.
You lowered the piping bag and took a long breath.
“Don’t even start.” Maya thwacked you with a dish towel.
“Who the fuck was that?”
“Someone you will not get involved with.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cowboy McDreamy—”
“Stop. Don’t start with your funny ideas.”
“My ideas are famously hilarious.”
“Trust me. Rhett Abbott’s the type of guy who goes for buckle bunnies and tourists—"
"Buckle-what?"
"—and you are very much neither, so how about you make sure those blueberry muffins don’t look like someone assembled them with their eyes closed, hm?” She cocked a brow at your army of malformed swirls. You scoffed.
“You know what?” Defiantly, you lifted the piping bag and proceeded to squirt the rest of the curd into your mouth—before scrambling to the back, dodging your sister's ardent attempts at skinning your ass raw with a dish towel.
· · ❁ · ·
The second time you saw Rhett Abbott, you were on a date at The Longhorn. It was the only bar in town that had decent enough beer and a dancefloor that wasn’t slick with liquor and vomit past ten PM.
Your sister had set you up: He was the son of the game warden, Adam or Adrian (you’d long forgotten), awkward but polite, built like a shy greyhound, and stealing glances at your cleavage in intervals growing shorter and shorter the further he worked his way down a bottle of Budweiser.
He wasn’t terrible company, patiently listening to you talk about the weather and how much you missed San Diego and your current hyperfixation on the baby goat that lived on the farm next door to your sister’s place. It has three legs, so they built her this tiny prosthetic, so she can walk properly. They named her Tres, as in Tres Leches, get it? Isn’t that the most adorable fucking thing you’ve ever heard in your whole entire fucking life?
You tried to ignore Adam-Adrian’s audible sigh of relief when you got up to grab another round of beers. Maybe you’d get yourself something stronger. Or maybe you’d find a good enough excuse to call it a night, and you would’ve, you really, really would’ve if you hadn’t bumped your shoulder into none other than Mr. Cowboy McDreamy himself.
He’d swapped the Stetson for a washed-out baseball cap. Jaw hard and stubbled, nose a long slender slope in the lights reflecting off the dancefloor.
“Hey there, Shortcake.” His quirk of a smile that aged him backwards.
Shortcake.
It wouldn’t have worked anywhere else, with anyone else, but you were a lightweight two beers in, and you liked the way the light hit his eyes, clear blue, like a drop of rain on a car window.
You would’ve said something cheeky, something about having funny ideas—but he cut you off: “He sure seems like a good time.”
Tipping his chin towards Adam-Adrian slouched in the booth like a lonely sapling.
You didn't like the way he'd said it. You knew men like Rhett Abbott, and you knew what happened when you let them into your life. “You know what,” you said, “he is, actually. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Rhett’s eyebrows lifted once, then smoothed out. “Okay.” He took a swig of his beer. “Got it.” Like something had been settled between you two.
· · ❁ · ·
The third time you saw Rhett Abbott, your sister’s husband, Jonah—Like the actor! Oh, and the book! Ha-ha! (which had gotten old the first time he’d said it)—took you out to the rodeo grounds.
You and your sister had grown up in San Diego, amongst beaches and high-rises and palm trees lining manicured promenades. A place of juice cleanses and electric scooters. Men riding bulls in an arena had seemed unthinkable to you; something arcane, something forgotten.
The rusty roofing of the grandstands shaded the crowd from the setting sun, its light disappearing behind the mountains, the endless sprawl of the valley. Everyone was buzzing, solo cups swishing beer, kids pressed up against the railing. A glossy nimbus of girls in cowboy boots and jean shorts chirped drunkenly one rung below. Every once in a while the PA crackled with the rumbling voice of the announcer, “Aaaaand here we go, folks! Big Joe out the gate, looking strong. Ah! Look at that spin, folks, right in the pocket—”
As a middle-school teacher, Jonah was forever sweet and excited about anything. Even bull riding, it seemed. He explained bull ropes and suicide grips, rattling down the names of the upcoming bulls in the pen. “—okay, so there’s Rotten Dynamite, rankest motherfucker you’ll ever see. Then there’s Terminator. Oh! And Iron Dome! We love Iron Dome. Blind in one eye, bucks like a whipcrack. Heard Rhett’s riding him tonight—”
Everyone knew Rhett Abbott rode bulls. The framed picture of him and his dad hung above the bar at The Longhorn, the two of them triumphantly holding up a big-buckled belt, the hard set of their twin jaws. People in Wabang rode bucking horses and lassoed cattle, wore their hats to the pharmacy and the supermarket, and hauled feed on their way to church. Old buildings still had hitching posts that cracked and blistered in the sun, like in a Western.
Rhett riding bulls wasn’t a surprise—but seeing it was.
When the chute slammed open, you imagined something inside the crowd opened with it. Iron Dome, with its roiling beastly body, black as a hole in the floodlights, thundered into the arena. Dirt spraying. Crowd shouting. Rhett’s slender body meeting each jerk and heave and lunge, face hidden beneath the wide brim of his Stetson. The crowd surged forward all at once, a wild energy shuttling through it like a wave. Jonah hollered next to you, pumping a fist into the cool evening air.
Five seconds, six seconds—
Seven point one.
Rhett's body bending back, bow-tight, arm flung as high as the kick of the bull’s hind legs. Fused in perfect symmetry, their golden ratio like something painted.
You flinched when Rhett’s arm snagged on the rope, and when Iron Dome finally lashed him off, and he went flying into the dirt—whatever had settled between you two, all at once, unsettled itself.
· · ❁ · ·
During the biggest fight you’d ever had with your sister, she’d called you a human hand grenade with the propensity for blowing up your life more than you could afford to. Which…okay, fair.
People never expected you to be difficult or complicated or messy. You didn’t look it. Most of the time you didn’t even act like it. Until you slipped up, and slipped up some more, and then the slipping up turned into something big, and the big thing turned into something unstoppable.
Your mom had been the only one to describe it right, she’d understood, and in a moment of rare clarity that tore through the molasses of her medication, she’d whispered it to you like this:
It comes in waves—until eventually the tide stops receding.
You’d arrived in Wabang with a duffle bag, wearing a rumpled sundress and hiking boots.
Jonah had picked you up from the bus station with an excited grin and a too-tight hug. Maya had made you chicken and waffles, like when you were kids.
Back then, she'd made it whenever Mom was at her worst, when she was passed out for days, barricaded in her room like a pharaoh in a tomb. Chicken and waffles usually meant things were shitty and couldn't get much shittier. It also meant you'd skip school and spend the day at the mall down Fifth, where the sun slanted through the glass dome in the food court, made it all hot and damp like a terrarium, and the two of you would pretend to be salamanders lazing on the bench by the churros stand, T-shirts covered in cinnamon and sugar and delight.
Wabang felt like those afternoons in the mall. Wabang was supposed to be the place where you got better.
You stuck to your routine, you made your bed, you ate enough and drank enough, you slept and woke on time, you went to work, you stuck to beers and cigarettes, you read and wrote and you fed the chickens in the garden, you always came back home.
One afternoon, sitting on the porch staring out at the endless bowl of the valley, Maya handed you the keys to the bakery. “I want you to open up the shop. Four-thirty AM on the dot. You think you're up for it?”
“Are you kidding?”
Tomorrow was going to be a day so big, even Jonah was stopping by to help. They’d prepped the order for the wedding on Willow Ridge all week. Maya had even pulled an all-nighter the day before. It was a big deal, and she trusted you enough to be a part of that big deal.
Trusted you enough to be a part of this life that she'd built so far away from the mall down Fifth, from mom—from you.
Smiling carefully, you reached for the keys. Maya snagged them away, narrowing her eyes. “Don't eat all the frosting, you little shit.”
“Not making any promises.”
She tossed the keys and you caught them.
You felt like a saint anointed, like someone had tapped a sword to your shoulder, and you glowed with it, and your sister was so beautiful in the sun, and you’d said thank you, and you’d promised you’d do good.
You’d be good.
Maybe you deserved to celebrate being so good.
It was a Friday night after all, and you were bored and maybe a little sad, and maybe you were exhausted from following all these rules you were trying to build your life around. And so you rode the rusty bike Jonah had dug up from the bowels of their garage all the way to The Longhorn. And what started with a beer, ended with a bottle of whiskey and a joint on the back of someone’s pickup. Tame in comparison to what you'd once done on a Friday night, or on any night, really.
So it was fine, right? It was going to be fine.
There was a girl with a shiny blonde mane and pink-chrome nails, her deep, lovely croon when she called you “—so fucking pretty, baby girl.” You missed feeling like this. You missed saying yes and yes and yes, bursting from it, unstoppable. You might’ve kissed her, but you weren’t sure, you might’ve wanted to marry her, which sounded about right, and you wanted to tell her this, to confess it to her and hold her soft pink-chrome-tipped hands...
The next thing you knew, you woke up next to your bike in the flatbed of a pickup, in a driveway you didn’t recognize, in a part of town you weren’t familiar with.
Head pounding, throat sore. Five missed calls from your sister. It was Saturday. It was noon.
You were still drunk when you reached the green-and-pink awning of Sweet Pea’s, its buttery cream trim like frosting. Inside, the bakery was buzzing with a barrage of patrons on the sunniest Saturday Wabang had seen in weeks. At the counter, Maya didn’t speak to you. Instead she sent you straight to the back where you threw up once in the sink and once in front of the convection ovens.
“Give me the keys,” Maya ordered, and you patted yourself down, before you remembered you’d stuffed them into your boot. She told you to go home, that she didn’t want to see you today. Jonah promised that everything would be fine, that Maya just needed a minute. Get cleaned up, he’d said. It’s gonna be okay, he’d said. But he hadn't looked so sure.
You hadn’t been good.
You hadn't been good at all—
Head throbbing more than it had before, you dragged your shitty bike through town. You rode until the sparse sprinkling of houses turned into open fields, pastures flat and endless. You struggled down a lonely dirt road, sweat spilling down your back, your chest, your face, stinging your eyes, you were hot, you were so hot, and your arms shook from the rattling of the uneven ground.
The road stopped abruptly at a rusty fence. You dropped your bike and climbed through the wide gaps between the bars. Marching through the field that stretched on forever, an ocean’s worth of it, green, dry, pricking at your bare legs, the afternoon sun battered you like judgment. You kept wading forward until you couldn’t get yourself to, until unceremoniously, with the theatrics of a very hungover and very disgraced saint, you collapsed into the shade of a lonesome tree.
You were sure then that you’d reached the end of the world, that you were so far away from anything and anyone, and that here, like this, finally, no one would hear you.
When was the last time you cried?
Covered in sweat and dirt, possibly still drunk and possibly still high, key-less, wretched, useless, melodramatic, sobbing, gasping for breath.
It comes in waves—
“Look, I don’t mean to bother you, but this here’s private land.”
You’d heard it too late.
The horse, the gentle pelt of its hooves in the field. It’s puffs of breath. A man’s low murmured, easy, girl.
You refused to open your eyes, feeling like a child, as you flopped onto your side to turn away.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“You doin’ alright?” His voice softer then.
“I’m fine,” you murmured into the grass. The buzz of a bug on your cheek. You slapped it away.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, just—” sunbathing? contemplating? “—having an existential crisis. I’m almost done.”
A sound like a huff or a scoff, a swallowed-down laugh maybe.
“Do you need me to call someone?”
“Just give me a second.” Pressing your hands to your face, you took long breaths, waiting for that big bawling bone-pelting agonizing throb of exhaustion to settle down. “Okay,” you finally said. “I’m finished.”
Turning towards him, there he sat, high upon his noble steed like a cowboy in a story. With his brows scrunched beneath his Stetson, he was a man fully unprepared to stumble upon some sobbing wildling on a Saturday morning.
You weren’t sure if he recognized you. You didn’t care. You’d lost your capacity for public shame a long time ago.
“Right. I’ll leave. Uh—sorry.” You got up, wobbling there like a newborn calf, shaking out the damp hem of your dress, before heading down the path you’d trampled into the grass.
“Wait,” he called out. “Do you want me to bring you back?”
The thought of getting on a horse made bile rise in your throat. You weren’t going to risk throwing up a third time.
“No, thank you,“ you shouted.
He followed you all the way back to the fence, the steady trot of his horse in the distance. You felt his stare across the field, hot and strange on the back of your neck as you peeled your bike off the road and headed home.
It was the fourth time you’d seen Rhett Abbott, and you’d prayed it was the last.
· · ❁ · ·
“Hey there, Shortcake.”
God didn’t like you very much apparently.
You swallowed, hunching lower behind the display case where you were restocking the cardamom cinnamon rolls.
Rhett was tall enough to lean over it. “You feelin' better?”
So he had recognized you.
Standing up straight, you cleared your throat. “All my demons have been temporarily exorcized, thank you.”
“Hm.” He huffed a laugh, that quick smile of his that made him all boyish. “Reckon I should try that sometime.”
“Well, I highly recommend hysterically crying on someone else’s property. It’s very cathartic—”
“That you, Rhett?” Maya shouted from the back.
“Yes, ma’am.” He straightened.
“Just gimme a sec, I’ll grab your mom’s order.”
You busied yourself with wiping down the countertop before your sister caught you fraternizing with the one person in Wabang that needed to be left un-fraternized with.
The two of you had only recently regained some common ground, and part of that truce was the unspoken rule that you please, please, please not obsess over the wrong people.
Rhett Abbott wasn't wrong per se; he just wasn't very right either.
Rhett’s shadow spread across the counter as he leaned over the display case again, close enough you caught the waft of his cologne, the unbearable blue of his gaze. You swallowed. His attention trailed down your throat. When he smiled again, it was soft, it stayed there for a while. His voice low then, “There’s a rodeo tonight. You should come. If none of us break any bones, we'll head to The Longhorn.”
You stared at the spot where the worn collar of his denim jacket pressed into his neck.
“I’ll think about it.” You said it to that spot.
“Good.” He said it to your mouth.
Good.
You’d found out long ago that there was one word that could make you do anything for anyone.
Just one word—and you were piled in the truck bed of Rhett’s Chevy Silverado, squeezed against the cab with some of his old friends from high school, your legs slung over the lap of a woman who’d known Rhett since kindergarten and who had the sweetest gap-toothed grin you’d ever seen in your life. You told her so, and the gap between her teeth seemed to grow with pride.
Driving down the winding roads of the valley, the cool air snapping your hair into your eyes, the hem of your dress fluttering, you tipped your head skyward. Before Wyoming, you’d never seen a sky so black. The nights here hit harder than anywhere else.
You cackled when Gaptooth helped you press the hem of your dress down before you flashed the whole truck, laughing harder when she offered a pull off her cherry-red vape. With the smoke citrusy and sweet in your mouth, you turned towards the driver’s seat, your cheek mashed against the flaking metal edge of the truck bed.
Rhett was driving. You watched his long tan arm lean out the window, fingers tinkering, playing with the wind. The soft swirl of hair. The faded bull skull tattoo on his forearm, flashing there in the beam of the headlights.
You wanted to reach out, mirror every turn of his wrist, trace the swell of a vein—
His arm went limp. You realized too late he was watching you in the side mirror.
That buzz in the back of your head, down your chest, places below.
You didn’t look away once.
· · ❁ · ·
At The Longhorn, everyone scattered, some fighting their way to the bar, others pulling each other to the crowded dancefloor.
“What’re you drinkin’, Shortcake?” The voice was too high to be Rhett’s. It was another rider from before. (Lloyd something-something; four point three seconds on a bull named Napoleon, which was fitting considering Lloyd was as tall as a water dispenser.)
“Uh.” You hastily checked the meager cash you’d stuffed into your boot. “Whatever five bucks will get me—”
“It’s on me.” The rough twang of that familiar voice as he leaned over you. You could still smell the dirt on him, the sweat. “Shortcake.” Rhett shot Lloyd a sharp smile, and you had to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes.
(You bought yourself your own cider with your own five bucks.)
The rest of the night went on easy. Crowd thick enough you kept drifting away from familiar faces, before meeting them again in the line to the bathroom. Hopping from table to table, clinking bottles and shuffling cards, until Gaptooth pulled you to the dancefloor, where girls in boots and baby-tees taught you how to line dance. “Shake those hips, San Diego!” And so you did, and life was at its sweetest, and you didn’t have to think about the last couple of days or the last couple of years or how Maya had stopped asking where you went at night. And you spun and spun, spun wildly, and thought only about a blue pair of eyes watching you beneath the wide brim of a Stetson.
Oh God, how you’d missed this feeling.
He found you much later; outside, at the back entrance, unlit cigarette between your lips, crouched on the ground with your back against the wall. You were in the process of yanking a boot off, tipping it upside down in the hopes it would produce your lighter. Had it fallen out on the dancefloor?
“Need a light?”
Rhett leaned one hand against the wall, presumably still a little lopsided from facing off a two-thousand-pound bull a couple of hours ago.
“One sec,” you said, yanking off your other boot, revealing a couple of coins and a tube of lipgloss. You looked up at him, his lighter already in hand. You smiled. “Yes, please.”
Rhett huffed a laugh. You wondered what his full laugh sounded like, big-bellied and unbridled. Did he tip his head back from so much delight?
Leaning against the wall with a stifled groan, Rhett carefully slid to the gravel, knees popping. He landed on the ground with a thud. “Shit. Ow.”
“Careful”
“Think that’s too late for me.”
“That bad?” you asked.
“Surprisingly less terrible than last time.”
“Who would’ve thought a bull named Bonecrusher would go easy on you?”
“If by easy, you mean he made me see God a couple of times, sure.”
You snorted, before popping your cigarette in your mouth and waiting patiently for him to light it for you. He huff-laughed at that too. Apparently he was easily amused.
His hand, big and dry as a baseball mitt, came up to shield the flame from the wind, and for a moment all you smelled was him. The earth, the acrid sweetness of sweat slicked across skin for too long. Like you’d been tucked into him, an animal in his burrow.
You couldn’t look at him like this. You hummed with this feeling. The brim of his hat bumping gently against your forehead. When the flame caught, you leaned away and took a long, long drag. “Thanks—” You cleared your throat. “Thank you.”
“Sure.”
The two of you sat there for a moment, drenched in the red halogen glow of a neon sign. You, crosslegged, playing with your necklace, pressing the pendant to your mouth; him, with one long leg stretched out, the other hiked up for his forearm to lean against, fiddling with his Zippo. You stared at a couple making out against a car. He stared at the men smoking by the bins.
You both spoke at once:
“Why do you—”
“Why were you—”
“Oh. Sorry.” You blinked.
Rhett pointed his Zippo at you. “By all means, ladies first.”
You snorted again, offering him your cigarette. He hesitated, like he hadn’t expected it, but you were still humming and the night was cool and life was still at its sweetest, and when he took a drag, stubbled jaw working, it felt like you could get away with more than you should.
“Why does everyone say you choose the rankest bulls on purpose?” you asked.
Rhett seemed to give it some serious thought, tugging his hat back to look at the sky. He handed you the cigarette. Then, “‘Cause I’m convinced I have something to prove. It’s either that or a real shit attempt at self-sabotage. Sometimes…it’s both.”
His honesty made something inside of you open.
”Why were you crying the other day?”
Taking a drag from the cigarette, you gave it some serious thought too. Then, “My sister’s giving me a second chance. I stopped getting those a long time ago, so I’m just trying really, really hard not to fuck it up. But I kind of suck at not fucking things up. I don’t know, it’s…” You took a breath, trailing off.
“Complicated?” he said.
“Excruciating.”
“Sounds about right." Rhett hummed in agreement, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re in luck. You’re speaking to the Abbott Family Letdown. So.” He gave a silly flourish with his hand.
“Oh.” You sat up in mock-surprise. ”Why didn’t you say so? Always a pleasure to meet a fellow embarrassment.” You popped the cigarette back in your mouth and stretched your hand out. He shook it with a laugh. The squeeze of his thick fingers, warm and dry.
“We could start a support group,” he said.
Reaching your hands above your head, like you were hanging a banner: “The Disappointment Club,” you mumbled around the cigarette.
When Rhett Abbott laughed, really laughed, when he shook with it and his shoulders did a little shimmy, he did indeed tip his head back from so much delight.
You laughed with him. You wanted to press two fingers down the Adam’s Apple that bobbed up and down his throat. You were so close the brim of his hat bumped against your head again. You told him everything then, told him about the keys and the girl and the back of that pickup. “—and so Maya had to cancel multiple orders and pay it out of her own pocket. Plus, it was, like, the pastor’s daughter’s wedding. So I’m assuming God was cataclysmically displeased.”
“God’ll forgive you for a couple of fuckin’ muffins.”
“A couple of muffins? Those were toasted pear-and-almond tartlets with a frangipane center and a cardamom crumb topping.”
“Frangi-what-now?”
“Exactly.”
“Trust me, it ain’t that bad. One time I got so drunk in the barn I forgot to latch the gate, and we lost forty head in a night. Took me days to herd them all back together, and my dad didn’t let me into the house until they were all accounted for.”
“If we turn this into a competition, we’ll be sitting out here all night.”
He turned then. His slow crooked smile. “Sounds like a good time to me.”
You didn’t know how long you sat there, talking. Your cigarette stub forgotten on the cool asphalt. The parking lot was empty now. Even the neon sign seemed to have dimmed.
Whatever had unsettled between you two, unsettled itself so completely you fell wide open. He could’ve reached right inside, he could’ve thrown something in—
Was it so wrong to look at him like this and hope, with a desperation that might’ve killed you, that he wouldn’t look away?
· · ❁ · ·
Friendship.
Could you call it that?
It felt a lot sharper, had more blowback.
Rhett liked to describe it as your little two-man support group. “Hottest club in town,” he’d say. Which wasn’t particularly funny, but it was stupid enough it made you snort every time.
Time was no longer governed by phases—no more mornings, noons or nights, no more suns or moons—instead, you found yourself adhering to Rhett Abbott’s reliable rhythms.
Your days started when the tiny bell above the shop door rang, and the brim of a worn Stetson swung up to reveal that surprisingly tender face. Maya had her suspicions about Rhett stopping by the bakery almost every day like clockwork: “There’s only so many errands he can run…and do you really think Cecilia Abbott eats that many toffee-nut buttermilk muffins? Woman must be enormous by now—”
You felt like a puppy, Pavloved, scrambling to the counter every time the shop bell trilled in the quiet. On the days he didn’t come in early, you usually met him on your lunch break. You were notoriously terrible at making sure you ate properly, and so he’d bring you a sandwich, or take-out, and you’d eat on the back of his Chevy in the parking lot, legs dangling from the truck bed, kicking up every time he made you laugh. Rhett made you laugh the way you’d forgotten to, that startled smack of a cackle, like you still couldn’t believe that there was someone who made you topple over from so much fucking glee.
Your favorite days were the ones he was off work early, and he’d come pick you up, toss your bike onto the truck bed—“Get in, Shortcake, we’re going on a trip!”—and he’d take you to the lakes or a town one valley over or the mountains, show you Wabang, show you Wyoming. He showed you the delicate difference between yarrow and hemlock when you trekked through the forests.
“Wow, dude, real Bear Grylls energy,” you’d said the first time he’d started a fire on a bed of pine needles.
“That’s the most California thing I think you’ve ever said.”
“Wait until I start talking about the way they stack vegetables at Erewhon.”
He grunted a laugh.
“Do you miss it?”
“The vegetables at Erewohn?”
“Home.”
It took you a moment.
The thought of your sister’s and Jonah’s sweet storybook house, with their porch covered in sun catchers shaped like honeycomb, their little brood of chickens in the garden, how the thought of it all moved through you on reflex. But Rhett hadn’t meant that house or those people or this place.
“I don't know, sometimes.”
Sometimes being here makes me forget to miss anything at all.
You forgot to miss the most at night, when your days came to an end at the rodeo or The Longhorn. When Rhett sloppily swung you across the dancefloor, the smell of beer and sawdust and the distinct spice of his cologne. Rhett was fierce, he was momentum, he was unstoppable force in a place full of immovable objects. You wanted to hurtle away with him, wrap yourself around his body, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, chin to chin—take me places.
Did he know he did this to you?
Did he know how easy you were?
That when you chose someone like this, you fell into them, and everything and everyone else fell away?
You didn’t pay attention to Lloyd’s weird come-ons, didn’t care about the girls that crushed around Rhett after he tumbled off another bull, or the way he always seemed to sidle up to you whenever anyone tried to buy you a drink.
You were singular, soaking up his closeness until you felt thick and stupid with it, and all you could do was let him turn you on the dancefloor like a drunken spinning top, his gravelly laughter shaking uncontrollably in your ear. Those lean arms looped around your waist, and your hands slid up the skin of his neck, slick with sweat, to cradle his face.
How those eyes crinkled when he grinned, and how easy it was then to imagine him as a child. The defiant thing with bloodied knees getting into trouble at the edge of town. The Abbott Family Letdown, you thought with so much fondness you could’ve kissed his cheek.
Nights always ended like this: The two of you fused to each other, dancing, or squeezed into a booth, or smoking out in the lot, talking and talking about everything and anything, about the places you wanted to see, and the things you wanted to do, and the people you wanted be. The choices you wanted to make and the ones you really, really wished you could remake.
Sometimes you didn’t speak at all, and you just sat there and stared at each other, as if to say: Out of all the places in the world, this is where I find you.
· · ❁ · ·
You loved the rainy season, loved those humid afternoons you’d sit on the back deck at Rhett’s place.
He’d fixed up the Abbott's old bunkhouse with Perry, a small cabin at the edge of the forest where ranch hands used to stay back in the day. The two of them had worked on it for a year, and you knew Rhett felt a sense of pride whenever he talked about it, running his hands along the smooth timber walls with a kind of care that felt personal. He and Perry had carved their names like kids into the bottom of the front door, and Rhett knocked the tip of his boot against it every time he left the cabin. “For luck,” he’d told you once, and he’d looked a little sad.
His was a place of wide gridded windows and Navajo rugs. It was surprisingly sentimental, filled with keepsakes and old furniture from his parents or his grandparents, the kind of place that looked like it had been here from the start, as enduring as the soft in-line of a favorite coat.
You liked the traces of him here, the mundanity of them; aftershave and painkillers in the medicine cabinet, forgotten mugs of coffee left on window sills and counter tops, his belts, his toppled boots by the door, his packet of Camels by the sink, his dad’s old CD collection—The Black Crows, ZZ Top, Stevie Ray Vaughan—a small army of Amy’s arts-and-crafts projects sprinkled atop shelves, family photos tacked to the refrigerator.
Out on the back deck, your eyes trailed over the rocks set in a neat row on the railing. You sat in a wicker chair, listening to the rain pattering against the tin roof, the cradle of pine all around.
You’d had a long day at the bakery, and Rhett had had an even longer day herding cattle out of the west pasture, which had started to flood from all the rain.
He sat on the deck with his legs stretched out and his back against the railing. In a T-shirt and jeans, head knocked back, his baseball cap pulled low.
He’d closed his eyes a long time ago. Had he fallen asleep?
“Stop starin’,” Rhett mumbled, eyes still closed.
You snorted, caught. Ears going hot, you dug your cheek into the weave of the wicker, clenching your eyes closed like a child when he opened his. Your tell-tale grin. His low chuckle.
You felt young with him sometimes. Like you didn’t have to pretend the way you did with Maya, constantly trying to prove that you weren’t the useless little sister floundering through life.
It was easy with Rhett, you could be honest. And you had all these big feelings and these even bigger wants, and they were shameful, complicated, and they ached, and you knew this need all too well, had felt it with every crush you’d ever had, never knew what to call it or how to say it, or how to have it be done to you. You didn’t just like people; you disappeared into them.
And with Rhett…
You wanted to crawl after him on your hands and knees, feel his big, big hand grab you by the hair, pulling and pulling, your teeth sinking into the worn leather of his belt.
Open up, Shortcake.
You swallowed. You pulled your knees to your chest. You wanted to close yourself like a box.
“You want the talking stick?” Rhett asked with one of his huff-laughs.
The talking stick was silly.
You didn’t know when it had started; something to do with support groups and their strange rituals, and you’d said it as a joke once at the bar when Rhett had looked like he wanted to say something but was holding back. You’d handed him your soggy coaster and said, You want the talking stick? And he’d taken it with a smile loosened by relief.
You shook your head. “No, thank you.”
“You sure?”
“Super.”
“Because if you ain’t taking it, I will—”
“Oh god, if you’re going to start talking about that bull rope paste again, I’ll suffocate myself in the mud.”
“First of all, it’s called rosin. Second of all, ouch.” He looked genuinely offended. “And you better make your mind up quick, ‘cause I’m gonna start listing my favorite ones. Also, did you know you have to heat it just right? Otherwise it’s like pulling taffy—”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had the kind of sex I really want to have,” you finally said. Blurted, really.
You thought of what your sister had called you once: a human hand grenade.
The distinct click of Rhett snapping his mouth shut, teeth on teeth. The rain pattered on—and you knew you had to as well, you had to get it out quick before you stuffed it all back down.
“And I’m scared I’ll never have it because I’m too chickenshit to tell people about the kind of sex I want to have, and, it’s nothing crazy, it just—it’s…a feeling? And like, some people just aren’t into it, but I haven’t slept with enough people to really know if that’s true or if I’ve never bothered to get close enough to someone to actually tell them or to know if that really is the kind of sex that I actually want, because I’ve never had it, I just know that I want it, and what if I tell the next person that’s the kind of sex I want and then I don’t like it at all…what then?”
You’d closed your eyes again, vibrating, the blackness vibrating with you.
“What kind of sex do you wanna have?” Rhett’s voice was so low you barely heard him.
Breath catching. You opened your eyes. You stared at his hands.
You pantomimed tossing the stick over your shoulder. “Lost it,” you mumbled.
I'm sorry, you wanted to say but you couldn't get yourself to.
Even though you weren’t looking at him, you knew Rhett was thinking, trying to figure out if he could push you or if he wanted to wait it out, if he should pave it over with conversation, or if he should stand up to grab a beer. Because in the end, you were friends. And you did know him, and he did know you.
Rhett settled for something that broke your heart a little. “You know, you can talk to me. Right? About anything.”
You swallowed, nodded.
“Want a beer?” The soft familiar crack of his knees as he stood.
You were too scared of the things you’d say if you had one. Shaking your head, you said, “Water, please.”
· · ❁ · ·
Something shifted after that. It felt tectonic, structural. There was this muscle inside of you strung so tight. It waited. Agonized for relief, for a thumb to rub along its tendons and help it unravel itself.
It was different that morning, and you were curled in the tub, shower head pressed close—down there, right there—and you needed so much, and his name spiraled through you endlessly, oh god-oh god, eyes squeezed shut tight enough the whole world cracked open. You came so hard you felt helpless in it, loosened from yourself, your mouth finding your forearm, your teeth finding your skin—
You’d bitten down hard enough Rhett traced a finger over the swell when you met him later that day. “What happened?” His voice too low. Unfamiliar.
“Hurt myself at the bakery,” you lied.
He huffed. No laugh. He didn’t believe you.
Whatever had started to shift, didn’t stop its shifting. It infiltrated your conversations, or rather lack thereof, until both of you felt like you were fumbling through something that used to be easy.
Rhett stopped coming into the bakery, rather opting to drive you home whenever you had to close up shop on your own, even if it meant he had to leave the ranch early to drive all the way to town and back. There was an energy around him, especially at the bar when he was a couple of drinks in.
You were used to Rhett Abbott quietly watching over people, making sure no rowdy tourists messed with the regulars, or that the Tillerson boys left Perry alone on the rare occasion that he did join you two at the bar, or looming over you whenever some guy slid up to ask for your number, his blunt: Can I help you, man?
There was something about him, like maybe there was a muscle inside of him too, strung too tight for too long, waiting...
The first time Rhett got into a fight in front of you, something incomprehensible roiled in your stomach.
It had started innocently enough. You knew Lloyd liked calling you Shortcake, and you’d never paid it any mind; he was a touchy drunk the girls tolerated, each meeting his relatively tame come-ons with an eye-roll and a middle finger. But he’d had too much to drink that night, and his hands had sloppily snaked their way around your waist to pull you to the dancefloor. “—no, seriously, I’m good, Lloyd. Like, I’m running for evil mayor of that town in Footloose. I’m done—”
“Come on, Shortcake, for me?”
“I said I’m fucking good, Lloyd.” His arms tightened around you, breath bloated with liquors unknown. “You can let go now.”
You saw Rhett too late, shoving his way through the crowd. You lifted your hands like you were trying to reprimand an incoming cyclone, “Rhett, don’t—”
Leaning in close to slur something in your ear, Lloyd was oblivious to the fact that Rhett's shoulder was about to collide with the back of his head.
What proceeded was a burst of juvenile male posturing that consisted mostly of huffing and shoving, like two big pigeons clucking at each other over soggy bread on the sidewalk. But when Lloyd whacked Rhett’s hat off with an accidental swing, the next thing you knew, a fist met a cheek, and a knee met a groin—and you cursed God for ever making you this hopelessly attracted to dick.
· · ❁ · ·
“Please don’t do that again,” you told Rhett much later, sitting next to him on his couch, pressing a bag of frozen peas to his head. “Not for me, okay?”
Rhett sat slouched beside you, the big bend of his back, as he stared at the scuffed knuckles of his right hand.
“I’m a big girl. I can deal with Lloyd, for Christ’s sake. He’s, like, three feet. He’s a human step stool.”
“He was touching you—”
“People touch me all the time.”
“Not like that. I didn’t…I don’t want anyone else to fucking touch you like that.”
You tossed the peas into his lap.
He looked at you then, face hazy in the dim lights of his living room.
Anyone else…
It echoed in your body, over and over, traveled all the way through you.
“Pretty sure that’s up to me,” you said.
With a sigh, he pressed the bag of peas to his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m—sorry. Okay? Sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing it until…Yeah.” He took a breath. “I’m a shitty drunk.”
“That makes two of us.” Shifting, you grabbed his arm to help him up, catching him when he swayed with a groan. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed, Bazooka Man.”
Rhett let you guide him to the bedroom, the same way he’d let you drive him home in his truck. It did things to you, knowing you could wrangle this big cowboy down the hallway and into his bed, without him putting up a fight.
You liked when he listened to you—and you knew full well there weren’t many people he listened to in the first place.
“Gotta admit, I got him good though,” Rhett murmured when he stumbled into bed, that stupid little grin of his, the one that made his canines flash.
You snatched the peas to smack him with it. “Stop,” you warned. “You kneed him in the ballsack, you trigger-happy fuck. Are you proud of yourself?”
“I hope his sperm count plummets.”
You couldn’t help your laugh, and he couldn’t help his.
This, you could handle. This was the Rhett with the crooked smile and the lopsided gait, his intense boyishness that made you wonder about how he got each scar on his body.
With this Rhett, things were easy, almost routine, and you felt lulled into the practiced rhythm of it, unthinking; helping him unbutton his shirt, before yanking off his boots, his jeans, the way you had countless of times after he’d been bucked off a bull hard enough he’d returned to the cabin in a tourniquet and his head foggy with medication.
On the first night you’d driven him home from the hospital, he’d told you that he didn’t like letting anyone help him like this, and you’d reached over the stick shift to wipe the hair from his forehead, and something about the way he'd leaned into it had made you so unbearably sad.
You didn’t know when you snapped out of it, crouched before him, about to grab his boots to bring them to the door—when you finally looked up.
His silhouette was black against the glow of the bedside lamp, eclipsed by it, he loomed above you in shadow. Your chest cramped up with a feeling you’d tried so hard to push away.
In your head, you were careless.
In your head, you let his boots fall to the hardwood floor. You crawled to him on hands and knees, and you nuzzled his bare knee, the soft hairs there, the lean muscle of his thigh, ran your nose to the spot where the checkered cotton of his boxers bunched just so. I need. I need and need and need—
“You can’t do that to me, Shortcake.” Rhett’s voice rumbled in the quiet.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.” His voice felt like a finger below your chin, tapping it up.
“Like what?” All breath.
Rhett didn’t answer. His head tipped to the side. You imagined yourself from where he sat, imagined his shadow was big enough it swallowed you whole.
This was a Rhett you didn’t know.
The bed creaked as he leaned forward. You didn’t breathe, didn’t move a muscle, when his fingers ghosted along the edge of your jaw. Your breath hiccuped when you felt a gentle tug on the corner of your mouth, and you realized he’d loosened a single strand of hair from your lips. The heat humming there, humming through you.
“Are you ever going to tell me?” he said.
Your confusion must’ve been obvious, because he spoke again: “Are you ever going to tell me what you want?”
What I want?
It was such a simple answer.
It shamed you how simple it was.
In the dim light, you stared at the vein roped along his forearm. You wanted to trace it with your tongue, with soft grazing teeth, wanted to lap up the salt and tang of his skin, gather it all in your mouth, take the sweetest littlest bites.
You wanted to lean all the way in, kiss the inside of his palm, that starburst scar from when his glove had once ripped during a bull ride. You imagined then, taking the thick pad of his thumb into your mouth, letting it press into your tongue until you bit down, until it reached all the way in. Until you writhed from it.
With a frustrated huff, you tipped forward. Your forehead bumped against his knee.
You didn’t know what to do with yourself anymore.
You could’ve wept when you felt strong fingers carefully run down the curve of your skull. The cuff of nails scraping along your skin. The sound it made.
He held you like this: your head cradled in his big, big hand.
You knew Rhett understood something about you in that moment.
You felt young, skinless, unsure in your body. None of you felt grown. You were all baby teeth. You were a tiny stack of bones that shook.
“You’re okay, darlin’,” Rhett said it with so much tenderness you made a shameful sound low in your throat, and your nose pressed into the scar that ran up the center of his knee.
What you would’ve done to kiss it then, just once, to lave it in spit, with your eyes screwed shut and a hand between your legs, there, down there—
· · ❁ · ·
Your biggest secret was this: You’d let anything be done to you if it was just done sweetly enough.
Your relationship with intimacy had always been complicated.
You knew what you looked like to men; you were the young desperate thing to be flung face-down and taken, filthy little whore, you asked for it, you want it like this, right? You want it like this—
The few times you’d had sex, that assumption had left you shaking in the bathroom after, still drunk or high or both, wiping cum off your face or scraping it out of yourself, rubbing the tacky film of it between your fingers until it got grainy.
The shame of it all, the shame of your body glaring back at you in the mirror like a creature unknown. Because you had wanted it like that, but not really, and you hadn’t known how to say it right, or maybe they hadn’t listened, and you hadn’t blamed them for it, except you had. Most of the time you blamed yourself, an archaic miserable reflex that seemed to define every aspect of you being a fucking woman.
When you thought about what you wanted, sometimes all you were left with was a feeling.
You thought of big sure hands helping you out of your shoes, unlacing one, then the other. You thought of your hair being washed and your mouth being fed and your cheeks being kissed, one at a time.
It was so embarrassingly sexless.
All you wanted was to know with a kind of relief that you could let go now, that it was going to be okay, and that for a blissful fucking moment, you didn’t have to be yourself anymore.
You could just want.
You could be all of your wanting at once and nothing more.
· · ❁ · ·
“Mornin’.”
You didn’t open your eyes.
A low chuckle from above. “I know you ain’t asleep.”
With a tired groan, you cracked one eye open, then the other. Rhett had changed into a T-shirt and sweats. He’d showered, hair still damp and curling at his neck.
He was staring. You knew why. Your dress lay puddled on his living room floor.
Still hazy from sleep, was it so terrible to let yourself be looked at like this? The worn cotton T-shirt you’d snatched from Rhett’s drawer riding up your stomach as you stretched.
You caught the bob in his slender throat. He was pretty like this, you thought. A patch of sunlight spilled across the side of his face, eyes a tremendous shock of blue. He smelled like his deodorant, his aftershave. His hand so close to your face all you’d have to do was open your mouth.
“You feeling better?” you said, voice frayed with leftover sleep.
A night on Rhett’s couch always left you a little discombobulated. It was deep and wide, all buttery brown leather, the kind you sunk into as if lazing in a palm.
Your gaze climbed from his hand up to his bare arm, from his throat to his freshly shaven jaw. You were so tired you couldn’t hide from him.
You fell all the way open.
His hand twitched like maybe he’d reach out.
But you two were good at this game. Especially sober, in the daylight.
Rhett cleared his throat. “Making breakfast. You hungry?” His attention wavered on your mouth.
You swallowed. He tracked it.
“Starvin’,” you drawled in some faux-impression of him, in the hopes it was silly enough to lighten the mood.
He chuckled. “Starvin’, huh? Okay, cowboy.” He grabbed a pillow and whacked your thigh, “Giddy-up,” before heading to the kitchen, limping slightly.
Had he not taken his painkillers?
“How do scrambled eggs and pancakes sound?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Uh—Heavenly?”
“Okay, calm down, they’re more for me than for you.”
“Liar. If I weren’t here, you’d have a cigarette and a Bud Light.”
“If I didn’t make sure you ate properly, you’d be having orange juice Captain Crunch three times a day.”
“It’s delicious?”
“It’s deranged, is what it is.”
You laughed, more out of relief than anything else. This was normal. You could deal with normal.
Not bothering with putting on your dress, you dragged yourself to the kitchen in nothing but his T-shirt and your underwear. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight—you’d weathered the occasional hangover on his couch wearing less—but something about this felt different. There was too much inside of you, and after last night, you didn’t know how to look at him without thinking about the way he’d called you darlin'.
You managed to sit through a painfully normal breakfast—radio on, mundane small talk—and even though it wasn’t Captain Crunch with orange juice, it would do (a mumbled statement that earned you a balled-up paper towel to the head).
You helped clear the table after, before heading out to brush your teeth. When you returned the radio was off, and Rhett was stooped over the sudsy sink, placing a plate onto the drying rack. You hoisted yourself onto the kitchen table and watched as he washed his hands, slowly, methodically, staring out the window like he was thinking.
“You want the talking stick?” you said.
Rhett huffed a laugh, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink, looking down, looking up. His wide back expanded as he took a breath. You almost expected him to shake his head when he finally spoke: “Who bit your arm?”
You blinked. “What?”
“I know what a bite mark looks like.” Of course Rhett Abbott would know what a bite mark looked like. It almost made you laugh, the ridiculousness of it. “Are you getting into fights I don’t know about? Or is Maya—”
“Oh God,” you pitched forward, “no, of course not! Biting’s not her style. She prefers dish towels.” You were joking but Rhett wasn’t laughing.
This whole moment felt unreal. You hadn't thought about it in days. The bruise was already healing anyway, yellow and mottled and absolutely not worth being contemplated on.
You raked through yourself for another answer, something stupid enough, something unbelievable: Tres, the three-legged goat? The wonky convection oven at the bakery? A rabid child on the street—
“Are you ever going to tell me?” Rhett gripped into the sink so hard his hands paled from the pressure.
The question surprised you.
You remembered how he’d asked you that the night before.
It made the same frustrating weight sink onto your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them again, vision splotchy. Staring at the tender swirls of hair gathered at the nape of Rhett’s neck, you took a breath and you said, “It was me.”
You watched as the color blotted back into his hands.
“I was in the shower,” you said. Then, “I was...thinking of you.”
Remembering then how his finger had traced along the tender swell of the bruise just hours later, in the bar, in the red lights, and how you’d secretly hoped he’d press down to make it ache, make you remember how much you’d wanted him, in that moment, in the bathtub surrounded by the splotchy shower curtain, the tiles painted in dried suds, like Venus in her shell, shaking open, shaking apart.
I was thinking of you.
You closed your eyes when Rhett finally turned. Sitting on the kitchen table, legs dangling over the edge, you kept yourself still. You listened to his breath ragged and strange in the quiet. A warble of birds outside. The creak of the floorboards as he came to you.
His closeness was a cloud bank rolling in, suddenly all around, the smell of him, coffee and deodorant and soap. Your face lifted on instinct. Eyes still closed, you basked in the heat of his breath pouring across your forehead, your cheeks.
I was thinking of you.
All of you sighed open.
And you waited for him in that blackness, until you felt the distinct prickle of skin on skin, a knuckle maybe, a single finger running down the inside of your forearm, down, down, before it reached that tender spot.
He pressed.
Your eyes snapped open. Sunlight turned that blue stare into something startling, electric.
As if moving through a trance, your hand settled atop his still on your arm, finding his thumb and digging it into the bruise even harder. That dull ache turned sharp, shot right through you.
Eyes twitching, mouth opening. The sound you made.
Rhett looked at you like he’d never seen you before.
Letting go of his hand, you reached for him, digging your fingers into the hair bunched at the nape of his neck, and you pulled him close, pulled him all the way down. Your forehead rolled against his, your nose mashing into his skin, mouth open, waiting, wanting so fucking much. Pleasepleasepleaseplease—
Rhett stopped you with a thumb on your bottom lip. You couldn’t even feel ashamed for spewing out the most pathetic huff. Filthy little whore. Your jaw loosening, tongue darting out to taste him, to dig your teeth into him just a little.
But Rhett slid his thumb away, pressed it like a gentle warning into your cheek.
“Do you want this?” His voice cracked right in the middle.
You nodded, nose bumping against his a little too hard.
“Speak up for me—”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said, he smiled small. You wanted to bite at it, make it bigger. “You say the word and we stop, okay?”
You nodded. He waited.
"Okay," you said.
“We’ll go slow. Yeah?”
You nodded again, numbed to everything except for him. “Yes, please.”
Rhett groaned, leaning into you so completely your mouths almost collided. “God, you kill me with all your please-and-thank-yous. You’re so good. You wanna be good for me?” He said it like he was testing something. And your chin nudged forward, body bending towards him, and whatever he was looking for, he found it in the way your legs fell open all the way.
Gripping into the back of your knees, he dragged you closer, his thighs sliding between yours, and you sputtered a breath when you felt the hot press of him against all of you.
“Yes,” you breathed.
“You are, darlin’. "
Darlin'
"Fuck, you are. You don’t even know how damn good you are.” His hands sliding back up your side, your throat, gripping your jaw to tip your face towards him. Your fingers fumbling to hook into his forearms. You felt as though all you were doing was holding on.
Letting him lead. Letting him keep you like this.
He made you wait. Ran the tip of his nose almost soothingly along the bridge of yours. Lips taunting, that terrible shudder of closeness that escaped you every time your mouth tried desperately to meet his.
You thought of the way he ran his hand along the flank of his horse, patted her once, twice. Easy, girl—
Maybe you hated him for it. How much he undid you. How he had you sitting there, soaking in it, vibrating inside all of your unbearable catastrophic fucking need like he had you leashed.
“Please,” you finally mouthed into the heat of his breath. And his eyes flashed. And when you were ready to plead just one more time, without an ounce of shame left, his mouth collapsed against yours.
It surged through you like a spinal tap.
Drawing out, deeper, digging all the way in, tongue and teeth, the smooth jut of his chin.
Your hands were everywhere, unsure of what they wanted to grab hold of first, like a woman drowning; in his hair, on his jaw, scraping down his wide shoulders, sliding up the heat of his neck—Here and here and here, let me touch you right here.
Rhett’s hands stayed bolted to your jaw. You felt like he was the only thing keeping you upright, like you’d unspool if he ever let you go.
You were a wanton thing, wincing into his open mouth. A constant drool of need. And you were hot. God, you were so hot. You couldn’t breathe with how hot you were. Yanking at your shirt, you just wanted it off, off. Rhett nipped at your bottom lip once, and then he was smiling. Was he laughing? Like he was catching on, like he took such pity on you. Your teeth clacked against his. You couldn't keep your shit together. You couldn't think, you couldn't think...
“I want—” You tugged at the shirt until his hands joined yours. “I want all of it off.” You sounded drunk, like you were listening to yourself from one room over.
“Okay. Okay, darlin’, I got you.” And he did. He helped you peel the shirt off, but it snagged on your elbow, and your face was stuck against threadbare cotton, and you laughed, because what the fuck? Here you were, going crazy on Rhett Abbott’s kitchen table.
You were still laughing when the shirt finally came off, laughing harder when Rhett tossed it over his shoulder and it landed on the coffee maker.
He was smiling above you, the morning light painting him soft and perfect as he combed the hair out of your eyes.
You wanted to run your fingers over his face, read him like braille.
It was a foreign realization that, now, here, you could. You could do so much. You could have all the things that had piled inside of you, one on top of the other. All of your fucking wanting, it felt bigger than your body. You were so full. And it was just the two of you, and this was Rhett, and it was all going to be okay, it was okay to let go of him and to lean back, push the leftover coffee mugs to the edge of the table, to let Rhett huff a strangled laugh when one of them thunked to the floor, like he couldn’t believe that he was here like this, with you.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, staring down at you
A hand traced where your body met the table, like he was cutting along the shape of you, skin sliding against yours as he traveled up and up, past each dip of your ribs, your arms, shoulders, up the hollow of your throat to your collarbone, to that dip right in-between, where the pendant of your necklace rested.
He pushed it in just a bit, and the pressure made you arch, made you mad with it. “Fuck, look at you, baby."
Baby.
You were baby.
“No one’s ever taken care of you, huh? You poor thing.” His lilting condescension left you gaping. “Remember what you told me? You’ll tell me what you want. You’ll tell me, yeah? How do you want it, baby? I’ll take such good fucking care of you.”
He leaned over you, ghosting his mouth over your jaw, kissing you there, so unhurried. “Where do you want me?”
Everywhere.
You swallowed, shaking your head, eyes screwed shut.
Fucking everywhere, all at once, all the time.
You make me want so much it pushes out everything else.
He chuckled into your neck. “Gotta tell me, baby.” Sucked at your skin with tongue and teeth. His T-shirt hung low enough it grazed over your nipples. You arched into him.
He hummed. “Here?” His thumb tenderly traveled up the swell of your breast and tapped against your nipple. Breath hitching, you shook your head.
“What about here?” His mouth pressed a wet kiss to your clavicle. No. Going lower, kissing a path to your other breast, breath gathering over it. You closed your eyes when he looked at you.
“And here?” His tongue like a small flame over your nipple, laving at it so softly, round and round, the wet sweep making you dizzy. Losing yourself in it. Chest bowing up into his mouth, arching so high it hurt.
He bit down once. You whined. Shook your head again, not there.
On and on it went:
Here? Mouth on your sternum. And what about here? Hands grabbing your waist. A soft scatter of kisses around your belly button. Biting into the soft flesh of your tummy until it kicked a laugh out of you. No, stop, stop. Okay, okay. Here? He fed your fingers into his mouth, the warm glide of his tongue, snag of teeth when they caught on your knuckles. And here? Baby, what about here? Spit on his chin as bent down to lave at each hipbone—No, no, no.
Here? Traveling lower and lower to kiss the top of a thigh, then inside of it with a drag of his tongue.
Your body hiccuped once and hard with need.
Rhett moved around you with the same intensity he had waiting in the chute at the rodeo, holding something back, containing it. You wanted to slam it open, wanted him thrashing and sweating and tossed around, you wanted and you wanted, you wanted so much.
Maybe he took mercy on you, or maybe he’d run out of patience, when he finally—finally—parted your legs. That pained sound of his. That sweet little oh. “Fuck. You’re so wet. You need it that bad, hm?"
You were nodding again. "Yes—" Could he tell how hard you were nodding?
You heard the distinct drag of a chair on the hardwood floor, and you could’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of seeing him sitting at the kitchen table, the very one you’d just had breakfast at, now covered in the sprawl of your naked body, soaked and aching, your thighs parted for him, right foot resting on the back of the chair.
Rhett must’ve caught on because he laughed, tipping his head against your leg, kissing your calf. You hissed when he nipped at you there. “God, I could—” Groaning into your skin. “I could take a fucking bite out of you it's not even funny. Jesus.”
With his arms hooked around your legs, his kisses traveled up the inside of your thigh. You watched, open-mouthed, slack-jawed, as his dark swirl of hair traveled between your legs.
You’d fucked yourself to the thought of this.
“You want it here, baby?” He nosed at the elastic of your underwear, warm breath pouring over you.
You nodded so hard your head knocked against the table. You were swimming in it. The whole world swimming with you. “Yes, please…”
His murmured curse.
Your desperate whine.
Before finally, a kiss to your cotton-covered clit.
It made your whole body still.
“How you do you want it?” he mumbled it against you. Right there. Down there.
You knew he wasn't expecting you to answer, but your needing felt vicious like this, burned in the back of your throat, and you thought:
Messy.
And with a shame that bloomed hot and red across your chest, you realized you'd pleaded for it out loud, voice like a frayed rope one pull away from snapping.
Rhett's lashes were long and dark as he looked up at you. He huffed a laugh.
Something about it sounded very, very mean.
He gave your clit another quick kiss. And then another and another, longer this time, until his mouth opened, tongue flattening against the center of you. You felt him gather spit, felt the hot gush of it. How he grabbed the elastic of your underwear to stretch it across you so tight it made your clit thrum, holding you there, strumming his thumb up and down, playing with it. “Look at this.” Before giving you a quick pat, once, twice—the peeling wetness of it in the quiet. “Fuck, baby—”
Before you had time to gather enough breath, Rhett buried his face into you, mouth mashing against you there, right there. Taking big bites. Spit and tongue and heat that drooled right through you. He groaned, pressing in deeper, the wide pad of his tongue nudging your clit, over and over, working you like this, until you were soaked enough a string of wetness followed when Rhett finally pulled off your underwear.
He flung it across the kitchen, uncaring, and you heard it land somewhere on the floor with a slop.
You were completely naked then, and he stared down at you like he wanted to be everywhere but he knew he had to make a choice.
It made your brain light up. It made you writhe when his palm pressed a smooth circle over your aching core, before cupping it once and hard, holding you like this, holding all of you at once. “You’re so perfect, baby. Look at you being so perfect for me.” His endless reserve of nonsensical drivel, slow and honeyed and drawling, like he was pouring it into you.
You wanted more, you waited for it, legs opening wider, wider.
A breath, then—he spit on your hole.
It felt fucking preposterous.
And then his mouth was on you again. Without that barrier of cotton from before, everything was raw, wetness wetter, pressure harder. His tongue, spongy and hot against you, teeth scraping across your clit. Pulling in a deep mouthful. You felt it everywhere when he moaned. His head shaking once like something gone rabid.
One of his hands dug into your stomach, the other crept up the front of your throat, digging for entrance when it reached your mouth. You let him in, his thick fingers pressing into your tongue.
“Spit.” He said it right against your clit, before sucking.
You’d caught the undertone: You want messy? I’ll give you fucking messy—
You grabbed his wrist, laved at his fingers, until you felt a dribble down your chin, and before you could get lost in the pressure of something thick and foreign in your mouth, he pulled his hand back, smearing the mess over your aching hole. Thumb flicking fast—before stopping. You punched out a pitiful cry.
“You want my fingers, hm? You think this sweet pussy wants my fingers?”
You knocked your head into the table so hard your ears rung, yesyesyesyesyes. Nodding and nodding and nodding and nodding.
You were so open and so wet, he easily breached you.
Full of him. You were full with him.
His fingers curled against that spongy rippling spot inside of you, that spot that gave way completely. He pressed down on your stomach, hard, and you keened, elbows digging into the table, your hands hovering, twitching in the air.
Rhett was strong enough to keep you from moving too much. You blamed all those damn bulls. His body moved on instinct, meeting each buck and squirm of you. He’d told you once that it was never about anticipating the next move, it was about response, action-reaction, it was all reflex when he was on that saddle.
You couldn’t keep still, hips jerking, lurching wildly beneath him. You were everywhere. You were fucking dynamite. But he pressed you down, fingers working inside of you with that steady unbreakable rhythm. His tongue on your clit. The filthy sounds of it dripping into the kitchen, all the lapping, the squelch of his fingers, your wet keening sobs. You let him fuck you and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you like this. Your hands finally tearing in his hair. Feet fumbling to find the back of the chair for leverage, trying to ride his face, his fingers.
Don’t stop, you thought so hard it charged through you like voltage. Please, “Don’t stop—”
His hand on your stomach splayed wider, pressed down, gripping into you—and you realized he’d felt your body tense up faster than you had.
Something about Rhett feeling you were about to come made your vision blurry. His body meeting yours at every turn.
You said his name then. He groaned something into you, but you couldn’t hear it over the pulsing in your ears. Chest arching, legs buckling around his head.
You came in complete and utter silence.
Eyes screwed shut, dropping into blackness.
You thought you might've reached the bottom of something.
It was so perfect you wanted to cry.
The slow drag of his tongue coaxed you back slowly. His fingers had slipped out, now tracing soothing wet circles on the inside of your thigh. You couldn’t believe Rhett's head was still between your legs, mouth lazily lapping up the mess. You gently pushed him away, clit too sensitive for more.
Rhett blinked, bleary-eyed. He looked wild. Hair a mess, face ruddy and wet. Covered in you.
“Holy shit..” His voice was nothing but a low rasp.
Holy shit.
The chair jerked back as he stood again, roughly wiping his face on his T-shirt with such habitual boyishness you couldn’t help but reach for him. Delirious, gooey-warm. You were kissing him and kissing him, kissing him all over. You could taste yourself on him.
"Did so well for me, baby." He murmured in between kisses, smiling slow. "So fucking good." His hands gripped your head, turning you this way and that like he was checking in.
You couldn't do anything but nod. Your legs felt gummy as you wrapped them around his hips to pull him close. His hardness ground right against you.
Rhett hissed. Eyes squeezing shut. Nodding his head almost absentmindedly when you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats to pull them down.
You felt hungry with it. Insatiable.
Rhett’s cock was heavy and full as it sprung free, the glossy-pink tip swollen with all his aching. Your mouth went numb, filling with spit, with how much you wanted to taste him, slide him all the way into you until you stopped breathing.
But Rhett was shaking his head, no. “I won’t last, baby—” Raw enough it almost felt like he was the one pleading with you now.
You didn’t want him pleading.
You wanted him to feel good. All you wanted was for him to feel good.
Without a word, you wiped a hand through the wet mess between your legs, all his spit, all yours, all your cum, the terrible gush of you, and you spread it over him in a slow filthy pump. He was so big, you stacked one hand over the other.
Rhett tipped forward, his jaw slack, transfixed as he watched your hands move over him. “Hah—fuck me...” One wet deliberate slide after the other, his hips bucking forward.
Next time, you thought, you'd have him all the way inside of you. You could almost imagine it when Rhett leaned over you, caged you in with shaking arms. His mouth buried in your throat, licking a hot strip to your ear, slurring more of his sweet nonsense, so fucking good, baby, oh my god, baby just like that, fuck fuck fuck—
He was thrusting into your hands so hard the table kept jerking back, hitting the window sill. The little ceramics there rattling. One fell to the floor. The back of your head knocked against something hard enough it left you dazed, and Rhett's bumbling hands came up to cradle you there, soothe you through it. Fuck, you good, baby?
He was so perfect it killed you, he fucking killed you.
You kissed him, breathed straight out of his mouth. All you wanted was to make him come for you. Come for me. Please, please.
And when he finally did, when his hips met yours in a wet cuff, when he groaned into your mouth, broken, out of it—he spilled hot onto your stomach.
Forehead to forehead.
Breathing heavy.
You felt the wet drag of his spent cock run from your stomach down to your pubis, where he patted it against your clit, once, like some nasty little parting gift, like a promise.
You kissed him one last time before you collapsed onto your back.
For a moment, neither of you said a word. You watched each other. Eyelids heavy. You realized you were breathing in time.
Out of all the places in the world, you thought.
Somewhere in the thick of it, you ran a finger through the puddle of cum on your stomach. Cool now. Spread it across your tongue—acidy, bitter.
The taste of him.
You wanted to disappear into it.
“You’ve gotta stop or you’ll actually kill me,” Rhett groaned, leaning in all the way. He gently grabbed you by the jaw, kissed you, wet and open-mouthed, the slip of his tongue going deep. “You’re so good,” he murmured against your lips. "You're so good..." Giving you one sweet peck, then another.
And you were still stuck in your daze, sitting at the bottom of this thing that felt vast and everywhere. Sunlight poured through the windows, cradling you in the warmth of your afterglow.
Before you could feel ashamed for it, you let it slip: “thank you, daddy.”
And Rhett looked at you like he'd received an answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.
· · ❁ · ·
Afterward, Rhett piled you into his arms and carried you to the bathroom.
You thought distantly of all the other times you’d had to clean yourself up alone.
Rhett was dense and fumbling after “coming my damn brains out, Christ.” But he was trying his best to be slow with you, helping you into the shower.
The two of you swaying like drunkards in the hot spray of the shower head.
You were so tired.
You’d been holding on to something so deeply for so long, it was knocked loose now, it was open like a wound. You imagined the water rushing in, clearing it out until the blood ran clear.
While you both rinsed yourself off, Rhett’s mouth found you every once in a while. It felt like he was making sure you were still there. Pressing a kiss to your temple, the top of your head, a scatter of them on your shoulder.
Once even, he lifted your hand and kissed the inside of your palm with such tenderness you wanted to die.
· · ❁ · ·
“What now?” Rhett murmured into your damp hair.
You were on the back deck, curled in his lap on your favorite wicker chair. Sunlight splintered through the trees as it hit the floor. A patch of it warming your bare feet.
It had taken you a while to climb out of the daze, find your way back to your body. Slowly, slowly, mind un-blurring until you felt coherent.
Your voice was a dry rasp when you finally spoke. “Do you think people should be fucking members of their support group?”
“Okay.” Scoffing, Rhett jiggled you in his lap. “Fucking? Really?”
“Fine. Fraternizing.”
He shot you a withering look. It made you snort.
You knew he was right.
Whatever you’d done on his kitchen table, it had left something big inside of you. It felt important.
“Who would’ve thought Rhett Abbott was such a closet romantic,” you mumbled, delighting in the way he rolled his eyes.
Leaving it at that, you curled back into his chest, lazily lifting a finger and tracing along the soft slope of his nose, down his Cupid’s Bow, each curve of each lip.
Look at you—so surprisingly tender.
He opened his mouth to nip at your finger.
“We’ll go slow,” you whispered, echoing the words he’d said to you before, with such reassurance it felt rooted deep.
“Alright,” he murmured, nodding, letting you press your finger to his jaw to make him look at you. “Slow. I can do slow.”
You couldn't help your grin, thinking about all the things he'd done to you in his kitchen just an hour ago. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
He quirked a mean smile, pinching your side until you laughed.
Like this, you didn’t feel difficult or complicated or messy.
Your laughter spiraled as you tipped your head back from so much delight.
You let it shake through you.
You let it shake through the tin roof and the wicker chair and the rocks on the railing and the sun and the pine trees and the grass and the dirt and the valley that rolled all the way to your sister's house, the very place you'd started calling home the second your duffle bag hit the welcome mat.
And finally, you let it shake through him, sitting there, washed in shards of sunlight—looking at you like you were the easiest thing to love.
