♥.ᐟ faye, she/her, twenty-eight, ur local hopeless romantic, infj, cap sun, leo rising, cancer moon, professional yapper, wannabe author/film director, archaeologist, always curious about history, politics & culture, slutty but make it artsy.
☼ swipe right: david!clark kent, barry allen, bruce wayne, felicia day, selina kyle, joel miller, steven grant, peter parker, mike schmidt
“I’d never date a bisexual man because I’d be afraid he would leave me for another man.” what if your next heterosexual boyfriend leaves you for your mom and you have to see him at every family gathering and she makes you call him dad? would that be a fucked up or what?
you tried to wake him up, you shook him and called out to him, trailed your hand up and down his back and arm but the man was out cold. all you got from your efforts was a grunt and him shifting in bed and honestly watching his muscles in his back was not helping the ache between your legs
you weren't sure it was, ovulation maybe? or maybe it was just the way jason's hands tended to roam your body even in rem sleep that kept you awake that night. regardless you needed to get off. it was becoming unbearable
you were quiet about it, tried to keep your movements to a minimum, your fingers sliding through your slick folds - already embarrassingly wet. you took your time, let your body warm at the pleasure, melt into the mattress next to your boyfriend. but as your fingers pumped in and out of your throbbing pussy you lose yourself for a moment and let a moan slip out
and of course that is what wakes him up. that noise that's you've practically pavlov'd him with like a sleeper agent
"couldn't wake me up?" his voice is thick with lingering sleep as he rolls over to face you, but he's fully lucid. you bite down on your lips, your hand stilling like you've been caught commiting a crime. and in jason's mind you might as well have been
"i tried," you whisper in the dark. your hand is still in your underwear, fingers pressing against your aching clit to provide some sort of relief and your adrenaline spike slowly fades
"not hard enough." he gives you a lopsided smirk. and then his hand is on you, softly gliding over your exposed tummy. "don't stop on my account," he comments after a second when you don't move again
shame floods your veins and your skin heats up. you go to move your hand but jason stops you, catching your wrist
"s'okay," he murmurs as he cuddles against your side, his nose brushing the shell of your ear. his voice sends goosebumps down the back of your neck
"keep going 'til you finish."
you nod once and swallow back a moan but you obey to his plea and start fingering yourself again. the room is silent aside from the wet squelches that fill the void now. jason let's go of your wrist and moves his hand up to cup your breast. he kneads at the softness before pinching your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. you let out a shaky moan and that's when you feel his erection pressing against your hip
"jay-" you start to plead. he already knows what you want when you beg for him in that sweet voice
"not til you finish."
you nod again and continue to pump your fingers in and out of your sopping cunt, adding a third finger as you get closer to your orgasm. jason coos in your ear, sweet praises, "that's it" and "fuck you're so hot"
when you finally do come, leaving a mess in your underwear and on the mattress beneath you, is when jason finally moves to get between your thighs
"lemme help you clean up, yeah?" before he's sliding your pajamas off and burying his face in your pussy
The streets of Birmingham streets were busy and tonight wasn’t different, you were making your way to the Garrison after receiving a call from a frantic man begging to call them. Saying it was an honest mistake and it would never happened again. You tried to calm the man down, but it was not a success. The only thing that you learned was that Isaiah had gotten into some sort of fight. Isaiah always pushed his luck, you just hopped he didn’t push it too far. There were only two places he would go, to your home or the Garrison and he obviously wasn’t with you.
When you walked through the Garrison you went straight to the the private room and when you walked in you saw him Michael, Arthur, and John sitting around the table. The had blood and bruises on them and still looked as if they conquered the world.
“Are you fucking mental!?” “Y/N chill.” You glared at him as the words left his mouth and scoffed at his pure audacity.
“Don’t worry love, we’ve taken care of it.” “Arthur.” “Yeh?” “Shut up.” “Right. Right.” You loved Arthur, but you did not need him to talk right now. You shifted your attention back to your cousin as he shifted in his seat underneath your gaze along with Michael. You crossed your arms and walked closer to them.
“Stop Being a fucking idiot or give you something worse than some bruises. Do you understand me?” “Yeah. Yeah I understand.” You looked between him and Michael and sighed. “Come by the house before you both go home.” You turned your attention back to Arthur and John, giving them a small smile.
If it wasn’t so late and you had the energy you would have stayed, caught up with them, and maybe have a couple of drinks.
“I have to go, but I’ll see you both soon?” You asked hoping it would be true. “We’ll have a drink yeh.” John replied with that mischievous smirk on his face. “I’ll have to prepare myself then.” “Have a goodnight love.”
You waved goodbye to them, and as you made your way out of them room you saw him sitting at the bar with a drink in his hand. Most likely an Irish whiskey, which turned out to be the only drink you deemed acceptable. You stopped in your tracks when you noticed him, it had been so long since you had seen him let alone spoken to him. The war changed so many things including your relationship.
You debated with yourself on whether should approach him, on one hand you wanted to ask him something on the other you weren’t completely sure if he would even want to speak to you. Before you had even finished the debate your feet were moving as if to tell you to just get over with. You took the seat next to him, you didn’t even have to say anything and a drink was sat in front of you with a warm smile and a wink from the bartender. You took a small sip before saying anything.
“Hi Tommy.” You said softly, looking at the side of his face. “Y/N.” He didn’t even look at you, just stared straight ahead. A scoff escaped you as you turned back to your drink, deciding to skip the pleasantries.
“I have to ask for a favor.” His drink was paused at his lips before he finally looked at you. “A favor?” “It’s Isaiah, he’s getting into too much trouble, starting fights, intentionally putting himself in danger. And he’s doing it because he thinks he wont get hurt as long as he’s a peaky blinder. But being a peaky blinder doesn’t stop people from looking at his skin first.” You sighed turning your head back to Tommy, meeting his intense blue eyes. “I don’t want you to coddle him or keep tabs on him. I just want you to talk to him, knock some sense into him. I don’t want to come home one day and find him dead.”
You couldn’t read his face, didn’t know what he was thinking. It made you nervous, not being able to read him any more, the war had taken the man that you knew. It had destroyed him and replaced him with a colder version a harder version.
“I’ll talk to him.” You smiled softly at his response. “Thank you. I… I hope to see you soon. It would be nice to catch up.” He nodded his head curtly before facing the bar again. You didn’t push any further just simply got up and made your way home.
It was deep into the night when the boys finally decided to show up. You had been curled up on your couch music playing and a good book to keep you company when they arrived. You let them in guiding the to your living room.
“You finally decided to show up.” “Sorry Y/N. We lost track of time. “ You hummed at there response grabbing the first aid kit that you already had sat out. “No doubt letting Arthur and John shove drinks in your faces. Sit down.” You started with Michael, dabbing the blood off his lip and making sure to cleanup any other wounds you saw.
“How do you know my cousins?” “I grew up with them.” You said plainly. “You were like really closer to Tommy right?” Isaiah asked making your hand pause slightly at his question. “Umm yeah.” “Really?” You finished cleaning them quickly and closed the kit before answering.
“We'll I was close with them all, but yes Tommy and I were the closest. He taught me how to ride horses and shoot, and spent a lot of time with each other.” You sighed. “When they went off to war I would write to all of them and they would write back, but slowly they stopped responding. When they got back it was hard, they all had been affected by what happened in battle, especially Tommy…” You drifted off into your thoughts before clearing your throat and bringing your attention back to them.
“It’s getting late. You boys should go home.” You walked them both to the door, giving Isaiah a quick hug before he left. “Be safe.” “We will.”
That night you lied in bed with a heaviness on your chest and little hope in your heart. You never waited on him, but you held on to hope that he would come around, but now you didn't what to do. You turned onto your side and closed your eyes, hoping sleep would bring you some clarity.
summary: You hire a crew to renovate your house and accidentally start bringing them lemonade and food every day. The loud ones tease you, but it’s Daryl who lingers, who talks a little more each time, who looks at you like he’s trying to figure something out. Somewhere between exposed walls and shared silences, you realize you’re not just rebuilding the house.
warnings: some arguing, tension
a/n: this lovely fic was commissioned by @michelleknight ! thank you so much for the support and trusting me with your ideas!
**dividers made by @saradika
The house is too quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Not cozy quiet.
Just… empty.
The kind of quiet that makes every little sound feel bigger than it should.
The refrigerator hums. The air conditioner clicks on and off. The neighbor’s dog barks somewhere down the street. Each noise echoes like the walls are hollow.
You sit at the kitchen table with your laptop open, one leg tucked under you, still in the oversized sleep shirt you threw on last night. Your coffee has gone cold again. You take a sip anyway and immediately regret it.
Gross.
You make a face and shove the mug away.
Another email pops up.
Another spreadsheet.
Another “just circling back.”
You stare at the screen, blinking, trying to remember what you were even doing five minutes ago.
Working from home sounded nice when you first started.
No commute. Pajamas all day. Your own space. Now it just feels like you never leave. Your world has shrunk down to these same four rooms. Wake up. Walk ten steps to the table. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Some days, you realize you haven’t spoken out loud to another human being in twelve hours.
You flex your fingers and keep typing, but your eyes drift — again — to the wall across from you.
The stupid wall.
It separates the kitchen from the living room for no real reason, just cutting the space in half like someone thought, you know what this place needs? Less light.
The paint is that weird beige landlords love. Not warm. Not cool. Just… there.
There’s a scuff near the bottom where you bumped a chair months ago. A tiny crack in the corner. You’ve memorized every flaw because you’ve had nothing else to look at during meetings.
You lean back in your chair and sigh. “I hate this wall,” you mumble to yourself.
Your voice sounds strange out loud, like you don’t use it enough. You swivel slowly and look around. The house isn’t bad.
It’s just… not you.
The cabinets are outdated. The bathroom tile is ugly. The lighting makes everything look slightly gray. Even the furniture feels temporary, like you’re waiting to move instead of settling in.
Like this is a place you’re passing through.
And you’re tired of passing through your own life.
You stand and wander into the living room, stretching your stiff back. The floor’s cold against your feet. The couch cushions dip in the same spot you always sit. There’s a blanket tossed over the arm that you never bother folding.
Your whole life lately feels like that blanket.
Left there. Half-finished.
You run your hand along the wall again. Solid. Heavy. Closing things off. You don’t know why it suddenly makes your chest feel tight. Maybe it’s just cabin fever.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been stuck inside for months.
Or maybe it’s something deeper — like you’ve been waiting for your life to start instead of actually starting it.
Later. Someday. Eventually.
You want something that feels like yours. Maybe you want proof that you’re allowed to change things. Even small things. Even just a stupid wall. Your heart starts beating faster — that nervous excitement you get right before doing something impulsive but necessary.
You walk back to the table, open your laptop, and without giving yourself time to overthink it, type:
local home renovation contractors near me
Your finger hovers over the mouse. You should probably research more. Compare prices. Think it through. Be responsible.
Instead, you click the first decent-looking company.
If you think too long, you’ll talk yourself out of it.
And you’re tired of talking yourself out of things. Outside, the porch step creaks in the wind. The house settles around you, old and quiet and waiting.
“Okay,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Let’s change something.”
When the trucks pull up next week morning, the sound startles you enough that you almost spill coffee across your keyboard. You glance at the clock on your laptop. 8:12 a.m.
Right. Thursday.
They had said Thursday.
You stare at the screen for a second, trying to place why your stomach suddenly feels tight, and then it clicks.
The contractors.
They’re actually here.
Another engine rumbles outside, louder this time, heavy tires crunching against the gravel at the edge of the driveway. Doors slam one after another, followed by the low murmur of men’s voices carrying through the air.
Your house, which is usually so quiet you can hear the refrigerator turn on from the other room, suddenly feels small and exposed.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine.”
You look down at what you’re wearing. An oversized sleep shirt. Old leggings. No bra. Hair barely brushed. Fantastic. You consider hiding. It’s a genuine thought for at least five full seconds. You could pretend you’re not home. Maybe they’d just… go away.
Immediately you feel ridiculous. You hired them.
With a sigh, you stand up and stretch, padding toward the living room window. You don’t mean to peek, but curiosity wins out before pride can stop you. You tilt one of the blinds just enough to see outside.
Two trucks are parked along the curb, one of them hauling a small trailer stacked with equipment. Toolboxes, ladders, wooden boards, coils of wire. The kind of organized chaos that screams construction site.
Three guys climb out.
The first one is tall and broad-shouldered with a shaved head and sunglasses already perched on his face. He’s talking loudly before both feet even hit the ground, gesturing with his hands like he’s halfway through an argument.
The second is shorter and stockier, wearing a backwards baseball cap. He laughs at something the first guy says and shoves him lightly in the shoulder as they head for the back of the truck.
Their voices carry easily, overlapping and energetic, the kind of effortless noise that comes from people used to working together every day.
You didn’t realize how unused you were to hearing that sound until now.
Then the passenger door opens.
The third guy steps out more slowly.
He shuts the door instead of slamming it and adjusts the strap of a worn tool bag over his shoulder. While the other two keep talking, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just moves straight to the truck bed and starts unloading equipment like he’s done this a thousand times.
There’s something different about him.
He grabs the heaviest toolbox first, lifting it without hesitation, muscles in his arms flexing under a faded sleeveless shirt. His movements are efficient and careful, like he doesn’t waste energy on anything unnecessary. No showing off. No jokes. Just work.
His hair falls into his face when he looks down, dark and messy in that way that suggests he trims it himself or doesn’t really bother. A little too long at the ends. A little sun-bleached.
He doesn’t join the argument the other two are having about measurements. He just listens, eyes scanning the house, already assessing things.
For some reason, you can’t stop watching him.
He looks… steady.
You take a second to fix your hair with your fingers and debate changing clothes, but before you can decide, there’s a knock at the door.
Right. No more hiding.
You open it with what you hope is a normal, well-adjusted smile.
“Morning,” the tall guy says cheerfully, already halfway up your walkway. “We’re here about the renovation job.”
“Yes— hi. Good morning. Come in,” you say quickly, stepping aside. “Sorry, it’s a little messy. I wasn’t sure where you’d want to start or— well— yeah. Hi.”
You hear yourself rambling and want to gently launch yourself into the sun.
The guy in the baseball cap grins like he’s used to nervous homeowners. “No worries. We’ve seen worse, trust me.”
They head inside, boots heavy against the floor, and suddenly your house is full of movement and noise. Toolboxes clank. Someone drops something metal with a loud crash and swears under their breath. The space that used to feel too quiet now feels almost too small to hold all the sound.
It’s strange how quickly the energy changes. Like the house woke up.
You’re halfway through explaining which wall is coming down when you realize the quiet one hasn’t said anything yet.
He steps through the doorway last, ducking slightly out of habit even though he doesn’t really need to. Up close, you notice the details you couldn’t see from the window. Faint stubble along his jaw. Tired eyes. Hands rough and scarred like they’ve worked hard for a long time. He glances at you briefly. Just a quick look.
But his eyes are striking — pale, almost gray-blue — sharp and observant, like he notices everything whether he means to or not.
Your brain blanks. You forget what you were saying mid-sentence. He gives you a small nod, polite and reserved.
“Ma’am,” he says quietly.
His voice is low and rough, softer than you expected.
One word.
That’s all.
But it sends a weird, nervous warmth through your chest anyway.
“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of yourself.
He moves past you without another word, already focused on the wall like you’re not even there, like work is the only thing that matters.
Which makes sense.
Totally normal.
By early afternoon, the noise has settled into something almost rhythmic.
At first every bang and scrape had made you flinch, like the house was being attacked, but after a few hours the sounds start to blur together into a steady background hum. The whine of a drill, the hollow knock of wood hitting the floor, the murmur of voices drifting in and out through the open windows. It’s strange how quickly your brain adjusts. The quiet from this morning already feels distant, like it belonged to a different day.
You try to work through it, answering emails and half-listening to a meeting you probably could have skipped, but your attention keeps wandering. Every time someone laughs outside, you catch yourself glancing toward the window without meaning to.
It feels… lively.
You hadn’t realized how much you missed that.
Around one o’clock your stomach growls, loud and insistent. You mute your laptop and head to the kitchen, pulling leftovers out of the fridge. While you’re waiting for the microwave, you find yourself staring through the back door at the three of them moving around the yard.
They’ve been working nonstop since they arrived. Lifting, measuring, hauling boards back and forth like it’s nothing.
The two louder guys are arguing about something again, voices rising and falling in that familiar, friendly way that doesn’t actually mean they’re upset. One of them laughs so hard he has to brace himself against the porch railing.
And then there’s the third one.
He’s a little farther away, near the stack of lumber, carrying twice as much as either of the others without making a show of it. He doesn’t talk unless someone talks to him. Just moves from one task to the next like he’s following a list only he can see.
There’s something steady about the way he works. Careful. Focused. Like he takes the job seriously, even when no one’s watching. You don’t know why that sticks with you.
The microwave beeps and startles you.
You plate your food, then hesitate. They probably haven’t stopped for lunch yet. The thought tugs at you more than it should. It feels wrong to sit inside eating while they’re out there sweating in the sun.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab a few bottles of water from the fridge. Then you open the pantry and add whatever’s easy to carry—granola bars, a couple bags of chips, the blueberry muffins you baked last night when you couldn’t sleep.
You arrange everything on a tray and immediately feel self-conscious.
Is this too much?
Do people even do this anymore?
Maybe they’ll think you’re weird.
You stare at the tray for a second longer than necessary, then sigh at yourself. It’s just food. Worst case, they say no. You slide the back door open and step outside.
The air is warmer than you expect, thick with that dusty, sunbaked smell of wood and concrete. Someone’s radio is playing faintly from one of the trucks. For a second you just stand there, adjusting to the brightness.
The baseball cap guy notices you first. “Oh hey,” he says, straightening up.
“I, um—” You lift the tray slightly like proof of life. “I brought you guys some water and snacks. Figured you might want a break.”
His face lights up immediately. “You’re officially my favorite person today.”
The other one laughs and grabs a bottle without hesitation. “You didn’t have to do that, but we appreciate it.”
“It’s really no trouble,” you say quickly. “I was grabbing some for myself anyway and thought I’d just bring extra. There’s muffins too, but they might be a little dry. I’m still figuring out my oven.”
You don’t know why you add that. No one asked about the muffins. You feel your mouth continuing before your brain catches up. “And there’s chips and stuff if you don’t like sweet things and—”
You stop yourself, heat creeping up your neck.
God. You’re rambling again.
“Sorry,” you say, a little quieter. “I talk a lot.”
They wave you off good-naturedly, already distracted by the food, and for a second you consider retreating back inside before you can embarrass yourself further. But then you realize you haven’t given anything to him.
He’s standing a few feet away, wiping his hands on a rag, watching the others with that same quiet, distant expression. He looks like he might just skip the whole break and go straight back to work.
Without really thinking about it, you walk over and hold out a bottle of water.
“Here,” you say.
He looks at you like you’ve surprised him.
Up close, you notice things you didn’t notice earlier—the faint stubble along his jaw, a thin scar across one knuckle, dust clinging to the fabric of his shirt. He smells faintly like sawdust and clean soap.
For a second he doesn’t move, like he’s debating whether he’s allowed to take it.
Then he accepts the bottle carefully, fingers brushing yours. His hands are rough and warm, calloused in a way that makes your own feel soft by comparison.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says.
His voice is low and quiet, almost swallowed by the noise around you.
You nod, then immediately start talking again, nerves kicking in. “Yeah, of course. You guys have been working all morning, and it’s getting hot, and I know how easy it is to forget to drink water and then suddenly you feel awful and—”
You hear yourself and wince.
Too much.
Always too much.
You look down at the tray like it personally betrayed you. “Sorry. I kind of… ramble.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. You expect the usual reaction—an awkward smile, someone politely pretending not to notice, maybe a joke. Instead, he just shrugs a little. It’s such a small movement you almost miss it.
“S’alright,” he says simply.
Not dismissive. Not annoyed. Just matter-of-fact. Like it genuinely doesn’t bother him. Like it didn’t even occur to him that it should.
You glance up, surprised.
He’s already twisting the cap off the bottle, taking a long drink, eyes drifting toward the yard again. No impatience. No hurry to get away from you.
If anything, he seems… comfortable.
The next day, you tell yourself you’re not going to do it again.
Yesterday was just a one-time thing. A neighborly gesture. A normal, well-adjusted adult thing to do. You are not going to become the weird girl who keeps feeding the contractors like stray cats.
You repeat this to yourself while making coffee.
You repeat it again while opening the fridge.
And then, somehow, you’re slicing lemons.
It happens absentmindedly at first. One wedge for your water, then another. The knife tapping softly against the cutting board. The citrus smell sharp and bright in the air. By the time you realize what you’re doing, there’s already a small pile of peels curled near the sink and a pitcher half-filled with pale yellow lemonade.
You stare at it like it personally betrayed you.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
But you still add sugar.
Still stir it.
It feels practical, you tell yourself. It’s supposed to be hot again today. It’s just hydration. That’s all. Nothing weird about hydration. The lie would work better if you didn’t also pull out bread.
By noon, you’ve packed a small tray, lemonade, paper cups, a few leftover muffins wrapped in foil, and some sandwiches you threw together too quickly, the edges uneven and messy. It looks homemade in a way you’re not sure is charming or embarrassing.
You hesitate by the door longer this time. Yesterday could pass as spontaneous. Today feels intentional.
Still… you go.
Outside, the air hums with late-summer heat. The sound of the saw kicks up dust that smells dry and woody. The guys are already moving when you step onto the porch, shirts damp with sweat, voices louder than the tools.
You don’t even have to call out this time.
The one with the baseball cap notices you and grins immediately. “Ohhh, it’s our lunch lady!”
Heat rushes straight to your face. “I am not—”
“You brought stuff again, didn’t you?” the other one says, already abandoning whatever he was doing.
“I just— it’s hot,” you say, lifting the tray like evidence. “I made lemonade. Figured you guys might want something cold.”
“Marry me,” he says, taking a cup.
You laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure this isn’t legally binding.”
The teasing is light, harmless, but it still makes you feel hyper-aware of your hands, your voice, the way you’re standing.
Like you’ve stepped into a spotlight you didn’t mean to.
And then you feel it.
That quiet awareness. The sense of being watched. You glance up without meaning to. He’s across the yard. Just leaning back against the truck, rag tucked into his back pocket, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Watching.
Not in a creepy way. Not even obvious.
Just… observing.
Like he’s trying to figure you out. The moment your eyes meet, something in your chest tightens. He doesn’t look away immediately. Most people do. That polite, automatic glance elsewhere. He doesn’t. His gaze is steady. Curious. A little guarded. It makes your skin feel warm, like you’ve stepped too close to a fire.
You look down first.
Of course you do.
“Is your other friend not hungry?” you ask the others, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
They both smirk like you just told them everything.
“Ohhh,” baseball cap says. “You mean Daryl?”
Your stomach flips at hearing his name out loud.
Daryl.
It fits him too well.
By the third day, it stops feeling like a coincidence.
You don’t even pretend anymore.
You wake up already thinking about what you could make.
Not in a big, elaborate way, just small things that feel easy to carry outside. Things that make sense to offer. Things that give you an excuse to step into the yard without looking like you’re hovering by the window like some kind of neighborhood cryptid.
Today it’s iced tea and turkey sandwiches. Nothing fancy. You cut the crusts off without realizing you’re doing it, the way your mom used to when you were little.
You tell yourself it’s just habit.
Not care.
Definitely not care.
The house sounds different now. Open. Hollow in places where walls used to be. Every hammer strike echoes deeper than it should. The air smells faintly like drywall dust and fresh wood, like something halfway between destruction and rebuilding. You’ve started recognizing the rhythm of their work. When they’ll break. When they’ll move outside. When the saw goes quiet.
Without checking the clock, you know it’s about lunchtime. You gather everything onto a tray and head out like it’s routine. Because now it kind of is. The two loud ones greet you like you’re a regular at their favorite diner.
“Look who it is,” the baseball cap guy calls — you learned his name is Abraham, loud and big and impossible to miss. “Our saving grace.”
“You’re gonna make us soft,” the other adds — Glenn, quieter, always smiling like he knows something you don’t. “Next job we’re gonna be mad when nobody brings snacks.”
You roll your eyes. “You guys act like I’m cooking five-course meals. It’s literally sandwiches.”
“Best sandwiches of my life,” he says dramatically, already grabbing one.
They fall into their usual chatter, easy and loud, and you relax into it more than you expect. It’s strange how quickly strangers can start to feel familiar. How the presence of other people makes the house feel less heavy.
You’re pouring iced tea when you notice him missing.
Again.
You glance around casually, or what you hope looks casual, and spot him near the side of the house, crouched by the exposed framing where they knocked out part of the old wall. His toolbox is open beside him, tools spread out with careful precision.
He’s working alone.
Of course he is.
For a second, you debate leaving him be.
He doesn’t always join the others. Sometimes he eats quick and gets back to work like breaks make him restless.
You don’t want to bother him.
You really don’t.
But your feet are already moving.
You tell yourself you’re just offering tea. That’s it. Same as everyone else. It just… happens to be him. He hears you coming before you say anything. Glances up briefly, then back down at whatever he’s tightening. Up close, the house looks different. The bones exposed. Beams, wiring, the skeleton of something that used to feel solid. It should look ugly, but it doesn’t. It looks honest.
“Hey,” you say softly. “I brought tea, if you want some.”
He sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag before taking the cup from you. “Thanks.”
You linger.
You don’t mean to linger.
But you do.
“So… is it bad?” you ask, nodding toward the open wall. “Like, did I accidentally buy a house that’s falling apart?”
There’s the faintest huff of air from him. Not quite a laugh, but close.
“Nah,” he says. “She’s solid.”
She.
The way he says it makes your chest tighten a little.
As if the house is something alive.
“You can tell?” you ask.
He shrugs, looking at the wood instead of you. “Old places got good bones. Jus’ gotta fix what’s rotted.”
You nod like you understand, even though you mostly don’t. “So… I didn’t ruin your life by deciding to knock down walls?”
Another almost-smile. Quick. Gone.
“Seen worse.”
You’re slicing tomatoes for lunch when you hear it: the sharp snap of a board, followed by a curse so sudden it makes your stomach lurch. You freeze, knife hovering above the cutting board.
“Shit!”
Your eyes snap to the window. He’s crouched on the deck, one hand pressed to his palm, the other gripping the edge of a plank. Blood seeps between his fingers.
Your chest tightens. Your hands are suddenly useless. You drop the knife onto the counter and step back, mouth dry, as if speaking aloud will make the moment stop or start it over again.
He’s trying to laugh it off, but the color drains from his face in a way that makes your stomach drop. He’s pale, tense. The board slips from his hand, clattering to the ground. You can hear the sharp jolt of panic in the air around him.
“Daryl!” you call, voice cracking without meaning to. Your feet are moving before your brain catches up, carrying you out the back door. You don’t care about heat, dust, or sawdust sticking to your arms. All you see is him.
He looks up at you, eyes wide, a thin line of blood running down the side of his hand. There’s a small tremor in his fingers as he tries to grip the wood again, and your chest clenches painfully.
“Come on,” you say, breath sharp, voice rising despite yourself. “We need to get inside. Now.”
He hesitates, but the moment his hand shakes again, and a drop of blood falls to the deck with a dull thud, he finally follows. You grab his elbow gently but firmly, guiding him inside. Every step feels like a jolt through your ribs — panic and relief all tangled together.
Inside, the house suddenly feels too small. The familiar walls, once comforting, now seem to close in. You move him to the kitchen table, palms slightly shaking as you reach for a clean towel. He sits slowly, jaw tight, watching you with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.
“I’m fine,” he says quietly, trying to brush it off.
“No, you’re not,” you reply sharply. Your hands are shaking, fumbling to pull out the first aid kit. You’re suddenly aware of every sound. You feel like you’re losing control, and panic makes your words tumble out of your mouth.
“Okay, okay, we need to get it cleaned first. Isopropyl, gauze… do we have scissors? Where’s the bandage? I think we have bandages in here somewhere—oh God, hold still, hold still.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just lets you fuss. The way he sits there, quiet and still, makes your chest ache. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t even flinch when you grab his wrist gently to inspect the cut.
You rinse the wound under cold water, wince yourself at the sight of red against pale skin. “Okay, okay, it’s not too deep. Not too deep,” you mutter, more to yourself than him, as if repeating it enough will make it true.
He watches you, silent, expression unreadable. And that makes you talk faster. “We should probably elevate it, right? I think that helps. Does it help? I read about this somewhere. And then keep it clean, obviously, but I don’t want it to clot wrong. Do you need your sleeve rolled up? Sorry, I’ll be gentle. You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. Don’t worry about anything.”
You’re babbling nonstop now, the words tumbling out in a nervous, chaotic rhythm. And slowly, after a few minutes of frantic care, you notice something — he’s smiling. A small, faint smile that makes your chest twist in a way that’s almost painful.
“You talk a lot,” he says softly.
You freeze mid-motion, gauze in your hands, eyes snapping up to meet his.
“I know,” you whisper, cheeks burning. “I… I can’t help it.”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and rough. “You ain’t annoyin’. It’s nice.”
Your stomach twists at the softness in his tone. “Nice?” you echo, barely above a breath.
“House sounds less empty,” he adds, eyes flicking briefly to the doorway, the table, the scattered papers, before returning to you. “When you talk, it… feels… alive.”
The words land like warm water on frozen skin. You sit back, hands slack in your lap, and feel something shift inside you. The panic that had been knotting your stomach, the sharp ache at seeing him hurt, the jittering of nerves from fear and proximity — it all softens, melts into something quiet and heavy. Safety.
For the first time, you realize you can breathe. Really breathe. That the house — your life, your messy, temporary, waiting world — feels less hollow, just because he’s here and because he let you care.
You meet his eyes, still pale gray-blue and observing, and something unspoken passes between you. You’ve been frantic, babbling, hovering, watching. And he’s letting it be okay. He’s letting you be okay.
Your chest tightens, but in the best possible way. You lean forward slightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, watching him flex his hand slightly to test the movement. The cut is red but already clotting, the faint line still sharp and alarming, but not as frightening as the first moment.
“I… I didn’t mean to panic,” you murmur, tone softer now. “I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says, cutting you off, still quiet, still steady. “I know you care. That’s enough.”
You swallow hard, and for the first time, you let yourself stop moving. No hands wringing, no restless pacing, no words tumbling out. You just sit there, watching him. Watching the way he tilts his head, testing the cut, letting you fuss. Watching the way the afternoon sunlight pools across the table, across the floor, across him.
It feels intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Domestic, almost — the kitchen smells of soap and lemons, the faint tang of metal from the blood lingering in the air. Outside, the hum of the world continues, distant, irrelevant. The house feels smaller in its own way, closer somehow. Safe.
You realize, slowly, that the longing you’d been carrying, watching him from inside, imagining touches, imagining small gestures, can rest, just for a moment. That the panic, the intensity, doesn’t have to be constant. You don’t have to say it. You don’t have to act on it yet.
“You’re not mad,” you murmur, almost to yourself.
“Mad?” he repeats, faintly puzzled.
“No. That I…” You trail off, realizing the words don’t matter anymore. That he doesn’t need them to. That safety isn’t spoken, it’s felt.
You can’t stop the small smile from creeping across your face. It’s ridiculous and tender and utterly unguarded. And in that moment, your chest loosens, your throat unclenches, and the quiet, aching longing that had been following you since the first day he arrived… softens into something warm and grounding.
The morning starts with a quiet kind of happiness. You stand at the counter, sipping your coffee, letting the sun spill across the floor. The house feels… good. Lively, almost. The sounds of Daryl and the others outside — hammering, measuring, casual chatter — make it feel inhabited in a way it hasn’t in weeks. You glance through the blinds and catch him adjusting a plank along the side of the house, the sunlight catching on his damp hair, the way his muscles flex and move like they belong to this space.
For a moment, your chest lifts. You almost laugh to yourself. The tray of sandwiches you packed yesterday suddenly feels worth it. You feel light, like maybe being home — truly home — could feel like more than just passing through.
You set the coffee down, leaning on the counter, and watch. He glances up briefly, maybe sensing your eyes. You pretend not to notice, but your chest tightens in that familiar, thrilling way. The air smells faintly of sawdust and warm wood, and it feels like a secret only the two of you share.
And then, almost imperceptibly, a shadow drifts across the edges of your mind.
“You talk too much.”
It’s not a voice from this morning, this week, this house. It’s from a dozen different mornings you can’t forget. The teacher in high school, sighing as your sentences tumbled over themselves. The friend who rolled her eyes, half-laughing, as if your enthusiasm were a flaw. Your own mother’s patient, quiet critique, echoed in the back of your skull. “You always have to fill the space, don’t you?”
You blink. The sunlight feels sharper now, harsher, almost accusing. That soft thrill you had a moment ago — seeing him, watching him — starts twisting in your chest.
Maybe you are too much. Maybe he’s tired of you already. Maybe the lemonade yesterday was fine once, but a habit now, a nuisance. Maybe your words, your presence, your wanting — it’s too loud.
You retreat instinctively, turning back to the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter as it could anchor you. You try to steady your breathing, but your mind spins: If I go outside, I’ll bother him. If I bring anything again, he’ll think I’m annoying. If I speak, if I do anything… I’ll ruin this.
And in that moment, you realize something: no matter how much you hide, how much you retreat, how much you silence yourself… you are still aching to be seen.
Still yearning.
Still, quietly, desperately, wanting him.
Daryl wipes his hands on the rag again, watching the yard as the sun climbs higher. He had expected her to be there. She’s usually at the back door or leaning over the railing, tray in hand, offering lemonade, water, something to eat. Something homemade. Something that makes the noise and dust of work feel lighter, warmer, human.
But the porch is empty. Just the faint echo of yesterday’s footsteps. The tray of snacks and the little pitcher of pale yellow lemonade are gone. Not replaced. Not waiting for him.
He frowns, almost imperceptibly. The air feels different somehow, quieter, like the house is holding its breath. He glances toward the windows, tilting his head, scanning for movement, for a shadow, for a hint of her presence. Nothing. The curtains are drawn just enough to obscure the kitchen, but not enough to hide the faint shimmer of sunlight across the counter.
His stomach twists in a small, unfamiliar way. He feels it before he can name it—a hollow, stretching ache. It’s absurd, he thinks, a little sharp laugh under his breath: she’s been avoiding me, that’s all. She’s busy. Practical. Responsible. Not hovering.
And yet, the empty porch makes it sting. The absence of the tray makes it sting. The silence where her voice usually fills space makes it sting.
The realization is quiet and sharp: he misses her presence. Not the chatter exactly, he doesn’t always need words, but the sound of her voice, the motion of her hands, the way she moves around the house. It fills the space he doesn’t realize is empty until she isn’t there.
He glances once more toward the windows, a faint, almost imperceptible hope threading through the line of his jaw. The blinds sway slightly in the breeze. The house breathes. And somewhere inside, he knows she’s thinking of him.
Even if she’s staying back.
Even if she’s hiding.
Even if she doesn’t yet realize it, he notices.
And it hurts in a way that makes him want to fix more than hinges, more than steps, more than the physical parts of the house. He wants to fix the quiet between them too, the space that stretches long and hollow across the porch, the yard, the windows, the empty pitcher of lemonade.
But for now, all he can do is notice.
All he can do is hope she’ll come back.
The last day of work arrives with a strange stillness. The house looks different somehow—lighter, open, more alive. Beams are sanded, walls patched, floors polished. Even the air feels changed, carrying the faint scent of wood and paint and the memory of afternoons spent here together.
You walk through each room slowly, fingers brushing the smooth edges of counters, tracing the lines where the wall had been removed, noting the little fixes he made without being asked. The squeaky step no longer wobbles. The hinge swings silently. The faucet no longer drips. Even the light bulbs you’d ignored for months now shine, steady and warm.
Everything feels… finished. Not perfect, but yours. And yet, the perfection is bittersweet.
You’re aware of the day ending. The trucks are packed. The tools stowed. The dust settled. Your routine—the daily rhythm of offering lemonade and sandwiches, watching him work quietly, feeling the soft weight of his attention—has come to an end.
Your chest tightens in a way that makes you take a breath you don’t realize you’re holding. You want to step outside one last time, offer a tray, say something clever or harmless to fill the silence. But even as you hesitate, you know it might be the last quiet moment before the workday ends.
Then there’s a knock at the door. Quick, deliberate.
You freeze, pulse skipping.
Opening it, you find him standing there. Tool belt still slung low around his hips, arms crossed loosely over his chest, shoulders squared, but his eyes… they’re not like they usually are. Something softer, heavier, searching. Almost… vulnerable.
“I… did somethin’ wrong?” he asks, quiet, measured, as if testing the air.
You blink, heart hammering. You hadn’t expected words. You hadn’t expected clarity.
Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out, uneven, messy, but true: “I like you. And… and I got scared.”
He blinks, just a faint twitch of a brow. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t turn away. Just stands there, quiet, listening.
Your chest tightens further. You want to explain. To apologize. To qualify. But the words dry up. Your usual chatter has vanished, leaving only the bare truth, unpolished, exposed.
He lets a moment pass. No teasing. No sighing. No small talk. Just him, steady, present. Then, softly, almost lost in the hum of the empty house:
“Don’t hide from me.”
The weight of the words lands in your chest like a steady hand holding yours. Not demanding. Not judgmental. Just… heavy with meaning.
You swallow, blinking rapidly. “I… I didn’t want to—”
“You ain’t annoyin’,” he interrupts, voice low, gravelly, careful. “I like hearin’ you.”
Something in your chest loosens, a little. Relief, tinged with embarrassment, tinged with longing. You realize you’d been bracing yourself for rejection, for a quiet withdrawal, for him to step back and leave the space you’ve claimed in his quiet. But he hasn’t. Not once.
You laugh softly, almost disbelieving. “I… I wasn’t sure if—if you… if it was too much.”
“Feels quiet without you.”
“You like me talkin’?” you mimic him softly, teasing.
He glances at you, a faint smirk touching the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, low, deliberate. “Don’t stop.”
The air between you thickens, charged and trembling. Daryl doesn’t take a step back. He doesn’t even blink. He just tilts his head slightly, watching you. You swear the room has shrunk, that the walls, the floor, the half-finished renovations has disappeared, leaving just the two of you suspended in a quiet bubble.
He moves closer, slow, careful. His eyes never leave yours, pale gray-blue and steady. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t say much, just enough that every word carries weight.
You feel your shoulders loosen slightly, the tension you’ve carried tightening and twisting in your chest. And in that moment, everything feels fragile, like a string stretched too tight—ready to snap, but safe in his hands.
You take a small step toward him. One. Then another. Until the space between you is measured in inches, heartbeats, and the faint smell of sawdust clinging to his shirt. You can feel it now—the warmth radiating off him, solid and steady.
He leans in first, forehead brushing yours, a gentle, deliberate touch that sends your chest fluttering. It’s soft, grounding. He pauses, lets you register it, lets the quiet stretch for a heartbeat too long before anything else happens.
You close your eyes. You're the first one to lean in. Just a little. Your lips meet his, slow and soft, nothing flashy, nothing urgent. Just a tentative brush at first, testing the waters, tasting the warmth, the steady presence that has drawn you in since day one.
He shifts slightly, careful, guiding you without force. His hands rise to your waist, grounding you, letting you feel that he’s here, real, steady. You rest your hands lightly against his chest, fingertips brushing over the fabric of his shirt, feeling him through it.
The kiss deepens ever so slightly, still slow, still careful, as if the world itself is holding its breath for you. Every nerve in your body seems alive, heightened, the quiet around you growing heavier, fuller, as though the house itself is aware of the small explosion inside your chest.
You pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his again, heart thumping. He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head toward yours, letting the silence speak.
“You’re… really here,” you murmur, voice soft, almost trembling.
He hums quietly, low and steady, and presses his forehead a little closer. “Yeah. Been here all along.”
You let out a shaky laugh, small and unsteady, because it feels like everything you’ve wanted, everything you’ve feared, is balanced right here in this slow, steady moment. He leans in once more, lips brushing yours again—soft, insistent just enough to let you know he’s not going anywhere.
When you finally pull back, foreheads still touching, you catch him smiling faintly. Not a big smile. Not flashy. Just a little tilt of his lips that makes your chest swell, that makes the quiet between you feel like it’s been waiting for this exact moment all along.
“Feels… right,” he says, low, almost shy.
And you can’t stop the soft smile spreading across your face. You shake your head, breath catching. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Feels right.”
He rests his forehead against yours again, longer this time, hands still at your waist, grounding you. The quiet stretches, but it isn’t heavy or uncomfortable anymore. It’s full. Warm. Safe.
And somewhere deep inside, you realize: this, this slow, steady, gentle touch, this shared warmth, is exactly what you’ve been waiting for all along.
so… life threw me a curveball and I recently got fired 😅 the unemployment office has been moving slower than a snail on a monday, so I figured I’d take matters into my own hands for a little extra income. I just launched an Etsy shop called Rever Papers Co., where I’m selling digital affirmation cards, journals, and mindful stationery.
right now there are two decks available, each with 50 cards, and i’ll also be listing zodiac affirmation decks soon ✨ Each deck is only 5 dollars
for now, it’s all digital (so you can get them instantly!), but if people enjoy them, I’d love to start creating physical products too. It’s been really fun turning my love for self-care and intention into something tangible, and I hope it can bring a little positivity into your day too 🌸
You can check it out here — and thank you for supporting me in this little creative adventure! 💖
