He comes to New York chasing a dream and stays long after it stops making sense. Somewhere between rejection letters and missed connections, the past catches up with him.
Or maybe he was looking for Will Byers all along.
Or
Mike runs into Will on the subway and suddenly everything makes sense.
Warnings: post-season 5 byler; post-finale byler
Word Count: 4k
a/n: this is the first chapter of a slow burn series i decide to write for byler!! sorry this isnt my usual joel miller stuff but i have been sooooo obssesed with byler lately that this is all thats been on my mind. also this is the very first fic i posted on AO3...check it out there if you'd like (:
By the time Hawkins finished healing, by the time the earth stitched its cracked, bleeding red wounds shut and the last echoes of the Upside Down faded into nothing, everyone knew it was time to move on.
Hopper took back his badge in a town that still needed him, settling into a quiet life with Joyce and Will. He learned, slowly and painfully, how to stitch his own shattered heart back together after losing yet another daughter. Joyce let herself breathe for the first time in years, relieved beyond words that her son could finally live a life untouched by monsters, possession, and fear.
Lucas had Max back, no longer having to visit the hospital everyday wondering if she would ever wake up. Dustin no longer had to watch his best friends die in front of him. And Will… Will was happy. Happier than Mike had ever seen him.
Free from the shadows that once stalked him. Free from being used as a weapon. Free to accept himself, surrounded by the people who loved him, safe in a way he’d never been before.
Completely. Totally. Safe.
Everyone, it seemed, found peace. Everyone except Mike.
Mike was stuck in the past, tangled in grief he didn’t know how to loosen. He had lost Eleven. Whatever they had been before she left didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was a part of him, woven into his bones, and there was nothing he could do to save her. The bomb he helped build. The music he chose. The plan that ended with her gone without him even knowing.
Everyone thought she was dead, they had watched it happen with their own eyes. But mike refused to believe it.
He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
He knew, knew, she was still out there somewhere. That she’d faked it, sacrificed herself for everyone’s safety. In his mind, she was living somewhere quiet and beautiful, with three waterfalls just like he promised her once.
Time, unfortunately, did not care about what Mike believed.
It kept moving without him.
His friends moved on. They grew up. They graduated. Mike sat through a ceremony he never wanted, clapping when everyone else clapped, smiling when everyone else smiled. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t understand how they were doing it, how they were letting go so easily.
Caps flew into the air. Dustin gave a speech that got people riled with hope. Everyone cried, but it wasn’t a goodbye to them, it was a beginning of a new life. Mike refused to participate.
When Mike suggested one last game of D&D, he didn’t realize how final it would be. Didn’t realize that would be the last time his childhood friends played a game that brought them back to their past.
The summer passed in a blur. Everyone was busy preparing for lives Mike couldn’t imagine for himself: college, dorm rooms, new cities. Learning how to be adults before they’d ever been allowed to just be kids.
It was what they wanted. Not Mike.
He didn’t apply to colleges. Didn’t write essays. Didn’t plan on leaving Hawkins or his parents’ house. He needed time, needed space to breathe, and a year off felt like the only thing keeping him afloat. At least that’s what he told himself. He spent that entire summer locked in his room, questioning whether time itself even existed and before he knew it fall was approaching and his friends were moving.
Lucas and Max left first. They always planned to go to the same college, and Lucas’s full basketball scholarship made it feel almost inevitable. Their goodbye was happy, one last movie night, laughter mixed with nostalgia, before Mike helped load the car and watched them drive away.
Dustin left a few days later. Of course it was MIT. That goodbye hit harder than Mike expected. Harder because it made everything real. Harder because Hawkins suddenly felt emptier than it ever had.
But nothing compared to Will.
Mike barely spoke the day Will left. He helped pack in silence, folding clothes, organizing books, avoiding eye contact like it might undo him. Joyce hovered nearby, trying to keep things light, trying to pretend this wasn’t breaking her heart too.
Will talked enough for both of them — telling stories, cracking jokes, anything to soften the weight in the room. Mike could only nod. Shrug. He was terrified that if he opened his mouth, the sobs lodged in his throat would finally break free.
When Will loaded the last suitcase into the trunk, he brushed his hands on his jeans like the job was done. Mike’s legs shook like he no longer had control of his body.
This was real. This was happening. Will, his Will, was growing up and leaving him behind.
Will stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face into Mike’s shoulder. Mike hugged him back loosely, afraid that if he held on too tight, he’d never let go. He felt Will stiffen as quiet tears soaked into his shirt, felt the small, broken sounds he tried to hide.
Mike bit down hard on his tongue until he swore he tasted blood. He couldn’t let Will see him cry. Couldn’t let him see the way this was undoing him.
Eventually, Will pulled away. He promised to write. Promised to call. Promised to visit every break he got. Then he got into the car and waved as Joyce turned the ignition and put the car in drive.
Mike stood there long after it drove away, watching until it turned the corner and vanished from sight. Only then did his body start moving, feet carrying him somewhere without his mind telling him where they were taking him.
Eventually he ended up in the woods, collapsed against a tree, and the moment he stopped holding himself together, everything spilled out. Loud, violent sobs tore from his chest. Tears burned down his cheeks leaving wet hot streaks in their path. His body folded in on itself as if he could make the pain smaller by squeezing it tight.
He cried until his chest hurt. He cried until his stomach twisted in tight painful knots. He cried until he couldn’t breathe, until the world blurred and spun, until he thought he might be sick.
His body’s reaction to Wills departure terrified him. He hadn’t cried when Lucas and Max left. He hadn’t cried when Dustin did.
But Will. Not Will.
This felt like losing him all over again. Except this time, Will hadn’t disappeared, kidnapped by some monster from another dimension. This time, he chose to leave.
At first Mike thought staying felt noble. Somebody had to stay. Somebody had to keep the house standing, keep the memories from collapsing in on themselves. He told himself he needed the quiet. Needed the same streets, the same creaking stairs, the same bedroom walls that had once been covered in maps and strings and frantic notes written in Sharpie. He told himself Hawkins was good for writing.
It wasn’t.
The town was too small for the stories he wanted to tell. Too familiar. Every sentence felt like it had already been lived in, worn thin by memory. He wrote anyway, short stories, then a novel, then another. He mailed manuscripts to agents who never responded or responded with the kind of politeness that still managed to feel like a slap in the face. Not a good fit. Lacking market appeal. Encouraging voice, but —
Years passed like that. Quiet, stagnant years. His one year off had turned into two, and then three, and then he stopped counting. Mike had grown, his younger face sharpening at the edges. Cheeks hollowing with age and when his 22nd birthday passed he realized how wasted his younger years were starting to feel.
Holly was getting older and with her friends always being over, house grew louder and he couldn’t focus. At least he wanted to blame it on her, but really Hawkins just lost its light. He lost his inspiration. And frankly he was tired and bored and he finally knew it was his time to move on. Living with his parents at 22 was something he never wanted for himself and the day he looked in the mirror and saw his father, he knew he needed grow up.
New York wasn’t a dream so much as a last option.
He arrived with two suitcases, a computer that overheated if he pushed it too hard, and a belief so fragile it felt embarrassing to admit he still had it. The apartment he found was barely an apartment at all — technically a loft, technically legal, technically large enough to stretch his arms without hitting both walls if he angled himself just right. The radiator screamed all night. The window looked directly into another building’s brick wall, close enough that Mike sometimes wondered if he could climb across if he really wanted to.
He pitched his writing anywhere that would listen. Indie publishers, literary offices tucked above delis, readings where no one made eye contact. He learned how rejection sounded in a hundred different voices. And learned how rude New Yorkers really are. But he was going to do exactly what he set his mind to. He is not his father.
And months later, rejection after rejection after rejection, he stayed. Still, he wrote. And he really started to believe this is where he belongs. He started working as a small bookstore on the corner of a street shelving books, ringing people up, recommending sci-fi and fantasy, and writing during slow hours mini stories of overheard conversations throughout the day. The weather had shifted, spring turned into summer, summer into fall. Fall in New York really was beautiful. Sometimes, sitting in Central Park with a coffee and his notebook that held all his ideas, he would watch as the leaves fell onto the dying grass below. The gray skies above covering the sunshine and somehow, he felt right at home.
It felt weird and yet freeing that no one here knew who he was. Yeah, he came here for the purpose of recognition, but no one knew. Hawkins, everyone knew everyone and yet even though everyone knew him, they didn’t know his story. And it felt crushing living in a town with people associating you with a childhood you didn’t even get to live.
Here, no one knew him as the boy who was once in that “cult D&D” group without actually knowing what happened. He didn’t have to look down at his feet and remember what type of world was once beneath him. He didn’t have to walk down familiar roads, familiar spots and associate them with people who didn’t talk to him anymore.
Lucas used to call Mike sometimes with Max in the background but one day the calls stopped, and they grew apart, like friends do. Dustin still called sometimes, well he did before Mike moved and decided not to tell him. He felt like Dustin was calling out of sympathy, he could hear it in his voice every time and he wanted to give him the freedom to let go of his past. And if that included Mike then so be it.
Will… he wrote, like he said he would. And he came down to visit. Years ago. Mike hadn’t seen will since he was 20. Hadn’t heard from him either. But that’s okay, Mikes okay. Really. He just didn’t expect it is all…
Well anyway, the city is great, and Mikes loves it. He promises he does. He really, really does.
-
The subway had become Mike’s second home, whether he liked it or not.
He stood near the pole of the car located closest to the window, one hand wrapped tightly around the cool metal, the other clutching the worn canvas bag that held his manuscript. The strap dug into his shoulder, familiar and grounding, like a reminder that the world he’d created still existed even when the real world seemed intent on pretending it didn’t. He’d memorized this route by now — the stops, the lurch of the train as it curved too sharply, the way the lights dimmed for half a second between stations. It was muscle memory, the kind that settled into your bones when disappointment became routine.
He was on his way to another meeting that wasn’t really a meeting. A “drop-in consultation,” they’d called it. Fifteen minutes, no guarantees, no promises. Just enough time for someone to skim the first page of his book and decide whether his voice was worth remembering. Mike had rewritten the opening paragraph that morning for the hundredth time, pacing the length of his cramped apartment while the radiator hissed like it disapproved. He’d nearly missed the train, had run down the steps two at a time, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with hope anymore.
The car smelled like metal and damp wool and cheap coffee. People swayed with the motion of the train, faces slack with exhaustion or absorbed in their own private worlds. Mike leaned his head back against the window and watched his reflection blur into the darkness outside, his face pale and older than he remembered it being. He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to give up.
He reached his hand down into the bag hanging loosely against his waist, brushing his fingers against the pages, and told himself again that this mattered. That if he could just get the book into the right hands, everything would change. That this was all temporary.
The train jolted suddenly, and Mike steadied himself, breath fogging the glass for a brief second before fading away. He stared at the smear it left behind, thinking about how easy it was to disappear in a city like this. How no one knew who he used to be. How no one here knew about the end of the world, or the boy who’d once saved it with nothing but loyalty and love and a stubborn refusal to let go.
His breath continued to fog the glass with each quiet exhale, a soft cloud that bloomed and vanished in seconds, over and over again. Mike watched it disappear, watched his own reflection blur and sharpen as the train rattled forward, and felt that familiar pull settle in his chest. He loved this part, the in-between moments, when the city slipped by too fast to hold and strangers became nothing more than fragments. Faces layered over faces in the glass, and Mike would make up some crazy storied about them in his head, It was easier than thinking about himself. Easier than thinking about where he was going. At this angle, he could see the benches lining the car, distorted slightly by the window, and his attention drifted to a woman seated a few feet away. She wore a crisp black suit and narrow tie, her heels strapped tight around her feet, head tipped back against the tiled wall with her eyes closed like she was bracing herself for something. Mike decided she worked for some powerful company that treated her like she was disposable. They talked over her in meetings, took credit for her ideas. He imagined she came to New York chasing something brighter, something bigger. Acting, maybe. Broadway. At night, she slipped into disguises and performed in dim bars downtown, the kind with sticky floors and cheap lights, where the audience didn’t know how lucky they were to watch her.
His gaze slid to the teenager next to her, barely old enough to look so certain of herself. Her blonde perm was loud and wild, almost defiant, and she wore a hot pink leather dress like she was daring the world to say something about it. Mike imagined her report cards filled with red ink, teachers shaking their heads, parents constantly on her back about grades and responsibility. None of it mattered. School was just background noise. She was going to be famous. Huge. A pop star with stadium tours and interviews where she laughed about how no one believed in her at first. Mike liked that version of her better than the quiet, anonymous truth. He was just starting to move on to the next person, already winding up another story in his head, when everything inside him dropped so suddenly it felt like the floor vanished beneath his feet.
No.
His eyes snapped down to his shoes, heart slamming so hard it made him dizzy. That wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. His brain did what it always did and dismissed it immediately, shoved the possibility away like a bad reflex. He’d seen Will in places before. In crowds. In reflections. In the empty space beside him on the train. But it was always his imagination. This was just a trick, a cruel misfire of hope. But when Mike forced himself to look up again, slower this time, bracing for disappointment, the universe didn’t correct itself. He did a sharp, disoriented turn, nearly losing his balance as the train lurched, hands gripping the pole beside him as his eyes strained, focused on the boy in disbelief. His mind screamed that it was a mistake even as his chest tightened painfully around a truth he wasn’t ready for.
Will Byers sat three benches down.
He was half-turned toward the window, tunnel lights rushing past behind him in blurred streaks of shadow and neon light, his reflection fractured across the glass. Mike didn’t recognize him all at once. His brain rejected him on instinct, the same way it always did in dreams. That’s not possible. But recognition came anyway, slow and merciless, piece by piece. The curve of his shoulder. The way he leaned forward just slightly, like he was listening for something. The familiar line of his jaw, older now, sharper, but undeniably Will. It hit Mike with the weight of gravity returning after a long suspension, settled deep in his chest until breathing felt optional. This wasn’t a memory. This wasn’t a story he made up to survive the ride. Will was real. Will was here. And Mike had no idea what to do with the way his entire world seemed to snap back into place around him.
Will looked older in ways Mike hadn’t prepared for.
Not just taller or broader, though there was more of him now — longer limbs, shoulders that carried themselves with quiet certainty — but changed in subtler, crueler ways. His face had grown into itself. The softness of boyhood had sharpened into something thoughtful and deliberate. His eyes were the same brown Mike had memorized years ago, but there was depth there now, a city-worn steadiness, like he’d learned how to exist without fear. His hair fell into his face in loose waves, dark and unkempt in a way that looked intentional, like he’d stopped letting anyone tell him how it should be cut.
Mike’s breath caught painfully in his throat.
Will wore a thick sweater, dark and heavy, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his wrists. Paint smudges faintly visible on his fingers, graphite dust worked into the lines of his skin. There was something achingly beautiful about how absorbed he was, hunched slightly forward, pencil moving fast and sure across the page of a sketchbook balanced on his knee. He had his Walkman on and the sight of it felt like a hand reaching back through time and closing around Mike’s heart.
Mike’s mind betrayed him instantly, dragging him backward in time. He was thirteen again, sitting on his bed with Will pressed close beside him, sharing headphones and listening to whatever music Johnathan had gotten Will into recently. He could smell the laundry soap from Joyce’s house, hear Will’s soft laugh when the tape clicked and had to be rewound with a pencil. He remembered the way Will used to draw without looking up, Mike watching in awe as has hands moved effortlessly across the page creating some masterpiece a boy his age shouldn’t be capable of.
Mike stared helplessly now.
The train swayed, metal groaning as it curved through the tunnel. Mike tightened his grip on the pole, knuckles whitening, afraid that if he let go of something — anything — he might drift apart, dissolve into the moment. His manuscript bag hung forgotten at his side. The world had narrowed to Will’s hands, the steady rhythm of his pencil, the faint bounce of his knee in time with music Mike couldn’t hear.
Will looked so alive it hurt.
Not fragile. Not afraid. Not the boy Mike had once held together with whispered promises and trembling hands after a nightmare. This Will belonged to the city, to motion and momentum and forward movement. And suddenly Mike was acutely aware of himself. Unkempt, tired, living in a box of an apartment, chasing a dream that refused to look back at him. He felt small. Unfinished.
The train began to slow.
The change in motion was subtle but unmistakable, the screech of brakes echoing through the car. Will finally looked up from his sketchbook, blinking like he was surfacing from underwater. He tucked the pencil in his pocket and closed the book carefully, reverently, as if the drawing mattered more than the rest of the world.
The doors slid open with a sharp hiss, the sound cutting through the low hum of the train like a held breath finally released. Will stood immediately, moving on instinct, fingers curling around the strap of his bag as he slung it lazily over one shoulder. He looked different standing like that, taller, surer, like someone who belonged to the city instead of being swallowed by it. His eyes flicked across the car as his feet carried him forward, scanning faces without really seeing them, and then briefly, devastatingly, they brushed over Mike. It was barely a glance, fleeting and unfocused, the kind you give a stranger without meaning to. Will stepped onto the platform, swallowed by the fluorescent lights and echoing space beyond the doors.
For one suspended heartbeat, nothing happened.
Mike’s lungs burned as he realized he’d been holding his breath. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe Will hadn’t really looked at him. Maybe Mike was just another blur in the glass, another face that didn’t register. Maybe Will didn’t recognize him anymore. The thought hollowed him out so fast it almost hurt more than the hope had. But then Will stopped short, like something invisible had yanked him backward. His head snapped around so fast it was almost violent, eyes wide and searching, panic written plainly across his face. The doors began to slide shut, their warning chime too loud, too final, as Will’s gaze locked fiercely onto Mike’s through the narrowing gap.
Will frowned, just slightly at first, confusion pulling his brows together as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that didn’t make sense. His eyes widened. His breath caught. His mouth parted in a silent, stunned exhale. Mike watched the exact moment recognition hit him. Saw it ripple through Will’s expression like a wave breaking, disbelief collapsing inward until there was nothing left but certainty. Like the world had just rearranged itself around one impossible truth. Mike’s own mouth fell open, the shock knocking the air clean out of him.
Will stood there, frozen on instinct, still staring, still not looking away. Panic flared sharp and sudden in Mike’s chest, not fear exactly, but exposure. Like he wasn’t supposed to be seen. Like he was supposed to be secret. He moved without thinking, body surging forward as the doors slid together, his hand slamming against the glass just as it sealed between them. The sting shot up his palm, bright and real, and he welcomed it. Proof that this wasn’t another cruel trick of memory. Proof that Will was real. That he was here.
They stood there, inches apart and impossibly far away, separated by cold glass and bad timing and years that had stretched too long between them. Will’s face was still caught in shock, something fragile and horrified all at once flickering across his features. His hand twitched, tightening around the spine of the notebook he held, knuckles whitening as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored. In the glass, Mike saw his own reflection layered over Will’s face; two versions of themselves overlapping, blurred together, divided by distance and time and words that had never been sent.
Then the train jerked forward. The moment snapped.
Will slipped out of frame, left standing on the platform, growing smaller as the subway carried Mike away. Mike pressed his forehead to the glass, heart pounding violently, watching until Will was nothing but a blur of dark coat and stunned eyes. Until the tunnel swallowed Will whole.
Mike sagged back against the door, chest aching, lungs burning like he’d just surfaced from deep water. His hands trembled. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or cry or scream at the ceiling of the train for being so unforgivably cruel.
Will and Mike used to be so close. Back then, a meeting like this wouldn’t have been shocking or painful. They would’ve run into each other’s arms, laughing, excited to be reunited. But somewhere along the way, they stopped talking.
At first, they’d written constantly, letters stuffed with sketches and stories, Mike’s handwriting sprawling messily across the page, Will’s neat and careful in return. Then the letters had grown shorter. Less frequent. Mike’s last few had gone unanswered, words floating out into the void between Indiana and New York until even hope got tired of waiting.
Eventually, Mike had stopped writing too.
The subway roared on, uncaring, and Mike closed his eyes, realizing that no matter how many miles he put between himself and Hawkins, no matter how many drafts he wrote and rewrote, the most important story of his life was still unfinished.
Synop: Tommy will probably never be the same after being forced to watch Joel's gruesome murder. Or at least he won't until he gets to kill the bitch that took his brother himself.
Of course you were never going to let him go alone. Of course you were going to follow.
Warnings: no ellie, no dina, mean!tommy/angry/grieving, lots of arguing lol, angry sex, chocking, ass slapping, unprotected pinv, oral fem!receiving, guns and weapons, probably more but i'm bad at writing warnings lol (lmk if i missed anything major)
Word Count: 10k
dividers by ( @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics )
a/n: IF YOU ALREADY READ THIS PLEASE READ: i rewrote this chapter because i literally was not feeling the first one emotionally and it was throwing me off when trying to write the second part, so i rewrote it this week and i feel so much better about it! you do not have to reread (the storyline is still the same just some changes in the tone and more arguing) and ofc i rewrote the smut so skip down to the end if you wanna read that part hehehehe. anyway im so sorry but i hope yall enjoy this one instead!!
The snow still hadn’t melted.
It clung to the world like grief clung to Tommy, quiet, bitter, impossible to shake. Outside Jackson, the sky had dulled to a flat, iron grey, heavy with the kind of silence that feels like it knows too much. Like it, too, had seen what Tommy had seen. What you hadn’t.
You only heard about it in murmurs passed between patrol shifts, whispered half-words trailing off when you came near. What Joel had gone through. How Tommy had been there, forced to watch, to listen.
You heard from someone that it started with the swing of a golf club. Then came the sound of something breaking, something soft and human. Then silence. Not peaceful, not calm. Just wrong. Loud in the way only death can give. They said he was on his knees. That Tommy was beaten and held down, forced to watch, eyes wide and helpless. That the smell of blood was so thick in the air he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t forget it even if he tried.
But no one talks about that part out loud anymore. They’re just all rumors anyway. Or, at least you pray they are.
But you see the way Tommy stares off sometimes, like he’s still there, like it’s happening again. Over and over.
You don’t ask him what he saw and he doesn’t tell you.
Tommy used to reach for you in his sleep. Mumbled your name, curled his body around yours like you were something steady in a world that never was. Now his back is always turned. If he sleeps at all, it’s shallow and restless. He twitches and grits his teeth, breath catching like he’s drowning in another nightmare.
There’s no warmth in the space between your bodies anymore. Just a hollow ache, wide as grief, cold as February.
And you try, you try, to understand. You try not to take it personal. But his silence is a knife you keep swallowing.
He doesn’t kiss your shoulder in the mornings. Doesn’t hum old country songs while frying eggs. Doesn’t run his fingers through your hair or rest his chin on your shoulder just to feel close.
He doesn’t call you darlin’.
It’s like loving a ghost. And still… you stay.
Because you remember the way he used to be. How he’d look at you like you were the only reason he kept going. How his hand would rest on your knee while sitting on the porch. How his voice would soften when he said your name.
But that man, the man you loved, never made it back from that day.
Joel’s death took more than a brother. It took Tommy too, even though he’s still breathing, still alive.
Now he walks the halls of your home like they don’t belong to him. Doesn’t touch the mug you always set out in the morning. Doesn’t eat the meals you make. Just sharp nods. Short sentences. A look now and then that almost says “I’m sorry” but never quite makes it there.
One day you caught him sitting on the porch, rifle in hand, staring off distantly into the woods. He hadn’t heard you come out. And for a second, just a second, his face cracked. You saw it, all of it. The rage. The guilt. The helpless, broken need to rewrite time.
But then it passed, and his face closed back up like a door slamming shut. Any sign of emotion gone as quickly at it came.
You still wait for him, though. In every breath. In every silence. You wait like the air waits for spring during these cold, frigid days.
You try to act normal. Not because anything feels normal, but because pretending helps, sometimes. It makes the quiet in the house feel less like a funeral.
You make the bed each morning even though Tommy barely sleeps in it. You fold his laundry, though he doesn’t wear much anymore beyond the same flannel and jeans. You cook, you clean, you wait. You pretend.
Because pretending feels easier than saying it out loud. He’s not really here anymore.
You ask him if he wants to take a walk with you, he says no. You mention Jesse stopped by to say hi, he nods without looking up. You leave your hand on his shoulder a second too long when you pass behind him in the hallway, he pulls away like your touch is a memory he can’t afford to feel.
He doesn’t look you in the eye anymore.
And it hurts. Because you remember when he used to, when he’d stare at you with this quiet, patient love like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. Now he looks everywhere but at you. Like holding your gaze might crack him in half.
Sometimes, you fill the silence with small talk. A funny patrol story. A light memory. Something normal.
Sometimes, you almost say Joel’s name. You’ve learned not to.
You only made that mistake once.
Once, a few days after the funeral, you found Tommy sitting on the edge of the porch, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The sky was turning violet. You thought maybe the quiet felt a little gentler that night.
So you sat beside him and whispered, “Remember that time Joel found that old guitar in Salt Lake? The one with the crack in it? He played that stupid Johnny Cash song for hours…”
Tommy didn’t respond.
You turned to look at him, smiling at the memory. “He kept going and going while you were trying to nap. Drove you nuts.”
He didn’t even blink. He just stood up, tossing his cigarette in the grass and walked inside without looking back.
After that, his rules became clear, unspoken but sharp. No mentions, no memories, no Joel.
Even the house has changed. His pictures turned face-down. His name vanished from conversations. His guitar, once a quiet soundtrack to your evenings when he was over, now sits untouched in the attic, strings gathering dust.
Sometimes, you wonder if Tommy thinks saying it out loud will make it more real. As if keeping it buried means it didn’t happen. But it did. It happened. Joel’s dead.
And every day you lose a little more of the man who survived it.
He twitches in his sleep, whispers things you don’t understand — names, apologies. You don’t know who they’re for.
Once, you found him standing in the kitchen at 3 a.m., staring down at a knife in the sink like he couldn’t remember putting it there. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, like something inside him was tearing loose.
You didn’t say anything, just gently took his hand and walked him to the room.
That night, you sat awake beside him, listening to the wind outside rattle against the window. You held onto the moment. Held onto him, even if he wasn’t really there.
The night was quiet, like most nights are now.
The fire had burned low in the hearth, soft orange flickers licking the stone. Shadows danced lazily across the walls, stretching long and tired. The scent of venison stew hung in the air, Tommy’s favorite. You’d spent hours on it, dicing potatoes, peeling carrots from the greenhouse, simmering it low and slow. You poured your care into the cooking, as if enough warmth in a bowl could bring him back.
Tommy sat at the table, hands in his lap, eyes somewhere far away. The steam from the bowl in front of him rose into the cold air, unnoticed. Unwanted.
You stood across from him, wooden spoon still in hand, stomach twisted into anxious knots. You watched him. The way his shoulders curved forward like gravity had grown heavier just for him. The way his flannel hung looser now, like it belonged to someone else.
He looked smaller. His frame had thinned, his cheeks sunken with weeks of skipped meals. He looked like he was fading, not just physically. And god, it hurt so much to see him like this.
You walked to him slowly, the way you’d approach a wild animal — careful, open palms, soft words.
“Tommy,” you said gently, kneeling beside him. “You need to eat.”
No response.
You reached out, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand. He flinched as though your touch burned. As if love was the sharpest weapon he knew now. He pulled his hand away without a word. Another rejection.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you said, your voice starting to fray. “I know you’re hurting. I know it’s hell. I miss him too, Tommy. But this—” You glanced toward the untouched bowl. “This isn’t what Joel would’ve wanted.”
At the mention of Joel’s name, Tommy stiffened.
“Stop.”
It was the first word he’d spoken in hours. A command. But you pressed on, too full of pain to stop now.
“You think he’d want you to waste away? To push everyone who loves you out of your life?” Your voice rose, tight and trembling. “You think this is what he’d want for you?”
“I said stop.”
You walked to the sink, washing you own half eaten bowl.
“Tommy…”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!”
You flinched, the words hitting like a slap in the face. But you couldn’t stop now, even with the way you saw the anger rising to his cheeks. Even with the way his fists clenched around his bowl.
“I want you back,” you whispered, broken. “I want the man who used to smile. Who used to hold me like I was something good. Who used to laugh when he cooked and—”
You shouldn’t have said it. But you did.
Joel.
Everything stopped and the silence shattered
In one sudden motion, Tommy’s arm flew across the table. The bowl flew, full and steamy, striking the cabinet beside you with a violent crack. Porcelain shattered, stew spattering across the wood. You gasped, stumbling back as the sound tore through the room. For a breathless second, your body recoiled, heart pounding and your brain screamed run as if he was aiming for you.
Tommy stood up too fast. Chair legs scraped the floor. His chest rose and fell, hands flexing at his sides.
Then he saw you. Your face pale and your eyes shining with fear, fear of him. Your arms crossed over your chest, trying to hold yourself together.
“No— no, baby—” He stepped forward, panic lighting his face. “I wasn’t aiming at you, I swear. I didn’t mean to— shit, I just—”
You flinched when he reached for you, and he stopped cold.
“I’d never hurt you.” His voice cracked. “I swear to God, I didn’t mean—” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He sank down onto his knees, slowly, hands trembling as he began to pick up the broken pieces from the floor. One by one. Like if he could just fix the mess, maybe everything else would fall back into place too.
You stood there, arms hugging your body, watching him fall apart in silence.
And then, as if in self-punishment, Tommy served himself another bowl. Sat back down at the table, and ate.
Every bite looked like it hurt him. But he ate it. All of it.
You didn’t sit beside him. You just watched. And for the first time in weeks, Tommy Miller looked like he was still trying to be human.
The fire had died out long ago. The house lay still, save for the wind tapping at the windows and the faint creak of old wood settling in the cold.
You lay on your side, back to the door, blanket pulled to your chin. Awake. Your eyes traced patterns in the shadows, heart heavy but quiet now, like the calm after a storm.
Then, sometime after midnight, the mattress dipped beside you. Your breath caught, but you didn’t move.
Slowly, tentatively, Tommy reached out. Rough fingertips brushed your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear just like he used to. His hand lingered for a second longer than it had any right to.
You turned to face him. His eyes found yours in the dark. They looked tired. Older somehow. Worn down to the bone. But they looked at you, really looked, and that was something.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and cracked. “For how I’ve been. For… pushin’ you away.”
“It’s okay,” you whisper. And you mean it, even if it isn’t. Because it has to be.
He looked away then, jaw clenched. “I ain’t been right. Not since…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
There was a long pause. You let the silence hold him for a while, let him feel safe in it. But eventually, he spoke again.
“I know who did it.”
You blinked slowly.
His voice had changed, harder now, sharp around the edges. “I’ve been waitin’. But I can’t anymore. I’m gonna ask Maria to send me and a group out to Seattle.”
Your body went still. “You’re serious.”
He nodded. “I know where she is, the girl who killed Joel. I know the names of the people who helped.”
The weight of it landed fast. Heavy and inevitable.
“You think she’ll say yes?” you asked gently.
“She has to.”
You hesitated. “She doesn’t have to do anything, Tommy.”
His head turned slowly. His brows drew down. “What’d you just say?”
“I’m not trying to fight with you,” you said quickly. “I just think—”
“No,” he interrupted, sitting up, voice rising. “Say it again.”
You sat up, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “I just think Maria’s not gonna sign off on something that’ll get you and maybe others killed.”
He scoffed. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“I think you’re hurting,” you said carefully. “And you think this is justice, but all I see is a death wish.”
His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. “That what you think of me?”
“I think…” You exhaled. “I think you’re trying to put a bullet in someone and pretend that’s gonna fix what’s broken.”
Tommy stood up so fast the bed rocked. He paced to the edge of the room, hands on his hips, head bowed. He looked like he wanted to scream.
Instead, he turned on you.
“Are you on my side or hers?”
“…What?”
“Are you on my side,” he repeated, louder now, “or hers?”
You stared at him, stunned. “Tommy, how can you even ask me that?”
“‘Cause it sure as hell don’t feel like you’re on mine.”
Your voice cracked. “I’ve been right here. Every day. Through everything.”
“Then act like it!” he shouted. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m broken, like I need protectin’ or savin’ or hand-holdin’. Fuckin’ support me.”
You stood now too, voice shaking but firm. “I do support with you, Tommy. I love you. But supporting you doesn’t mean saying yes to something that might kill you.”
He looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like your face had changed.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “You never really did.”
You swallowed hard, your hands trembling at your sides. “You think this is easy for me? Watching you rot from the inside out while I try to keep us together? I am trying, Tommy. I am doing everything I know how to do.”
He shook his head. “If you were really with me, you wouldn’t be asking me to let her live.”
“I’m not asking you to let her live. I’m asking you to think about what happens to you if you go down this road.”
He stared at you, chest rising and falling, eyes blazing.
Then his voice dropped. Quiet. Final.
“Maybe you should stop waitin’ for me.”
The room went silent as he turned and left. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, leaving you in the dark, shaking.
You sat back down on the edge of the bed, your hands gripping the sheets so tight your knuckles ached. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t from fear.
It was from grief. But not for Joel, for Tommy.
It was hours later when you heard his muffeled broken cried coming from the living room. It wasn’t loud or theatrical, just quiet as desperate sounds escaped from someone who couldn’t hold it in anymore.
You could tell he was trying to be quiet for you, he never wanted you to see him cry. Always wanted you to look at him as this strong, held together man. And when you think about it, you never really saw him cry after Joel died. You knew he did, noticed his blood-shot eyes when he walked into a room, but he made sure you never had to see it.
You didn’t move to comfort him, you knew he wouldn’t want it. Especially with the way he felt like you were betraying him. Then the front door creaked softly and closed behind him.
The silence swallowed you whole.
The morning air is sharp and cold against your skin, even through your coat.
You didn’t sleep much, not after the door closed behind him. But Tommy came back before dawn, silent as the wind. You heard the floor creak in the hallway, the soft groan of the front door closing behind him. You didn’t get up. You just listened to him move through the house like he was haunting it.
Now you’re sitting beside him in Jackson’s meeting room. Just the three of you — Tommy, Maria, and you — gathered in a space that feels too small for the things being said.
Tommy’s knuckles are white around the edge of the table. He’s leaned forward, eyes locked on Maria like she's the gatekeeper to everything that matters.
“I know who killed Joel.”
Maria doesn’t flinch. She waits.
“Her name’s Abby,” Tommy continues. “She’s part of some group outta Seattle. WLF. I don’t know what that means but I know who they are. I’ve been piecing it together for weeks.”
You tense beside him. It’s the first time you’ve heard the name. Abby.
Something cold roots itself in your stomach.
Maria folds her hands, lets out a breath through her nose. Her mouth is tight, unreadable. You can tell she’s trying to look thoughtful. But her decision’s already written all over her face.
“Tommy,” she starts gently, “I understand why you want this. I do. Joel was—” her voice breaks slightly before she catches it. “He was family. To all of us.”
Tommy nods once, eyes never leaving her. “Then let me go.”
Maria shakes her head slowly. “You’re asking me to send people out west. Across the country. Into unknown territory. For what?”
“For justice,” he says sharply. “For him.”
She meets his fire with calm. “For revenge, Tommy.”
He starts to speak again, but she holds up her hand.
“You’ve been hurting. And I get it”
Tommy’s chest rises and falls hard.
“But this won’t bring him back,” Maria says softly.
You glance at Tommy. He’s shaking his head slowly. You can feel the anger rolling off of him like steam.
“Please,” he whispers. “I’m beggin' you.”
Maria’s voice is gentle but firm. “My answer is no. And it’s final.”
He stands so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
“Fine,” he mutters, not looking at either of you. “Hope the whole goddamn town knows they’ve got a pussy of a leader.”
Then he turns and storms out, boots echoing down the hallway.
You’re left in the sudden silence. Maria gives you a look — soft, apologetic, full of sympathy that feels too heavy right now.
You stand slowly. Say nothing, just nod once and follow him out.
You catch up to him near the main gate, his long stride slowed only slightly by his frustration. The fire in his eyes hasn’t faded — it’s glowing hotter now, ready to burn down whatever stands in his way.
“Tommy,” you call gently. He doesn’t stop. “I can skip patrol if you want,” you say, trying to meet his pace. “I’ll stay with you. If you don’t want to be alone.”
He stops walking. The air between you stills.
You see his body tense like he’s about to turn and fight. To yell. His shoulders twitch like he’s trying to hold it in.
But when he turns, there’s pain in his eyes. He lifts his hand slowly and touches your cheek with rough fingers. His thumb traces the corner of your jaw. You lean into it instinctively, even though the touch feels almost foreign now.
“Thank you,” he says, voice low. “But just… please. I need to be alone today.”
You nod. It’s all you can do. His hand lingers just a second longer. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Be safe,” he whispers. Then he turns and walks off toward the house, shoulders tight, jaw set.
You watch until he disappears through the crowd.
You got back from patrol early. There was nothing out there tonight — no tracks, no infected, not even the sound of deer moving in the brush. Just cold wind and the ache in your knees from riding too long.
You slid off your horse outside the stable and gave Jesse a quiet nod before heading home, muscles tired and skin wind-chapped. The streets of Jackson were quiet. A few lanterns flickered near the main gates, but the sky was dimming fast. You pulled your coat tighter around you, boots crunching over frostbitten grass.
You expected the house to be dark, like it always was. That dead hush of a place forgotten by the people who lived in it. You used to hate coming back to that silence. Still did. The only sound had been the click of the lock. The sigh of the floorboards under your feet.
But tonight, something’s different. From halfway down the block, you saw the house lit. The front windows glowed with amber warmth. A faint shadow moving behind the curtains. The porch lamp was on too.
Your pace slowed. Your heart did too. It was the first time in weeks you’d come home to light.
You walked quietly up the steps, not wanting to interrupt whatever he was doing. Maybe, maybe, he was finally trying. Reading, cooking, sitting by the fire.
You reached for the door, breath caught in your throat, and stepped inside. But you froze at what you saw.
The table was covered in supplies. Ammo, food, bandages. A folded map. A half-packed duffel bag sat open and heavy, the zipper’s metal teeth catching the light. Boots by the door. Rifle leaning against the wall.
Tommy stood with his back to you, placing more items in the bag.
Your heart sank like a stone thrown in deep water.
“…Tommy.”
He jolted, turning fast, eyes wide with guilt, like a kid caught stealing. He didn’t even know you were there.
His face hardened almost instantly. You stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind you with a quiet click.
“What are you doing?” you asked, voice trembling.
“I have to.” He went back to packing, not meeting your eyes.
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You can’t. It’s too dangerous, Tommy.”
He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. Just kept folding gear, stuffing it in tighter, as if the motion kept him from unraveling.
You started to panic. “You can’t do this, Tommy. You don’t even know what’s out there. You don’t even—”
“I know enough!” he snapped, finally turning to you. His eyes were blazing.
“No, you don’t! You don’t know what’s waiting for you, and you don’t care. You’re just gonna walk into that fucking city and die because you can’t stand to be in this world without him!”
He turned away again, jaw clenched, grabbing a case of bullets. You reached out and grabbed his hand before he could touch it.
He froze.
“Don’t,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please. I can’t lose you to this. I can’t.”
His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at your hand gripping his in tight desperation.
“I can’t live without you, Tommy.”
And then, without even looking at you, he said the one thing that cracked something inside you wide open.
“Now you know how it feels.”
You staggered back like he’d struck you. A soft, breathless sound left your throat — half sob, half laugh. You looked at him, chest heaving.
“That’s not fair,” you said, barely above a whisper.
The tears came hard and fast.
“That's not fucking fair. You think you’re the only one who lost someone?”
He wouldn’t meet your eyes. You stepped closer.
“You’re all I have, Tommy. I can’t be alone. I’d be nothing without you.”
The words left your mouth and hung in the air, thick and undeniable.
He turned to you slowly, eyes glassy. His chest rising and falling like he’d been running. He looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks.
You weren’t sure what he was going to do. Yell. Throw something. Walk out again.
But he just stood there.
Then, finally, he spoke, voice hoarse and broken.
“…I don’t wanna be someone you lose, too.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, but it wasn’t cold anymore.
He dropped the bullets, then he reached over and pulled the duffel bag shut, slow and final. His hand stayed on it for a second before he stepped away.
You let out a shaky breath. Wiped at your eyes.
He didn’t say anything else. He walked over to you and took your face in his hands like it was something sacred. His thumb brushed away the tears. Then he rested his forehead against yours.
His hands stayed on your face like he’s holding something too fragile to grip any tighter. His thumbs still move in slow circles, trying to catch the last of your tears before they fall, but it’s too late. You’re unraveling right in front of him and he’s trying to catch the pieces.
“Please,” you whisper, voice barely holding itself together. “Don’t go.”
His breath stumbles and for a second, just one aching second, it looks like he’s going to say it. That he’s going to tell you the truth. That he has to. That it’s already too late. That the wheels are already turning in his mind, and there’s no unmaking what’s been set in motion.
“I won’t,” he says, softly instead. A lie in velvet.
Your hands fall to your sides. Something inside you sinks, heavy and cold.
It’s not enough. It can’t be.
You tilt your face up, locking eyes with him in the dim golden light of the room. The shadows on his face flicker, but you see every line. Every war still being waged behind his tired eyes.
“Promise me,” you say, your voice thick, trembling.
He doesn’t answer.
His mouth opens like he might say something, then closes again. His throat bobs as he swallows, gaze breaking from yours like it’s too much to bear.
You feel something hot crawl up the back of your throat. Your heart pounding so hard it feels like grief itself.
“Fucking promise me, Tommy,” you say again, louder this time. Angrier, desperate. Your voice cracks in the middle, betraying the softest, most broken part of you.
He lifts his head slowly and leans in, planting a soft kiss on your lips.
Not sudden, not explosive, but aching and slow. The kind of kiss that feels like a confession. His lips brush yours once, then again, firmer this time. As though trying to press every unspoken word into the shape of your mouth. As though kissing you is the only language he has left.
You feel yourself melt into it, breath catching in your throat. His hands slide down, one settling along your jaw, the other curling around the back of your neck, guiding you into him like you’re something precious.
You slide your arms around his waist, holding him with every ounce of fear, love, and desperation inside you. Your cheek brushes the worn fabric of his shirt sleeve. He smells like cold air and pine, like old gun oil and fading warmth. Like home.
Your lips part slightly, and his follow. The kiss deepens, slow and lingering. It tastes like regret. It tastes like memory. It tastes like a promise that was never going to last.
When he finally pulls away, it’s not because he wants to.
He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, his breath shallow against your skin. You stay still in his arms, afraid to move, afraid to shatter whatever this is.
“I promise,” he whispers, and it almost sounds real.
But you know him too well. You feel it in his hands, too tense. In his kiss, too final. In his voice, too quiet.
The promise doesn’t sit right. It floats in the air between you like dust. Light enough to lift, but never meant to stay.
He’s lying.
Maybe not out of cruelty. Maybe not even fully aware of it himself. But in the deepest part of him, Tommy Miller has already left this house.
So you say nothing You don’t fight it anymore. You just press your face into his shoulder and hold him tighter, like maybe if you don’t let go, he’ll forget where he’s trying to go. You let your fingers splay across his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, fast and uneven.
He holds you back like he means it. Like this is all he’ll let himself feel. The room stills around you. His arms hold you like he’s scared he might fall apart if he lets go. His breath brushes your temple in short, uneven exhales. For a long time, neither of you speak. The promise he made still lingers between you — soft, almost sacred, but already fading at the edges.
Tommy pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes search your face with something different now. Not guilt. Not anger. Something gentler. Older.
“…Come with me,” he whispers.
You nod, wordless.
He takes your hand. His calloused fingers wrap around yours, warm and rough in the best way. Familiar. You follow him through the dim hallway, lit only by the flicker of the fire behind you. The bedroom is colder than you remember, but his hand never leaves yours — not as he pulls back the covers, not as he helps you into bed like you're something fragile he's afraid to break.
He lies beside you, close, closer than he’s dared to in so long. His hands find your waist beneath the blanket, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. His touch is hesitant at first, like he doesn’t trust himself. Like he’s afraid you’ll tell him to stop.
But you don’t. You won’t. Because this is the Tommy you haven’t seen in what feels like forever. The one who loved you with a kind of quiet reverence. The one who made you feel like his whole world was contained in the curve of your smile. You let him touch you because you miss this. You miss him.
He cups your face again, gentle thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. You tilt into his touch without thinking.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. His voice cracks like old wood. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been. For everything I put on you.”
You shake your head, but he kisses your temple before you can speak.
“I’ve been lost,” he whispers. “But I never stopped lovin' you. Not for a damn second.”
His lips trail from your temple down to the soft spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate. He breathes you in like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your skin.
You feel his hands roam with care, not with hunger, not with desperation, but something far more intimate. He touches you like he’s relearning your body. The way his fingers slide under your shirt, spreading warmth over your ribs, the softness of your sides, the curve of your waist — he’s worshiping, not wanting.
You shiver beneath him, but it’s not from the cold.
He kisses you again, slow and deep. His mouth opens against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. You kiss him back just as slowly, savoring it, like maybe time will pause here, just for the two of you.
When he pulls away, he’s whispering again, barely audible. Words meant for no one but you.
“I love you. I love you so much. I don’t know who I am without you.”
You trace his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the rough edge of stubble, the line of his throat. He catches your wrist and presses a kiss into your palm, like he’s sealing some kind of vow there.
The covers shift as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling under the weight of the blankets. He wraps an arm around you, his palm spread wide against your back. The other threads through your hair, combing slow and steady. His lips find your neck again, leaving soft, lingering kisses in a line down to your collarbone.
“I love you,” he murmurs again. “I love your body.”
You press your forehead to his. “Stay,” you whisper. “Just… stay.”
He nods, once, hard, like the promise costs him something.
And for a while, it’s quiet. The world narrows to the sound of your shared breath, the warmth of his skin against yours, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your spine. His touch never stops, reassuring, grounding, tender.
Minutes pass. Then his breathing starts to shift to a slower, deeper pace.
But it’s not sleep. You know that rhythm. This one’s too controlled.
You lie perfectly still in his arms, your own breath syncing with his like a ritual. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you moves.
And in the stillness, you know he’s pretending. Faking the rise and fall of rest like it might trick you. Like it might soften the blow of whatever comes next.
You pretend too. You match him breath for breath. You let your body go soft. You let your hand stay on his chest, over his heart, even though it aches.
Because if this is all you’ll get — this moment, this warmth, this Tommy — you’ll take it.
Even if it’s borrowed. Even if it’s already slipping through your fingers.
You don’t know how long you’ve been lying like that — wrapped in his arms, body warm against his, hearts beating together in a slow, shared rhythm. But eventually, you feel it.
Subtle at first. The way his chest rises with a breath he’s holding too long. The faint stiffness in his limbs like he’s preparing to move.
He starts to untangle from you. Carefully, afraid to wake you.
You keep still. You let your arm fall limp when he slides out from beneath it. Let your breathing stay even when the blanket lifts and the cold slips in. You don’t flinch when the mattress shifts under the loss of his weight.
You hear his bare feet on the floorboards. Hear the soft creak of the closet door. The muted jingle of gear. Metal brushing against fabric. Velcro. Zippers.
He’s moving quietly, methodically. Not rushed, but focused. Like someone who’s had this plan burned into his brain for weeks.
You stay motionless, the blanket clutched tight around you, eyes forced closed in the dark.
Your breath catches when you hear him pad down the hallway. The soft click of the living room light. The rustle of paper. Maybe a map.
Then… silence. For a minute you think, maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he’s coming back to bed.
And he does return. Soft footsteps. The creak of the door. You feel him beside you again, but he doesn’t climb back under the covers. Doesn’t lie down. Just kneels at the edge of the bed, one hand brushing your hair gently off your forehead.
You can feel the tremble in his fingers as he leans down, presses a kiss to your temple so soft it barely exists. His breath is warm against your skin. It stings.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
You want to scream. You want to reach up and grab him, tell him don’t you dare leave me. But you stay frozen.
You hear him stand. Hear the front door open, a long, slow creak that groans like it knows what he’s doing. Hear the wind slip in, then the latch clicks shut behind him.
And just like that, he’s gone.
You stay in bed for a long time. Long enough for the sun to start bleeding faint gold through the curtains. Long enough for the warmth in the sheets to fade completely.
You cry in silence as pain creeps in like rot. Like the kind that doesn’t kill you right away, but stays deep in your soul like it lives in your bones.
You cry because he’s really gone. You cry because you thought maybe, just maybe, you were enough to make him stay.
But he needs his revenge more than he needs you and no amount of love was ever going to stop him.
When you finally get up, your body feels heavier than it should. Like gravity's stronger today. You move through the house slowly, the cold biting at your skin now that the blankets are gone. The bedroom is a mess of discarded warmth, blankets half off the bed, your shirt crumpled near the footboard, his scent still lingering in the air.
You throw on what you can find. The jeans from yesterday. A hoodie from the floor. Socks that don’t match.
You pull food from the cupboards, what little is left. A few cans. A half-empty bag of jerky. Two energy bars. You fill an old thermos with water from the tap, praying the pipes won’t freeze while you’re gone.
You head to the closet. His gun is gone but the backup is still there. You take it, load it, grab the hunting knife you always keep hidden under the dresser. No holster. No pack. Just a shoulder bag and what you can carry.
It’s not enough. But you don’t care. You’re going.
As you cross the hallway to the front door, your boots in hand, you pause at the edge of the living room and see a piece of paper lying gently on the coffee table with your name scribbled on it. Your heart plummets.
You walk over slowly and unfold it with fingers that won’t stop shaking.
His handwriting is messy. Rushed.
I’m sorry.
Please don’t come try to find me. I can’t let you get hurt because of me. This is something I have to do.
I love you more than anything and that's why I'm going without you. I need to do this alone.
Please forgive me.
- Tommy
You stare at the words until they blur, then you crumble the note in your hand, tight enough to cramp your fingers, and throw it across the room.
It hits the far wall and drops to the floor like it never mattered.
You sit on the edge of the couch, pull your boots on with jerky, ungraceful movements. Lace them tight. Tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to remind yourself you’re still here.
You’re going and that stupid note was never going to stop you.
Fourteen frozen, fucking brutal days of chasing his ghost through the corpse of the world. Sleet was replaced by rain that felt like ice as the winter trailed into spring. Stolen food, bruised knuckles, shivering under collapsed roofs with your knife gripped tight and your breath clouding the air like smoke somehow kept you alive.
You’d hoped two hours would be enough — enough time, enough space to let him fade from your skin. But he’s still there. In every splintered tree, every cold fire pit, every sleeve of his torn coat you swore you saw snagged high on a barbed wire fence.
And now, now you’re here.
Yakama.
The town is dead, drowned in nature. A graveyard of buildings and stories that no longer matter. Your horse snorts beneath you, hooves crunching through mud as you tug the reins and scan the half-collapsed police station across the street. And there — just outside, tied to a crooked railing — a horse. It has to be Tommy's.
You dismount without thinking, heart crawling up your throat. You tie your horse to a rusted stop sign, its pole bent like it had been struck by something years ago. Let the reins go slack. Let your fingers hover at your belt, brushing the hilt of your knife. Just in case.
The building groans around you as you step inside; walls tilting, ceiling open to the sky, ivy clawing its way through busted windows like it’s trying to reclaim what time abandoned. You move carefully. Knife drawn. Breath shallow.
You hear nothing but silence, but it's what's hidden in that silence that worries you. A runner, a stalker.
As you turn a corner, there’s a light weak and flickering from the back of the station like a dying fire. You creep forward and there he is, Tommy.
Bent over a map, back tense, hair greasy and falling into his eyes. He looks like hell. Dried blood at his collar. Sweat-stiff clothes clinging to sharp edges that weren’t there before. His arm is bandaged, the white long since soaked through with maroon.
You stop breathing. Just stare. For a second you almost forget how much you hate him right now.
Then, as you try walking slowly toward him, you step on a piece glass under your boot. The crack of it snaps the silence clean in half.
Tommy whirls, gun drawn before you can blink. The muzzle points straight between your eyes.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, hands fly up, knife dropping, breath hitching. “It’s me!” you gasp. “Tommy, it’s me!”
He doesn’t shoot. Doesn’t lower the gun either.
Lantern light slices across your face and he freezes, recognition hitting him like a punch. His grip trembles. His eyes burn. His mouth twists, like he’s trying to swallow words that won’t come out.
You lower your arms slowly. Step into the light.
His voice finally cracks out of him, sharp and ragged. “...What the fuck—?”
“Tommy, please.” Your voice is barely there. You want to go to him. You want to hit him. You want to fall into him and scream.
He drops the gun. Lets it clatter uselessly to the floor. Doesn’t look at you. Just turns, shoulders hunched, hands planted on the desk like they’re the only things keeping him standing.
“You fuckin’ followed me?” he rasps.
You nod. Your throat’s too tight to speak.
He doesn’t move. Just breathes, slow and pained, like every inhale is a fight. The bandage on his arm pulses with each beat of his heart. He looks like he’s unraveling in front of you, like if you touch him he’ll turn to ash.
“You’re outta your goddamn mind,” he mutters.
“I needed to know you were alive,” you say. Your voice comes out too soft, too human for this place.
He doesn’t lift his head.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t let you do this alone.”
The air thickens. Cold and sharp.
“You’re goin’ back.”
Your chest cracks. You step forward and he flinches like you’ve struck him.
Your fingers graze the edge of his bandage. It’s cold and stiff. There’s no heat under it.
The station around you hums with silence. Old radio static, mildew covered reports, rotted equipment.
Tommy’s breath drags. You can hear it. Hear the weight behind it. Like he’s holding the whole goddamn world on his back and you just added more.
He finally turns, his eyes full of anger and fury like you just fueled a fire.
“You’re not doin’ this,” he growls, low and rough. “I will drag your ass back to Jackson if I have to.”
You hold your ground. You travelled fourteen awful days to find him, there was no way in hell you were going back now.
“You don’t have enough time,” you say. “Two weeks there, two weeks back. Abby could leave in that time. If she’s even still here.”
His jaw clenches, muscle ticking like he’s chewing stone. He steps forward but you don’t back down.
“You think this is a fuckin’ game?” he spits. “Chasin’ after me like this is some goddamn love story?”
You flinch like that one cut deep.
“I didn’t follow you for some fairytale,” you snap, voice shaking with rage. “I came because I love you. Because you were gonna die out here. And I wasn’t gonna let that happen.”
“I told you not to come!” he roars. His voice echoes, huge and furious, bouncing off broken tile and rotted wood. “I was ready to die. I was ready to do what I fuckin’ had to. Now I gotta keep your ass alive.”
“Is that what you want?” you scream back. “To die for this? For some fucked-up version of revenge?”
He laughs, low, bitter, ugly. “Revenge? You think this is about revenge?” He steps in close, chest heaving. “I watched what they did to Joel. I buried my goddamn brother. You think I sleep at night, knowin’ she’s still breathin’?”
“And I don’t sleep, thinking about you out here with a target above your head.”
He’s in your face now. Close enough you can feel the heat radiating off him, even through the cold.
“You think this is safe?” he snarls. “You came through infected territory with a small ass knife? You call that smart? Sounds pretty fuckin' dumb to me.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had every choice! You chose this!” His voice is venom. “I tried to keep you out. You wanted to suffer.”
“You don’t get to decide what I can survive!” you scream, stepping in until your chest brushes his. “You don’t get to carry all the grief and pretend I didn’t lose anything!”
“I told you to stay in Jackson.”
“And let you die alone?” Your voice cracks, but you push through it. “Let you disappear without a word, like I’d survive that?”
He steps back, pacing like a caged animal. He grabs at his hair like it hurts to even think. Then he turns again and the pain on his face floors you.
“Yes,” he snaps. “Yes, goddamnit! Because if I lose you out here, if I fail to protect you, I won’t survive it.”
You stare at him. Breathing hard.
He looks like a man broken in half.
“I wish you didn’t love me,” he says. Quiet and gutted. “Wish you didn’t care. I don’t fuckin’ want you here.”
“Stop lying,” you whisper. “You’re not pushing me away. You’re just scared.”
"You're fuckin' stupid."
"Fuck you, Tommy."
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. Torn open.
And then his hands slam into your face, cupping your jaw rough, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and he kisses you.
No softness. No pause. It’s violent. Brutal. Starving.
His mouth devours yours with two weeks of agony and silence behind it. The taste of blood, of salt, of dirt and desperation. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he’s trying to burn the memory of you into his bones.
You moan, helpless against it. Your fingers dig into the back of his neck, gripping hard, needing something to hold. Something to hurt.
He groans — deep, low, possessive — and presses you back against the edge of the desk. The metal bites into your spine. You don’t care.
You don’t stop.
His hands roam your ribs, your waist, your hips. Rough fingers gripping like he needs to memorize every inch before he pushes you away again.
“I told you not to fuckin’ come,” he pants into your mouth, voice shaking. His lips drag along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“I had to,” you breathe, mouth swollen, heart split wide.
His mouth was still on yours, but the kiss had shifted. What started as fury — breathless, sharp, almost punishing — now smoldered with something darker, deeper. Not gentler. Not even close. But needy. Desperate. Like he didn’t believe you were real, like his lips had to memorize you before the world took you too.
You gasped against his mouth, and he chased the sound, swallowing it like oxygen. His hands were gripping your hips hard, too hard, like he was holding you down. Possessive. Controlled, but barely.
Your fingers climbed into the collar of his shirt, then slipped underneath, greedy and unthinkable. His skin was hot under your palms. Sweat-damp. Rigid with tension. Like every muscle in his body was coiled, barely restrained. Like he was keeping a war inside him, and you were the only one close enough to feel it shaking through him.
You slid your palms across the grooves of his stomach — tight and unforgiving — right as he growled, low and sharp in your ear, “You’re fuckin’ shakin’”
“You do this to me,” you whispered.
He leaned in, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. His hands slid beneath your thighs — gripping them with bruising force — and lifted you onto the cold edge of the metal desk without a word. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist for balance.
“I need you so bad, Tommy,” you murmured, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t kiss you back this time. Not yet.
Instead, his eyes burned into you, scanning every inch of your face. His fingers clenched at your thighs again.
Then his voice dropped, hoarse and lethal. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re askin’”
You did, though. And you gave him your answer the only way he’d accept, by reaching between your bodies and curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt. You lifted it slowly, deliberately. He let you. Just watching. But his breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling like he was trying not to combust.
Once his shirt hit the floor, you laid your hands on his bare skin again, mapping bruises, scars, the old jagged line across his ribs that still looked fresh in this light. You traced it with your fingers, soft at first.
You leaned into his skin, lips brushing against his jaw, trailing down the rough stubble to the pulse pounding in his neck. Your hands slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, fingers finding the heat beneath and stroking slow, deliberate lines that made his breath hitch.
He caught your wrist, holding it against him tightly.
“You think I’ve been fine out here?” He said, voice rough with something beyond anger. “You think I’ve been sleepin’? You think I wanted to see you show up outta nowhere, just to remind me what it feels like to lose everything again?”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you leaned in, kissing the corner if his jaw, dragging your lips across his stubble until they hovered over his mouth. “No,” you whispered. “But I’m right here with you.”
His restraint cracked.
With a strangled sound, he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into another kiss, this one more brutal, messy. Teeth and heat and no space to breath. His other hand planted firmly against your lower back, keeping you flush against him, hips pinned, your breath caught beneath his.
Then he pulled back just an inch. “Take your clothes off.”
You obey. Not slowly or shyly. You peeled your shirt over your head, tossed it aside. You unclasped your bra with practiced fingers and let it fall to the ground, bare under the flickering light. Your jeans came next, shaking hands pushing them past your hips.
His eyes never left you.
But when you were down to your panties, he didn’t reach for you. Not yet, at least. His hands flexed at his sides like he was waiting for some sort of silent permission — or fighting the urge to lose control.
“Those too,” he said, nodding toward the white lace covering your most intimate area. His voice dropped again, barely above a growl. “Take ‘em off.”
You slide them slowly down your thighs, your slick webbing between you and the lace as they fell. Tommy watched every aching second of it, looking like he was about to drool at the sight alone.
You stood there in front of him, naked, exposed to the cold and to him. But you didn’t flinch. You let him admire. Let him see what he was trying so hard to push away.
He stepped forward, brushing his fingers down your arm. The he gripped your wrist and lifted it above your head. His other hand found your second wrist and pinned both to the wall behind you.
“You’re not movin’,” he warned. “You hear me?”
You nodded, breath caught in your chest.
“Say it.”
“Yes, Tommy.”
He leaned in until his lips grazed your ear. “Good girl.”
The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. He didn’t sound soft or sweet, just heavy with ownership.
Then his hand trailed down your chest — knuckles brushing over you tender nipples, slow and punishingly light — until you were arching toward him, craving more. He didn’t give in. His hand moved lower, palm flattening against your stomach, then gripping your thigh and hoisting it around his hip. His breath was everywhere. On your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone.
You were panting now, the need crawling across your skin like fire.
His mouth pressed to your throat, tongue flicking the pulse there. Then he bit down, hard. Not breaking skin, but enough to make you cry out.
“Mine,” he said into your bruised wound.
Your knees buckled, but he held you up, one hand flat to your spine. The other still pinning your wrists above your head. He stepped closer, his jeans rough against your bare clit, sending a shiver down your spine.
“I fuckin’ hate you for followin’ me,” he rasped. “Think I need to punish my pretty girl? Fuck you till you understand? Till you start behavin’?”
“Yea— yes, yes,” is all you can manage, need crawling through your blood, making your head light.
He grunted and let go of your wrists. Then spun you around fast and shoved you face first onto the desk again. With a sort of violence, a sort of relentless urgency you’d seen in his eyes since the second you stepped into the station.
Your palms hit the cold surface beneath you as he stepped between your legs. One hand landed around your throat tight, making breathing hard. His thumb pressed under your jaw, tilting your chin up until your eyes looked forward.
“Does my girl need it rough? Will that teach ya right?”
You nodded, but it wasn’t enough.
“Say it.”
“I want it rough. I’ll— I’ll learn.”
That was all he needed.
He pushed you flat to the desk, one arm pushing your head down till your cheek was squished against the cold metal, the other gripping your hip and kneading into the soft skin. He lowered to his knees, hand sliding down from your head to your ass as his mouth descended — hot, greedy, claiming. He licked one long stripe between your slick folds and swirled his tongue around your clit causing your thighs to shake. He took the swollen nub between his teeth, biting gently — but harsh enough to remind you that you were still in trouble — a scream escaping your lips at the shock.
“Tastes so good,” he groaned against you, kissing your wet cunt with a frenzy that bordered on savage. He was still angry, still raw. But underneath all that fury was hunger so sharp it made you ache.
When he pulled away, mouth slick, eyes burning, he grabbed you by the hips and yanked you backward until you were practically sliding off the desk into him.
He held you there, ass pressed against his rough jeans, mouth lowered by your ear, your shared breath shallow and ragged.
“I should be fuckin’ furious,” he murmured.
“You are.”
He gave a rough, bitter laugh. Then his mouth found yours again — crushing, claiming — and this time, the kiss held no restraint. It was like he was trying to swallow every piece of you whole, to make sure you couldn’t slip away, couldn’t disappear. His teeth grazed your lower lip, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and you clung to his wrists tight, needing the fire he brought with him.
Tommy’s hands were relentless, roaming over your back with rough, possessive strokes, fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises in their wake. He gripped your hips so hard you could feel the ache blooming beneath his touch, a delicious kind of pain that made you want to press closer, to disappear into him.
You pressed yourself against the tent in his denim, grinding against him, needing him. You arched you back so that your clit was positioned perfectly against his shaft, wriggling against it in search of some sort of relief. He started meeting your movement with his own, pressing himself deeper into you. He needed this just as bad as you.
“Shouldn’t have fuckin’ followed me,” he growled, voice low and rough, filled with a fierce, jagged edge. His hands reaped between the two of you, unclasping his belt and wiggling out of his jeans as if he couldn’t get them off quick enough. His boxers followed quickly and he lined himself up with your entrance, teasing you as he rubbed his head slowly around your soaked entrance. You could feel the way you were already dripping on him, could hear his low chuckles at the sight.
You arched into him without hesitation, begging for him to finally relieve you, but instead he slapped your ass with a loud smack, sharp stings replacing where his fingers once were.
He leaned down to you ear again when you whimpered from the slap. “You gonna take me like a good fuckin’ girl? Hmm?”
You nodded, feeling like you were about to cry if he didn’t rail you right here, right now.
Instead, Tommy grabbed you cheeks, forcing you to turn you face and meet his gaze. “Use your words, babygirl, or you gettin’ nothin’.”
“Tommy please. Please I— I need you so bad. Fuck me hard. Plea—”
Your breath catched as his hips slammed into yours with rough, punishing thrusts. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the tight space, punctured by his ragged groans and your own moans. Every movement was fierce, angry, desperate — a tangled storm of rage and need. You were so wet and needy, he slid past your walls with ease.
His hands wrapped around your hair, tugging your head back enough to expose your throat, teeth scraping there in a harsh, bruising kiss that made your pulse thunder in your ears. You wanted to feel every edge of him , the fury, the hunger, the aching need.
“I missed you,” he hissed, voice breaking with something raw and vulnerable beneath the anger. “Missed this… the way you tighten ‘round me. Fuck, you feel so goddamn good, baby.”
You wrapped you fingers around his — the ones that were holding your hips down on the desk — needing him to feel your touch too. You started matching the ferocity of his rhythm with your own, meeting every hard thrust with his. Your bodies moved like they were made for this, made for each other.
His hands moved down your thighs again, gripping hard as he lifted you higher, pressing you tighter against him. You felt every strained muscle in his back, every sharp breath that tore from his lungs as he pushed himself deeper inside of you. He was outraged — at the world, at himself, at the past — but right now, with you most of all. Yet you were the only one keeping him grounded, reminding him that he was still human.
He felt the way you fluttered around him. Felt the way you clenched every time he pulled himself out. But he always came back, faster and harder than the thrust before.
Your chest heaved, your skin slick with sweat, your heart pounding in time with his frantic, powerful movements. The ache between your legs built, sharp and sweet, until you were trembling — a breathless, shaking mess of need and want and pure, raw emotion. He knew you were close.
“Fuck… so fuckin’ hot,” he growled low in his throat, fingers tightening in your hair, pulling you up into another fierce kiss as his body tensed, dick twitching between your pulsing walls.
“Cum now, babygirl. Shit— cum with me.” He pushed you back into the desk, shoving your cheeks in the cold metal once again. His thrusts became faulty, losing all sense of rhythm as he unfolded deep within you. And then with a cry caught deep in his throat — he came, hard and fast, hips jerking, breath ragged against your skin. You clung to him as your own release crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your body arching into his, every nerve ending tight.
Sticky, white release pooled between the base of his cock and where he was still buried inside of you. He groaned somewhere deep in his throat as he watched the way his release slowly dripped out of your fucked pussy and left hot strands trailing down your legs.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the second of ragged breathing and the feel of his cock still buried inside you, thick and pulsing.
Finally, his lips brushed against your neck, warm and soft in stark contrast to the rough fire of everything that had just passed.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, voice raw and broken, trembling with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He pulled out and you turned around to hold him, knowing this wave of emotion was becoming too much after he came down from his high.
You carded your fingers through his damp hair, pulling him closer, holding him like you needed him just as much.
“I know,” you whispered back, your voice steady and sure. “It’s okay, I’m here.”
He buried his face in the curve of your shoulder, breath shaking, body still trembling from the storm of emotions and desire.
In the quiet moment, the anger didn’t vanish; it simmered just beneath the surface, but it was softer now. Tempered by the connection that neither of you could deny.
Synop: Tommy will probably never be the same after being forced to watch Joel's gruesome murder. Or at least he won't until he gets to kill the bitch that took his brother himself.
Of course you were never going to let him go alone. Of course you were going to follow.
Warnings: no ellie, no dina, mean!tommy/angry/grieving, lots of arguing lol, angry sex, chocking, ass slapping, unprotected pinv, oral fem!receiving, guns and weapons, probably more but i'm bad at writing warnings lol (lmk if i missed anything major)
Word Count: 10k
dividers by ( @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics )
a/n: IF YOU ALREADY READ THIS PLEASE READ: i rewrote this chapter because i literally was not feeling the first one emotionally and it was throwing me off when trying to write the second part, so i rewrote it this week and i feel so much better about it! you do not have to reread (the storyline is still the same just some changes in the tone and more arguing) and ofc i rewrote the smut so skip down to the end if you wanna read that part hehehehe. anyway im so sorry but i hope yall enjoy this one instead!!
The snow still hadn’t melted.
It clung to the world like grief clung to Tommy, quiet, bitter, impossible to shake. Outside Jackson, the sky had dulled to a flat, iron grey, heavy with the kind of silence that feels like it knows too much. Like it, too, had seen what Tommy had seen. What you hadn’t.
You only heard about it in murmurs passed between patrol shifts, whispered half-words trailing off when you came near. What Joel had gone through. How Tommy had been there, forced to watch, to listen.
You heard from someone that it started with the swing of a golf club. Then came the sound of something breaking, something soft and human. Then silence. Not peaceful, not calm. Just wrong. Loud in the way only death can give. They said he was on his knees. That Tommy was beaten and held down, forced to watch, eyes wide and helpless. That the smell of blood was so thick in the air he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t forget it even if he tried.
But no one talks about that part out loud anymore. They’re just all rumors anyway. Or, at least you pray they are.
But you see the way Tommy stares off sometimes, like he’s still there, like it’s happening again. Over and over.
You don’t ask him what he saw and he doesn’t tell you.
Tommy used to reach for you in his sleep. Mumbled your name, curled his body around yours like you were something steady in a world that never was. Now his back is always turned. If he sleeps at all, it’s shallow and restless. He twitches and grits his teeth, breath catching like he’s drowning in another nightmare.
There’s no warmth in the space between your bodies anymore. Just a hollow ache, wide as grief, cold as February.
And you try, you try, to understand. You try not to take it personal. But his silence is a knife you keep swallowing.
He doesn’t kiss your shoulder in the mornings. Doesn’t hum old country songs while frying eggs. Doesn’t run his fingers through your hair or rest his chin on your shoulder just to feel close.
He doesn’t call you darlin’.
It’s like loving a ghost. And still… you stay.
Because you remember the way he used to be. How he’d look at you like you were the only reason he kept going. How his hand would rest on your knee while sitting on the porch. How his voice would soften when he said your name.
But that man, the man you loved, never made it back from that day.
Joel’s death took more than a brother. It took Tommy too, even though he’s still breathing, still alive.
Now he walks the halls of your home like they don’t belong to him. Doesn’t touch the mug you always set out in the morning. Doesn’t eat the meals you make. Just sharp nods. Short sentences. A look now and then that almost says “I’m sorry” but never quite makes it there.
One day you caught him sitting on the porch, rifle in hand, staring off distantly into the woods. He hadn’t heard you come out. And for a second, just a second, his face cracked. You saw it, all of it. The rage. The guilt. The helpless, broken need to rewrite time.
But then it passed, and his face closed back up like a door slamming shut. Any sign of emotion gone as quickly at it came.
You still wait for him, though. In every breath. In every silence. You wait like the air waits for spring during these cold, frigid days.
You try to act normal. Not because anything feels normal, but because pretending helps, sometimes. It makes the quiet in the house feel less like a funeral.
You make the bed each morning even though Tommy barely sleeps in it. You fold his laundry, though he doesn’t wear much anymore beyond the same flannel and jeans. You cook, you clean, you wait. You pretend.
Because pretending feels easier than saying it out loud. He’s not really here anymore.
You ask him if he wants to take a walk with you, he says no. You mention Jesse stopped by to say hi, he nods without looking up. You leave your hand on his shoulder a second too long when you pass behind him in the hallway, he pulls away like your touch is a memory he can’t afford to feel.
He doesn’t look you in the eye anymore.
And it hurts. Because you remember when he used to, when he’d stare at you with this quiet, patient love like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. Now he looks everywhere but at you. Like holding your gaze might crack him in half.
Sometimes, you fill the silence with small talk. A funny patrol story. A light memory. Something normal.
Sometimes, you almost say Joel’s name. You’ve learned not to.
You only made that mistake once.
Once, a few days after the funeral, you found Tommy sitting on the edge of the porch, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The sky was turning violet. You thought maybe the quiet felt a little gentler that night.
So you sat beside him and whispered, “Remember that time Joel found that old guitar in Salt Lake? The one with the crack in it? He played that stupid Johnny Cash song for hours…”
Tommy didn’t respond.
You turned to look at him, smiling at the memory. “He kept going and going while you were trying to nap. Drove you nuts.”
He didn’t even blink. He just stood up, tossing his cigarette in the grass and walked inside without looking back.
After that, his rules became clear, unspoken but sharp. No mentions, no memories, no Joel.
Even the house has changed. His pictures turned face-down. His name vanished from conversations. His guitar, once a quiet soundtrack to your evenings when he was over, now sits untouched in the attic, strings gathering dust.
Sometimes, you wonder if Tommy thinks saying it out loud will make it more real. As if keeping it buried means it didn’t happen. But it did. It happened. Joel’s dead.
And every day you lose a little more of the man who survived it.
He twitches in his sleep, whispers things you don’t understand — names, apologies. You don’t know who they’re for.
Once, you found him standing in the kitchen at 3 a.m., staring down at a knife in the sink like he couldn’t remember putting it there. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, like something inside him was tearing loose.
You didn’t say anything, just gently took his hand and walked him to the room.
That night, you sat awake beside him, listening to the wind outside rattle against the window. You held onto the moment. Held onto him, even if he wasn’t really there.
The night was quiet, like most nights are now.
The fire had burned low in the hearth, soft orange flickers licking the stone. Shadows danced lazily across the walls, stretching long and tired. The scent of venison stew hung in the air, Tommy’s favorite. You’d spent hours on it, dicing potatoes, peeling carrots from the greenhouse, simmering it low and slow. You poured your care into the cooking, as if enough warmth in a bowl could bring him back.
Tommy sat at the table, hands in his lap, eyes somewhere far away. The steam from the bowl in front of him rose into the cold air, unnoticed. Unwanted.
You stood across from him, wooden spoon still in hand, stomach twisted into anxious knots. You watched him. The way his shoulders curved forward like gravity had grown heavier just for him. The way his flannel hung looser now, like it belonged to someone else.
He looked smaller. His frame had thinned, his cheeks sunken with weeks of skipped meals. He looked like he was fading, not just physically. And god, it hurt so much to see him like this.
You walked to him slowly, the way you’d approach a wild animal — careful, open palms, soft words.
“Tommy,” you said gently, kneeling beside him. “You need to eat.”
No response.
You reached out, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand. He flinched as though your touch burned. As if love was the sharpest weapon he knew now. He pulled his hand away without a word. Another rejection.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you said, your voice starting to fray. “I know you’re hurting. I know it’s hell. I miss him too, Tommy. But this—” You glanced toward the untouched bowl. “This isn’t what Joel would’ve wanted.”
At the mention of Joel’s name, Tommy stiffened.
“Stop.”
It was the first word he’d spoken in hours. A command. But you pressed on, too full of pain to stop now.
“You think he’d want you to waste away? To push everyone who loves you out of your life?” Your voice rose, tight and trembling. “You think this is what he’d want for you?”
“I said stop.”
You walked to the sink, washing you own half eaten bowl.
“Tommy…”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!”
You flinched, the words hitting like a slap in the face. But you couldn’t stop now, even with the way you saw the anger rising to his cheeks. Even with the way his fists clenched around his bowl.
“I want you back,” you whispered, broken. “I want the man who used to smile. Who used to hold me like I was something good. Who used to laugh when he cooked and—”
You shouldn’t have said it. But you did.
Joel.
Everything stopped and the silence shattered
In one sudden motion, Tommy’s arm flew across the table. The bowl flew, full and steamy, striking the cabinet beside you with a violent crack. Porcelain shattered, stew spattering across the wood. You gasped, stumbling back as the sound tore through the room. For a breathless second, your body recoiled, heart pounding and your brain screamed run as if he was aiming for you.
Tommy stood up too fast. Chair legs scraped the floor. His chest rose and fell, hands flexing at his sides.
Then he saw you. Your face pale and your eyes shining with fear, fear of him. Your arms crossed over your chest, trying to hold yourself together.
“No— no, baby—” He stepped forward, panic lighting his face. “I wasn’t aiming at you, I swear. I didn’t mean to— shit, I just—”
You flinched when he reached for you, and he stopped cold.
“I’d never hurt you.” His voice cracked. “I swear to God, I didn’t mean—” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He sank down onto his knees, slowly, hands trembling as he began to pick up the broken pieces from the floor. One by one. Like if he could just fix the mess, maybe everything else would fall back into place too.
You stood there, arms hugging your body, watching him fall apart in silence.
And then, as if in self-punishment, Tommy served himself another bowl. Sat back down at the table, and ate.
Every bite looked like it hurt him. But he ate it. All of it.
You didn’t sit beside him. You just watched. And for the first time in weeks, Tommy Miller looked like he was still trying to be human.
The fire had died out long ago. The house lay still, save for the wind tapping at the windows and the faint creak of old wood settling in the cold.
You lay on your side, back to the door, blanket pulled to your chin. Awake. Your eyes traced patterns in the shadows, heart heavy but quiet now, like the calm after a storm.
Then, sometime after midnight, the mattress dipped beside you. Your breath caught, but you didn’t move.
Slowly, tentatively, Tommy reached out. Rough fingertips brushed your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear just like he used to. His hand lingered for a second longer than it had any right to.
You turned to face him. His eyes found yours in the dark. They looked tired. Older somehow. Worn down to the bone. But they looked at you, really looked, and that was something.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and cracked. “For how I’ve been. For… pushin’ you away.”
“It’s okay,” you whisper. And you mean it, even if it isn’t. Because it has to be.
He looked away then, jaw clenched. “I ain’t been right. Not since…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
There was a long pause. You let the silence hold him for a while, let him feel safe in it. But eventually, he spoke again.
“I know who did it.”
You blinked slowly.
His voice had changed, harder now, sharp around the edges. “I’ve been waitin’. But I can’t anymore. I’m gonna ask Maria to send me and a group out to Seattle.”
Your body went still. “You’re serious.”
He nodded. “I know where she is, the girl who killed Joel. I know the names of the people who helped.”
The weight of it landed fast. Heavy and inevitable.
“You think she’ll say yes?” you asked gently.
“She has to.”
You hesitated. “She doesn’t have to do anything, Tommy.”
His head turned slowly. His brows drew down. “What’d you just say?”
“I’m not trying to fight with you,” you said quickly. “I just think—”
“No,” he interrupted, sitting up, voice rising. “Say it again.”
You sat up, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “I just think Maria’s not gonna sign off on something that’ll get you and maybe others killed.”
He scoffed. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“I think you’re hurting,” you said carefully. “And you think this is justice, but all I see is a death wish.”
His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. “That what you think of me?”
“I think…” You exhaled. “I think you’re trying to put a bullet in someone and pretend that’s gonna fix what’s broken.”
Tommy stood up so fast the bed rocked. He paced to the edge of the room, hands on his hips, head bowed. He looked like he wanted to scream.
Instead, he turned on you.
“Are you on my side or hers?”
“…What?”
“Are you on my side,” he repeated, louder now, “or hers?”
You stared at him, stunned. “Tommy, how can you even ask me that?”
“‘Cause it sure as hell don’t feel like you’re on mine.”
Your voice cracked. “I’ve been right here. Every day. Through everything.”
“Then act like it!” he shouted. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m broken, like I need protectin’ or savin’ or hand-holdin’. Fuckin’ support me.”
You stood now too, voice shaking but firm. “I do support with you, Tommy. I love you. But supporting you doesn’t mean saying yes to something that might kill you.”
He looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like your face had changed.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “You never really did.”
You swallowed hard, your hands trembling at your sides. “You think this is easy for me? Watching you rot from the inside out while I try to keep us together? I am trying, Tommy. I am doing everything I know how to do.”
He shook his head. “If you were really with me, you wouldn’t be asking me to let her live.”
“I’m not asking you to let her live. I’m asking you to think about what happens to you if you go down this road.”
He stared at you, chest rising and falling, eyes blazing.
Then his voice dropped. Quiet. Final.
“Maybe you should stop waitin’ for me.”
The room went silent as he turned and left. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, leaving you in the dark, shaking.
You sat back down on the edge of the bed, your hands gripping the sheets so tight your knuckles ached. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t from fear.
It was from grief. But not for Joel, for Tommy.
It was hours later when you heard his muffeled broken cried coming from the living room. It wasn’t loud or theatrical, just quiet as desperate sounds escaped from someone who couldn’t hold it in anymore.
You could tell he was trying to be quiet for you, he never wanted you to see him cry. Always wanted you to look at him as this strong, held together man. And when you think about it, you never really saw him cry after Joel died. You knew he did, noticed his blood-shot eyes when he walked into a room, but he made sure you never had to see it.
You didn’t move to comfort him, you knew he wouldn’t want it. Especially with the way he felt like you were betraying him. Then the front door creaked softly and closed behind him.
The silence swallowed you whole.
The morning air is sharp and cold against your skin, even through your coat.
You didn’t sleep much, not after the door closed behind him. But Tommy came back before dawn, silent as the wind. You heard the floor creak in the hallway, the soft groan of the front door closing behind him. You didn’t get up. You just listened to him move through the house like he was haunting it.
Now you’re sitting beside him in Jackson’s meeting room. Just the three of you — Tommy, Maria, and you — gathered in a space that feels too small for the things being said.
Tommy’s knuckles are white around the edge of the table. He’s leaned forward, eyes locked on Maria like she's the gatekeeper to everything that matters.
“I know who killed Joel.”
Maria doesn’t flinch. She waits.
“Her name’s Abby,” Tommy continues. “She’s part of some group outta Seattle. WLF. I don’t know what that means but I know who they are. I’ve been piecing it together for weeks.”
You tense beside him. It’s the first time you’ve heard the name. Abby.
Something cold roots itself in your stomach.
Maria folds her hands, lets out a breath through her nose. Her mouth is tight, unreadable. You can tell she’s trying to look thoughtful. But her decision’s already written all over her face.
“Tommy,” she starts gently, “I understand why you want this. I do. Joel was—” her voice breaks slightly before she catches it. “He was family. To all of us.”
Tommy nods once, eyes never leaving her. “Then let me go.”
Maria shakes her head slowly. “You’re asking me to send people out west. Across the country. Into unknown territory. For what?”
“For justice,” he says sharply. “For him.”
She meets his fire with calm. “For revenge, Tommy.”
He starts to speak again, but she holds up her hand.
“You’ve been hurting. And I get it”
Tommy’s chest rises and falls hard.
“But this won’t bring him back,” Maria says softly.
You glance at Tommy. He’s shaking his head slowly. You can feel the anger rolling off of him like steam.
“Please,” he whispers. “I’m beggin' you.”
Maria’s voice is gentle but firm. “My answer is no. And it’s final.”
He stands so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
“Fine,” he mutters, not looking at either of you. “Hope the whole goddamn town knows they’ve got a pussy of a leader.”
Then he turns and storms out, boots echoing down the hallway.
You’re left in the sudden silence. Maria gives you a look — soft, apologetic, full of sympathy that feels too heavy right now.
You stand slowly. Say nothing, just nod once and follow him out.
You catch up to him near the main gate, his long stride slowed only slightly by his frustration. The fire in his eyes hasn’t faded — it’s glowing hotter now, ready to burn down whatever stands in his way.
“Tommy,” you call gently. He doesn’t stop. “I can skip patrol if you want,” you say, trying to meet his pace. “I’ll stay with you. If you don’t want to be alone.”
He stops walking. The air between you stills.
You see his body tense like he’s about to turn and fight. To yell. His shoulders twitch like he’s trying to hold it in.
But when he turns, there’s pain in his eyes. He lifts his hand slowly and touches your cheek with rough fingers. His thumb traces the corner of your jaw. You lean into it instinctively, even though the touch feels almost foreign now.
“Thank you,” he says, voice low. “But just… please. I need to be alone today.”
You nod. It’s all you can do. His hand lingers just a second longer. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Be safe,” he whispers. Then he turns and walks off toward the house, shoulders tight, jaw set.
You watch until he disappears through the crowd.
You got back from patrol early. There was nothing out there tonight — no tracks, no infected, not even the sound of deer moving in the brush. Just cold wind and the ache in your knees from riding too long.
You slid off your horse outside the stable and gave Jesse a quiet nod before heading home, muscles tired and skin wind-chapped. The streets of Jackson were quiet. A few lanterns flickered near the main gates, but the sky was dimming fast. You pulled your coat tighter around you, boots crunching over frostbitten grass.
You expected the house to be dark, like it always was. That dead hush of a place forgotten by the people who lived in it. You used to hate coming back to that silence. Still did. The only sound had been the click of the lock. The sigh of the floorboards under your feet.
But tonight, something’s different. From halfway down the block, you saw the house lit. The front windows glowed with amber warmth. A faint shadow moving behind the curtains. The porch lamp was on too.
Your pace slowed. Your heart did too. It was the first time in weeks you’d come home to light.
You walked quietly up the steps, not wanting to interrupt whatever he was doing. Maybe, maybe, he was finally trying. Reading, cooking, sitting by the fire.
You reached for the door, breath caught in your throat, and stepped inside. But you froze at what you saw.
The table was covered in supplies. Ammo, food, bandages. A folded map. A half-packed duffel bag sat open and heavy, the zipper’s metal teeth catching the light. Boots by the door. Rifle leaning against the wall.
Tommy stood with his back to you, placing more items in the bag.
Your heart sank like a stone thrown in deep water.
“…Tommy.”
He jolted, turning fast, eyes wide with guilt, like a kid caught stealing. He didn’t even know you were there.
His face hardened almost instantly. You stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind you with a quiet click.
“What are you doing?” you asked, voice trembling.
“I have to.” He went back to packing, not meeting your eyes.
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You can’t. It’s too dangerous, Tommy.”
He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. Just kept folding gear, stuffing it in tighter, as if the motion kept him from unraveling.
You started to panic. “You can’t do this, Tommy. You don’t even know what’s out there. You don’t even—”
“I know enough!” he snapped, finally turning to you. His eyes were blazing.
“No, you don’t! You don’t know what’s waiting for you, and you don’t care. You’re just gonna walk into that fucking city and die because you can’t stand to be in this world without him!”
He turned away again, jaw clenched, grabbing a case of bullets. You reached out and grabbed his hand before he could touch it.
He froze.
“Don’t,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please. I can’t lose you to this. I can’t.”
His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at your hand gripping his in tight desperation.
“I can’t live without you, Tommy.”
And then, without even looking at you, he said the one thing that cracked something inside you wide open.
“Now you know how it feels.”
You staggered back like he’d struck you. A soft, breathless sound left your throat — half sob, half laugh. You looked at him, chest heaving.
“That’s not fair,” you said, barely above a whisper.
The tears came hard and fast.
“That's not fucking fair. You think you’re the only one who lost someone?”
He wouldn’t meet your eyes. You stepped closer.
“You’re all I have, Tommy. I can’t be alone. I’d be nothing without you.”
The words left your mouth and hung in the air, thick and undeniable.
He turned to you slowly, eyes glassy. His chest rising and falling like he’d been running. He looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks.
You weren’t sure what he was going to do. Yell. Throw something. Walk out again.
But he just stood there.
Then, finally, he spoke, voice hoarse and broken.
“…I don’t wanna be someone you lose, too.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, but it wasn’t cold anymore.
He dropped the bullets, then he reached over and pulled the duffel bag shut, slow and final. His hand stayed on it for a second before he stepped away.
You let out a shaky breath. Wiped at your eyes.
He didn’t say anything else. He walked over to you and took your face in his hands like it was something sacred. His thumb brushed away the tears. Then he rested his forehead against yours.
His hands stayed on your face like he’s holding something too fragile to grip any tighter. His thumbs still move in slow circles, trying to catch the last of your tears before they fall, but it’s too late. You’re unraveling right in front of him and he’s trying to catch the pieces.
“Please,” you whisper, voice barely holding itself together. “Don’t go.”
His breath stumbles and for a second, just one aching second, it looks like he’s going to say it. That he’s going to tell you the truth. That he has to. That it’s already too late. That the wheels are already turning in his mind, and there’s no unmaking what’s been set in motion.
“I won’t,” he says, softly instead. A lie in velvet.
Your hands fall to your sides. Something inside you sinks, heavy and cold.
It’s not enough. It can’t be.
You tilt your face up, locking eyes with him in the dim golden light of the room. The shadows on his face flicker, but you see every line. Every war still being waged behind his tired eyes.
“Promise me,” you say, your voice thick, trembling.
He doesn’t answer.
His mouth opens like he might say something, then closes again. His throat bobs as he swallows, gaze breaking from yours like it’s too much to bear.
You feel something hot crawl up the back of your throat. Your heart pounding so hard it feels like grief itself.
“Fucking promise me, Tommy,” you say again, louder this time. Angrier, desperate. Your voice cracks in the middle, betraying the softest, most broken part of you.
He lifts his head slowly and leans in, planting a soft kiss on your lips.
Not sudden, not explosive, but aching and slow. The kind of kiss that feels like a confession. His lips brush yours once, then again, firmer this time. As though trying to press every unspoken word into the shape of your mouth. As though kissing you is the only language he has left.
You feel yourself melt into it, breath catching in your throat. His hands slide down, one settling along your jaw, the other curling around the back of your neck, guiding you into him like you’re something precious.
You slide your arms around his waist, holding him with every ounce of fear, love, and desperation inside you. Your cheek brushes the worn fabric of his shirt sleeve. He smells like cold air and pine, like old gun oil and fading warmth. Like home.
Your lips part slightly, and his follow. The kiss deepens, slow and lingering. It tastes like regret. It tastes like memory. It tastes like a promise that was never going to last.
When he finally pulls away, it’s not because he wants to.
He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, his breath shallow against your skin. You stay still in his arms, afraid to move, afraid to shatter whatever this is.
“I promise,” he whispers, and it almost sounds real.
But you know him too well. You feel it in his hands, too tense. In his kiss, too final. In his voice, too quiet.
The promise doesn’t sit right. It floats in the air between you like dust. Light enough to lift, but never meant to stay.
He’s lying.
Maybe not out of cruelty. Maybe not even fully aware of it himself. But in the deepest part of him, Tommy Miller has already left this house.
So you say nothing You don’t fight it anymore. You just press your face into his shoulder and hold him tighter, like maybe if you don’t let go, he’ll forget where he’s trying to go. You let your fingers splay across his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, fast and uneven.
He holds you back like he means it. Like this is all he’ll let himself feel. The room stills around you. His arms hold you like he’s scared he might fall apart if he lets go. His breath brushes your temple in short, uneven exhales. For a long time, neither of you speak. The promise he made still lingers between you — soft, almost sacred, but already fading at the edges.
Tommy pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes search your face with something different now. Not guilt. Not anger. Something gentler. Older.
“…Come with me,” he whispers.
You nod, wordless.
He takes your hand. His calloused fingers wrap around yours, warm and rough in the best way. Familiar. You follow him through the dim hallway, lit only by the flicker of the fire behind you. The bedroom is colder than you remember, but his hand never leaves yours — not as he pulls back the covers, not as he helps you into bed like you're something fragile he's afraid to break.
He lies beside you, close, closer than he’s dared to in so long. His hands find your waist beneath the blanket, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. His touch is hesitant at first, like he doesn’t trust himself. Like he’s afraid you’ll tell him to stop.
But you don’t. You won’t. Because this is the Tommy you haven’t seen in what feels like forever. The one who loved you with a kind of quiet reverence. The one who made you feel like his whole world was contained in the curve of your smile. You let him touch you because you miss this. You miss him.
He cups your face again, gentle thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. You tilt into his touch without thinking.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. His voice cracks like old wood. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been. For everything I put on you.”
You shake your head, but he kisses your temple before you can speak.
“I’ve been lost,” he whispers. “But I never stopped lovin' you. Not for a damn second.”
His lips trail from your temple down to the soft spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate. He breathes you in like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your skin.
You feel his hands roam with care, not with hunger, not with desperation, but something far more intimate. He touches you like he’s relearning your body. The way his fingers slide under your shirt, spreading warmth over your ribs, the softness of your sides, the curve of your waist — he’s worshiping, not wanting.
You shiver beneath him, but it’s not from the cold.
He kisses you again, slow and deep. His mouth opens against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. You kiss him back just as slowly, savoring it, like maybe time will pause here, just for the two of you.
When he pulls away, he’s whispering again, barely audible. Words meant for no one but you.
“I love you. I love you so much. I don’t know who I am without you.”
You trace his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the rough edge of stubble, the line of his throat. He catches your wrist and presses a kiss into your palm, like he’s sealing some kind of vow there.
The covers shift as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling under the weight of the blankets. He wraps an arm around you, his palm spread wide against your back. The other threads through your hair, combing slow and steady. His lips find your neck again, leaving soft, lingering kisses in a line down to your collarbone.
“I love you,” he murmurs again. “I love your body.”
You press your forehead to his. “Stay,” you whisper. “Just… stay.”
He nods, once, hard, like the promise costs him something.
And for a while, it’s quiet. The world narrows to the sound of your shared breath, the warmth of his skin against yours, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your spine. His touch never stops, reassuring, grounding, tender.
Minutes pass. Then his breathing starts to shift to a slower, deeper pace.
But it’s not sleep. You know that rhythm. This one’s too controlled.
You lie perfectly still in his arms, your own breath syncing with his like a ritual. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you moves.
And in the stillness, you know he’s pretending. Faking the rise and fall of rest like it might trick you. Like it might soften the blow of whatever comes next.
You pretend too. You match him breath for breath. You let your body go soft. You let your hand stay on his chest, over his heart, even though it aches.
Because if this is all you’ll get — this moment, this warmth, this Tommy — you’ll take it.
Even if it’s borrowed. Even if it’s already slipping through your fingers.
You don’t know how long you’ve been lying like that — wrapped in his arms, body warm against his, hearts beating together in a slow, shared rhythm. But eventually, you feel it.
Subtle at first. The way his chest rises with a breath he’s holding too long. The faint stiffness in his limbs like he’s preparing to move.
He starts to untangle from you. Carefully, afraid to wake you.
You keep still. You let your arm fall limp when he slides out from beneath it. Let your breathing stay even when the blanket lifts and the cold slips in. You don’t flinch when the mattress shifts under the loss of his weight.
You hear his bare feet on the floorboards. Hear the soft creak of the closet door. The muted jingle of gear. Metal brushing against fabric. Velcro. Zippers.
He’s moving quietly, methodically. Not rushed, but focused. Like someone who’s had this plan burned into his brain for weeks.
You stay motionless, the blanket clutched tight around you, eyes forced closed in the dark.
Your breath catches when you hear him pad down the hallway. The soft click of the living room light. The rustle of paper. Maybe a map.
Then… silence. For a minute you think, maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he’s coming back to bed.
And he does return. Soft footsteps. The creak of the door. You feel him beside you again, but he doesn’t climb back under the covers. Doesn’t lie down. Just kneels at the edge of the bed, one hand brushing your hair gently off your forehead.
You can feel the tremble in his fingers as he leans down, presses a kiss to your temple so soft it barely exists. His breath is warm against your skin. It stings.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
You want to scream. You want to reach up and grab him, tell him don’t you dare leave me. But you stay frozen.
You hear him stand. Hear the front door open, a long, slow creak that groans like it knows what he’s doing. Hear the wind slip in, then the latch clicks shut behind him.
And just like that, he’s gone.
You stay in bed for a long time. Long enough for the sun to start bleeding faint gold through the curtains. Long enough for the warmth in the sheets to fade completely.
You cry in silence as pain creeps in like rot. Like the kind that doesn’t kill you right away, but stays deep in your soul like it lives in your bones.
You cry because he’s really gone. You cry because you thought maybe, just maybe, you were enough to make him stay.
But he needs his revenge more than he needs you and no amount of love was ever going to stop him.
When you finally get up, your body feels heavier than it should. Like gravity's stronger today. You move through the house slowly, the cold biting at your skin now that the blankets are gone. The bedroom is a mess of discarded warmth, blankets half off the bed, your shirt crumpled near the footboard, his scent still lingering in the air.
You throw on what you can find. The jeans from yesterday. A hoodie from the floor. Socks that don’t match.
You pull food from the cupboards, what little is left. A few cans. A half-empty bag of jerky. Two energy bars. You fill an old thermos with water from the tap, praying the pipes won’t freeze while you’re gone.
You head to the closet. His gun is gone but the backup is still there. You take it, load it, grab the hunting knife you always keep hidden under the dresser. No holster. No pack. Just a shoulder bag and what you can carry.
It’s not enough. But you don’t care. You’re going.
As you cross the hallway to the front door, your boots in hand, you pause at the edge of the living room and see a piece of paper lying gently on the coffee table with your name scribbled on it. Your heart plummets.
You walk over slowly and unfold it with fingers that won’t stop shaking.
His handwriting is messy. Rushed.
I’m sorry.
Please don’t come try to find me. I can’t let you get hurt because of me. This is something I have to do.
I love you more than anything and that's why I'm going without you. I need to do this alone.
Please forgive me.
- Tommy
You stare at the words until they blur, then you crumble the note in your hand, tight enough to cramp your fingers, and throw it across the room.
It hits the far wall and drops to the floor like it never mattered.
You sit on the edge of the couch, pull your boots on with jerky, ungraceful movements. Lace them tight. Tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to remind yourself you’re still here.
You’re going and that stupid note was never going to stop you.
Fourteen frozen, fucking brutal days of chasing his ghost through the corpse of the world. Sleet was replaced by rain that felt like ice as the winter trailed into spring. Stolen food, bruised knuckles, shivering under collapsed roofs with your knife gripped tight and your breath clouding the air like smoke somehow kept you alive.
You’d hoped two hours would be enough — enough time, enough space to let him fade from your skin. But he’s still there. In every splintered tree, every cold fire pit, every sleeve of his torn coat you swore you saw snagged high on a barbed wire fence.
And now, now you’re here.
Yakama.
The town is dead, drowned in nature. A graveyard of buildings and stories that no longer matter. Your horse snorts beneath you, hooves crunching through mud as you tug the reins and scan the half-collapsed police station across the street. And there — just outside, tied to a crooked railing — a horse. It has to be Tommy's.
You dismount without thinking, heart crawling up your throat. You tie your horse to a rusted stop sign, its pole bent like it had been struck by something years ago. Let the reins go slack. Let your fingers hover at your belt, brushing the hilt of your knife. Just in case.
The building groans around you as you step inside; walls tilting, ceiling open to the sky, ivy clawing its way through busted windows like it’s trying to reclaim what time abandoned. You move carefully. Knife drawn. Breath shallow.
You hear nothing but silence, but it's what's hidden in that silence that worries you. A runner, a stalker.
As you turn a corner, there’s a light weak and flickering from the back of the station like a dying fire. You creep forward and there he is, Tommy.
Bent over a map, back tense, hair greasy and falling into his eyes. He looks like hell. Dried blood at his collar. Sweat-stiff clothes clinging to sharp edges that weren’t there before. His arm is bandaged, the white long since soaked through with maroon.
You stop breathing. Just stare. For a second you almost forget how much you hate him right now.
Then, as you try walking slowly toward him, you step on a piece glass under your boot. The crack of it snaps the silence clean in half.
Tommy whirls, gun drawn before you can blink. The muzzle points straight between your eyes.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, hands fly up, knife dropping, breath hitching. “It’s me!” you gasp. “Tommy, it’s me!”
He doesn’t shoot. Doesn’t lower the gun either.
Lantern light slices across your face and he freezes, recognition hitting him like a punch. His grip trembles. His eyes burn. His mouth twists, like he’s trying to swallow words that won’t come out.
You lower your arms slowly. Step into the light.
His voice finally cracks out of him, sharp and ragged. “...What the fuck—?”
“Tommy, please.” Your voice is barely there. You want to go to him. You want to hit him. You want to fall into him and scream.
He drops the gun. Lets it clatter uselessly to the floor. Doesn’t look at you. Just turns, shoulders hunched, hands planted on the desk like they’re the only things keeping him standing.
“You fuckin’ followed me?” he rasps.
You nod. Your throat’s too tight to speak.
He doesn’t move. Just breathes, slow and pained, like every inhale is a fight. The bandage on his arm pulses with each beat of his heart. He looks like he’s unraveling in front of you, like if you touch him he’ll turn to ash.
“You’re outta your goddamn mind,” he mutters.
“I needed to know you were alive,” you say. Your voice comes out too soft, too human for this place.
He doesn’t lift his head.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t let you do this alone.”
The air thickens. Cold and sharp.
“You’re goin’ back.”
Your chest cracks. You step forward and he flinches like you’ve struck him.
Your fingers graze the edge of his bandage. It’s cold and stiff. There’s no heat under it.
The station around you hums with silence. Old radio static, mildew covered reports, rotted equipment.
Tommy’s breath drags. You can hear it. Hear the weight behind it. Like he’s holding the whole goddamn world on his back and you just added more.
He finally turns, his eyes full of anger and fury like you just fueled a fire.
“You’re not doin’ this,” he growls, low and rough. “I will drag your ass back to Jackson if I have to.”
You hold your ground. You travelled fourteen awful days to find him, there was no way in hell you were going back now.
“You don’t have enough time,” you say. “Two weeks there, two weeks back. Abby could leave in that time. If she’s even still here.”
His jaw clenches, muscle ticking like he’s chewing stone. He steps forward but you don’t back down.
“You think this is a fuckin’ game?” he spits. “Chasin’ after me like this is some goddamn love story?”
You flinch like that one cut deep.
“I didn’t follow you for some fairytale,” you snap, voice shaking with rage. “I came because I love you. Because you were gonna die out here. And I wasn’t gonna let that happen.”
“I told you not to come!” he roars. His voice echoes, huge and furious, bouncing off broken tile and rotted wood. “I was ready to die. I was ready to do what I fuckin’ had to. Now I gotta keep your ass alive.”
“Is that what you want?” you scream back. “To die for this? For some fucked-up version of revenge?”
He laughs, low, bitter, ugly. “Revenge? You think this is about revenge?” He steps in close, chest heaving. “I watched what they did to Joel. I buried my goddamn brother. You think I sleep at night, knowin’ she’s still breathin’?”
“And I don’t sleep, thinking about you out here with a target above your head.”
He’s in your face now. Close enough you can feel the heat radiating off him, even through the cold.
“You think this is safe?” he snarls. “You came through infected territory with a small ass knife? You call that smart? Sounds pretty fuckin' dumb to me.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had every choice! You chose this!” His voice is venom. “I tried to keep you out. You wanted to suffer.”
“You don’t get to decide what I can survive!” you scream, stepping in until your chest brushes his. “You don’t get to carry all the grief and pretend I didn’t lose anything!”
“I told you to stay in Jackson.”
“And let you die alone?” Your voice cracks, but you push through it. “Let you disappear without a word, like I’d survive that?”
He steps back, pacing like a caged animal. He grabs at his hair like it hurts to even think. Then he turns again and the pain on his face floors you.
“Yes,” he snaps. “Yes, goddamnit! Because if I lose you out here, if I fail to protect you, I won’t survive it.”
You stare at him. Breathing hard.
He looks like a man broken in half.
“I wish you didn’t love me,” he says. Quiet and gutted. “Wish you didn’t care. I don’t fuckin’ want you here.”
“Stop lying,” you whisper. “You’re not pushing me away. You’re just scared.”
"You're fuckin' stupid."
"Fuck you, Tommy."
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. Torn open.
And then his hands slam into your face, cupping your jaw rough, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and he kisses you.
No softness. No pause. It’s violent. Brutal. Starving.
His mouth devours yours with two weeks of agony and silence behind it. The taste of blood, of salt, of dirt and desperation. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he’s trying to burn the memory of you into his bones.
You moan, helpless against it. Your fingers dig into the back of his neck, gripping hard, needing something to hold. Something to hurt.
He groans — deep, low, possessive — and presses you back against the edge of the desk. The metal bites into your spine. You don’t care.
You don’t stop.
His hands roam your ribs, your waist, your hips. Rough fingers gripping like he needs to memorize every inch before he pushes you away again.
“I told you not to fuckin’ come,” he pants into your mouth, voice shaking. His lips drag along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“I had to,” you breathe, mouth swollen, heart split wide.
His mouth was still on yours, but the kiss had shifted. What started as fury — breathless, sharp, almost punishing — now smoldered with something darker, deeper. Not gentler. Not even close. But needy. Desperate. Like he didn’t believe you were real, like his lips had to memorize you before the world took you too.
You gasped against his mouth, and he chased the sound, swallowing it like oxygen. His hands were gripping your hips hard, too hard, like he was holding you down. Possessive. Controlled, but barely.
Your fingers climbed into the collar of his shirt, then slipped underneath, greedy and unthinkable. His skin was hot under your palms. Sweat-damp. Rigid with tension. Like every muscle in his body was coiled, barely restrained. Like he was keeping a war inside him, and you were the only one close enough to feel it shaking through him.
You slid your palms across the grooves of his stomach — tight and unforgiving — right as he growled, low and sharp in your ear, “You’re fuckin’ shakin’”
“You do this to me,” you whispered.
He leaned in, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. His hands slid beneath your thighs — gripping them with bruising force — and lifted you onto the cold edge of the metal desk without a word. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist for balance.
“I need you so bad, Tommy,” you murmured, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t kiss you back this time. Not yet.
Instead, his eyes burned into you, scanning every inch of your face. His fingers clenched at your thighs again.
Then his voice dropped, hoarse and lethal. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re askin’”
You did, though. And you gave him your answer the only way he’d accept, by reaching between your bodies and curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt. You lifted it slowly, deliberately. He let you. Just watching. But his breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling like he was trying not to combust.
Once his shirt hit the floor, you laid your hands on his bare skin again, mapping bruises, scars, the old jagged line across his ribs that still looked fresh in this light. You traced it with your fingers, soft at first.
You leaned into his skin, lips brushing against his jaw, trailing down the rough stubble to the pulse pounding in his neck. Your hands slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, fingers finding the heat beneath and stroking slow, deliberate lines that made his breath hitch.
He caught your wrist, holding it against him tightly.
“You think I’ve been fine out here?” He said, voice rough with something beyond anger. “You think I’ve been sleepin’? You think I wanted to see you show up outta nowhere, just to remind me what it feels like to lose everything again?”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you leaned in, kissing the corner if his jaw, dragging your lips across his stubble until they hovered over his mouth. “No,” you whispered. “But I’m right here with you.”
His restraint cracked.
With a strangled sound, he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into another kiss, this one more brutal, messy. Teeth and heat and no space to breath. His other hand planted firmly against your lower back, keeping you flush against him, hips pinned, your breath caught beneath his.
Then he pulled back just an inch. “Take your clothes off.”
You obey. Not slowly or shyly. You peeled your shirt over your head, tossed it aside. You unclasped your bra with practiced fingers and let it fall to the ground, bare under the flickering light. Your jeans came next, shaking hands pushing them past your hips.
His eyes never left you.
But when you were down to your panties, he didn’t reach for you. Not yet, at least. His hands flexed at his sides like he was waiting for some sort of silent permission — or fighting the urge to lose control.
“Those too,” he said, nodding toward the white lace covering your most intimate area. His voice dropped again, barely above a growl. “Take ‘em off.”
You slide them slowly down your thighs, your slick webbing between you and the lace as they fell. Tommy watched every aching second of it, looking like he was about to drool at the sight alone.
You stood there in front of him, naked, exposed to the cold and to him. But you didn’t flinch. You let him admire. Let him see what he was trying so hard to push away.
He stepped forward, brushing his fingers down your arm. The he gripped your wrist and lifted it above your head. His other hand found your second wrist and pinned both to the wall behind you.
“You’re not movin’,” he warned. “You hear me?”
You nodded, breath caught in your chest.
“Say it.”
“Yes, Tommy.”
He leaned in until his lips grazed your ear. “Good girl.”
The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. He didn’t sound soft or sweet, just heavy with ownership.
Then his hand trailed down your chest — knuckles brushing over you tender nipples, slow and punishingly light — until you were arching toward him, craving more. He didn’t give in. His hand moved lower, palm flattening against your stomach, then gripping your thigh and hoisting it around his hip. His breath was everywhere. On your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone.
You were panting now, the need crawling across your skin like fire.
His mouth pressed to your throat, tongue flicking the pulse there. Then he bit down, hard. Not breaking skin, but enough to make you cry out.
“Mine,” he said into your bruised wound.
Your knees buckled, but he held you up, one hand flat to your spine. The other still pinning your wrists above your head. He stepped closer, his jeans rough against your bare clit, sending a shiver down your spine.
“I fuckin’ hate you for followin’ me,” he rasped. “Think I need to punish my pretty girl? Fuck you till you understand? Till you start behavin’?”
“Yea— yes, yes,” is all you can manage, need crawling through your blood, making your head light.
He grunted and let go of your wrists. Then spun you around fast and shoved you face first onto the desk again. With a sort of violence, a sort of relentless urgency you’d seen in his eyes since the second you stepped into the station.
Your palms hit the cold surface beneath you as he stepped between your legs. One hand landed around your throat tight, making breathing hard. His thumb pressed under your jaw, tilting your chin up until your eyes looked forward.
“Does my girl need it rough? Will that teach ya right?”
You nodded, but it wasn’t enough.
“Say it.”
“I want it rough. I’ll— I’ll learn.”
That was all he needed.
He pushed you flat to the desk, one arm pushing your head down till your cheek was squished against the cold metal, the other gripping your hip and kneading into the soft skin. He lowered to his knees, hand sliding down from your head to your ass as his mouth descended — hot, greedy, claiming. He licked one long stripe between your slick folds and swirled his tongue around your clit causing your thighs to shake. He took the swollen nub between his teeth, biting gently — but harsh enough to remind you that you were still in trouble — a scream escaping your lips at the shock.
“Tastes so good,” he groaned against you, kissing your wet cunt with a frenzy that bordered on savage. He was still angry, still raw. But underneath all that fury was hunger so sharp it made you ache.
When he pulled away, mouth slick, eyes burning, he grabbed you by the hips and yanked you backward until you were practically sliding off the desk into him.
He held you there, ass pressed against his rough jeans, mouth lowered by your ear, your shared breath shallow and ragged.
“I should be fuckin’ furious,” he murmured.
“You are.”
He gave a rough, bitter laugh. Then his mouth found yours again — crushing, claiming — and this time, the kiss held no restraint. It was like he was trying to swallow every piece of you whole, to make sure you couldn’t slip away, couldn’t disappear. His teeth grazed your lower lip, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and you clung to his wrists tight, needing the fire he brought with him.
Tommy’s hands were relentless, roaming over your back with rough, possessive strokes, fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises in their wake. He gripped your hips so hard you could feel the ache blooming beneath his touch, a delicious kind of pain that made you want to press closer, to disappear into him.
You pressed yourself against the tent in his denim, grinding against him, needing him. You arched you back so that your clit was positioned perfectly against his shaft, wriggling against it in search of some sort of relief. He started meeting your movement with his own, pressing himself deeper into you. He needed this just as bad as you.
“Shouldn’t have fuckin’ followed me,” he growled, voice low and rough, filled with a fierce, jagged edge. His hands reaped between the two of you, unclasping his belt and wiggling out of his jeans as if he couldn’t get them off quick enough. His boxers followed quickly and he lined himself up with your entrance, teasing you as he rubbed his head slowly around your soaked entrance. You could feel the way you were already dripping on him, could hear his low chuckles at the sight.
You arched into him without hesitation, begging for him to finally relieve you, but instead he slapped your ass with a loud smack, sharp stings replacing where his fingers once were.
He leaned down to you ear again when you whimpered from the slap. “You gonna take me like a good fuckin’ girl? Hmm?”
You nodded, feeling like you were about to cry if he didn’t rail you right here, right now.
Instead, Tommy grabbed you cheeks, forcing you to turn you face and meet his gaze. “Use your words, babygirl, or you gettin’ nothin’.”
“Tommy please. Please I— I need you so bad. Fuck me hard. Plea—”
Your breath catched as his hips slammed into yours with rough, punishing thrusts. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the tight space, punctured by his ragged groans and your own moans. Every movement was fierce, angry, desperate — a tangled storm of rage and need. You were so wet and needy, he slid past your walls with ease.
His hands wrapped around your hair, tugging your head back enough to expose your throat, teeth scraping there in a harsh, bruising kiss that made your pulse thunder in your ears. You wanted to feel every edge of him , the fury, the hunger, the aching need.
“I missed you,” he hissed, voice breaking with something raw and vulnerable beneath the anger. “Missed this… the way you tighten ‘round me. Fuck, you feel so goddamn good, baby.”
You wrapped you fingers around his — the ones that were holding your hips down on the desk — needing him to feel your touch too. You started matching the ferocity of his rhythm with your own, meeting every hard thrust with his. Your bodies moved like they were made for this, made for each other.
His hands moved down your thighs again, gripping hard as he lifted you higher, pressing you tighter against him. You felt every strained muscle in his back, every sharp breath that tore from his lungs as he pushed himself deeper inside of you. He was outraged — at the world, at himself, at the past — but right now, with you most of all. Yet you were the only one keeping him grounded, reminding him that he was still human.
He felt the way you fluttered around him. Felt the way you clenched every time he pulled himself out. But he always came back, faster and harder than the thrust before.
Your chest heaved, your skin slick with sweat, your heart pounding in time with his frantic, powerful movements. The ache between your legs built, sharp and sweet, until you were trembling — a breathless, shaking mess of need and want and pure, raw emotion. He knew you were close.
“Fuck… so fuckin’ hot,” he growled low in his throat, fingers tightening in your hair, pulling you up into another fierce kiss as his body tensed, dick twitching between your pulsing walls.
“Cum now, babygirl. Shit— cum with me.” He pushed you back into the desk, shoving your cheeks in the cold metal once again. His thrusts became faulty, losing all sense of rhythm as he unfolded deep within you. And then with a cry caught deep in his throat — he came, hard and fast, hips jerking, breath ragged against your skin. You clung to him as your own release crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your body arching into his, every nerve ending tight.
Sticky, white release pooled between the base of his cock and where he was still buried inside of you. He groaned somewhere deep in his throat as he watched the way his release slowly dripped out of your fucked pussy and left hot strands trailing down your legs.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the second of ragged breathing and the feel of his cock still buried inside you, thick and pulsing.
Finally, his lips brushed against your neck, warm and soft in stark contrast to the rough fire of everything that had just passed.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, voice raw and broken, trembling with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He pulled out and you turned around to hold him, knowing this wave of emotion was becoming too much after he came down from his high.
You carded your fingers through his damp hair, pulling him closer, holding him like you needed him just as much.
“I know,” you whispered back, your voice steady and sure. “It’s okay, I’m here.”
He buried his face in the curve of your shoulder, breath shaking, body still trembling from the storm of emotions and desire.
In the quiet moment, the anger didn’t vanish; it simmered just beneath the surface, but it was softer now. Tempered by the connection that neither of you could deny.
just some heads up there is no ellie or dina bc i am soooo bad at writing like multiple people at once. so basically this fic is only tommy's revenge against abby. it follows the gameplay with a few changes since there is no ellie and also i few changes to my own desire. so i'll say loosely based off gameplay.
thank you to the anonymous request for this fic. i have been so obsessed with writing it for weeks literally. also im sooo bad at making mood boards so im sorryyyyy if this sucks lol.
y’all ever read a fanfic that you cannot believe an author just wrote for free?? what an honor it is to read a piece of someone’s soul they shared out of nothing but love for a piece of media. what a privilege it is to be allowed their talent because you share an interest!!
You guys loved younger whore Tommy Miller so here ya go!!
Summary: Tommy Miller is your best friend and it’s just another Friday night out with him, until it’s not.
tw: None really. No smut this time, but lots of tension and sweet angst. Smut in later chapters.
wc: 1,451
—
It’s another Friday night. Too hot, too sticky.
The parking lot of the local dive bar is already packed, loose gravel and shards of broken glass from beer bottles everywhere. The outside string lights glow the dingiest shade of yellow, some blown, some chipped and reflecting in the fogged up glass. The low hum of electricity was a constant, a gentle clicking sound as the open neon sign flashed.
The smell of cold foamy beer and warm fried food was immediate, familiar. It smacks you in the face. The comically large pint sized mugs are filled with golden liquid, wet with condensation and sloshing suds over the brims. The kick of heat to those wing still takes you by surprise, sends Tommy chuckling when you cough.
Tommy Miller. He bends over the pool table again to line up another shot. The pool cues are splintering with age, chalk drying out, and the smell of the velvet table tops linger. He sinks two more stripes. Even underneath the shadowy pool table lighting you see it. The thin layer of sweat. It gathers in his collarbones, clings to the smooth tan skin of his throat.
You should’ve known. You noticed the shift in him, always did. You just didn’t think what would happen, would ever.
It had been one of those weeks, that without fail, turned into one of those Friday nights. Tommy would get this wild look about him. It was subtle and silent but it commanded. The energy serged from his limbs. Black curls unruly and pushed back with sweat, a feline smirk on his face.
Tommy’s canines flash boyishly and you figured it was only a matter of time before he zeros in on someone. Some college girl with a bright pink birthday sash, and leathal amounts of body glitter. Or maybe the mom of three in the booth with a glass of red and her going out heels that haven’t seen the outside of her closet since the last girls night out.
Yeah, Tommy Miller was exactly what she’d left the house hunting for that night. A young buck. A fun night in his bed or hell, rubbing her knees raw on the scratchy interior of his pick up.
What you didn’t expect was..the knock of his knees against yours, the way he climbs on to the bar stool next to you.
Tommy doesn’t wander. He doesn’t bail when he normally does, the time of night where you mosey over to the bar to catch up with Rosie before finding your own way home. No.
Tommy is looking at you..like that.
With that sharp hunger and that young and dumb I’m not thinking about anything past tonight kinda look. He smiles at you. Pool cue and game abandoned, Tommy Miller invades your space. He doesn’t have to lean in close. He takes up space by the way he speaks, the way he stares at you like the rest of this shit hole, below code bar is empty.
You feel the cross hairs slip onto you.
You try to relax, to not overthink. Maybe this weekend is just different. Maybe he isn’t looking to take anyone home.
And for a bit longer, everything feels normal. Tommy laughs at your jokes and bitches about co-workers. He dips his fingers into that checker-lined basket and helps you polish off those wings. With that sticky sweet bbq sauce still making your fingers feel tacky though, Tommy ask you to dance.
It’s a bad idea, letting him take your hand in his, palms slick and pulling you towards the middle of the floor. This wasn’t the first time you danced with Tommy. It was usually something fast though. Something imbedded with twirls and failed fancy dips, the scuffing soles of cowboy boots.
You weren’t use to this.
The way Tommy pulled you physically close. His fingers spread across your back, thumb grazing the line of your spine. You’re close enough that the smell of him invades your sinuses, overpowers anything else. You feel the spots of his shirt that are damp with sweat, and for some reason you like it. You like the faint smell of dirt and saw dust from his job site, the way it mixes with the cologne he’s wearing.
You let yourself lean in, let yourself settle in his arms as the band plays something light and smooth. Everything seems to narrow down to the wooden floor beneath your feet, the drag of denim on denim as your thighs brush.
You’ve never felt anything like this. The air around you is thick, warm. Tommy’s breath is gentle when it fans across your forehead…
and then he presses his lips to your temple.
It’s an offer, an invitation. A sigh slips past your lips before you know it, and Tommy’s hold on you tightens.
Neither of you say a word. Seconds pass by like minutes. Tommy doesn’t move fast. You both continue to sway in place, boots shuffling.
Another brush of his mouth, this time on the high apple of your cheek. Your eyelids flutter shut in response. You don’t pull away, but you don’t look up at Tommy either. Not yet anyway.
It’s not until his nose trails along the skin of your cheek, until his lips graze the corner of your mouth that you say his name on a shaky exhale.
“..Tommy.”
“Do yu’ want..we could..”
His words are quiet and they trail off, his breathing just as softly labored as yours. You pull back just enough to look up at him, and it’s devastating. The look on his face. He gives you the sweetest grin in the world, and Tommy Miller looks almost shy.
His eyes are dark and crinkled by the corners. They make your heart clench inside your chest. You know then, that whatever this is, can’t go any further.
It would hurt too much. Afterwards. If you let yourself say yes, lean in and taste him for real, touch the body beneath those clothes.
What then?
He’s one of your best friends, his brother being the other. Tommy isn’t a man looking to settle down. You know this. He’s your best friend, an actual gentlemen too, but nonetheless - a whore.
Hell, who says you want anything serious yourself? What the fuck would that mean when sunlight breaks? When tomorrow comes, what would it mean for your friendship?
Tommy has never wanted more, and you know you can’t do just one night with Tommy Miller.
You sigh, but differently this time. You barely start, words gentle, “Tommy, I - I don’t think…”
Tommy feels the way your fingers curl into the materiel of his shirt, squeezing, the way your voice shakes a little, and he knows. His voice comes out rushed but soft, comforting as he whispers down to you, “Hey..hey..’s alright.”
And it does feel alright, and not at all, in the same moment. It makes you feel like crying. You don’t want your friendship to change, and funny enough, it’s still going to. Just not in the way you expect.
Tommy just smiles down at you again, pulls you close once more. Your sweaty forehead brushes his chin before he tucks you beneath it. He holds you for a little longer, for the rest of the song, though it’s different. No less close but less intense, something that feels painful but sweet. Familiar and not.
You rest your cheek on his shoulder and when the drums stop rolling and the guitar cords stop vibrating the stage, Tommy pulls away. He gives you a little crooked grin, a soft squeeze to your elbow.
“Think ‘m gonna take off for the night,” he says, hands slipping from you.
There’s no offer for a ride home, and you try not to let the emotion catch in your throat. You try not to think about the implications of that, the idea that things might not be alright, or worse. The imagine of Tommy already thumbing through his contacts, one that already knows the route to his house and the color of his sheets. All of it makes your stomach swirl.
So you do end up with Rosie after all, the bartender who cuts you off after too many lemon drop shots and whiskey neats, and ultimately calls Joel. He’s the one to pull you out of the sticky booth. He lifts you into the cab of his truck and takes you home, to his home, without question. You know those’ll come later.
Until then, he tucks you in, gives you a tiny bathroom trash can lined with a plastic CVS shoppers bag and a glass of water, and you fall asleep trying not to think about what the sun’s gonna unbury tomorrow.
—
(So excited to finally get this out!! 🫶🏼 There will be at least two more parts? Whore Tommy really shines in pt. 2 lmaoo)
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
errmmmm yeah!!! that is comparitively lame to a lot of people 💔 @p3rs3ph0n3schild @kissboybyler @the-bogginses-are-gay @willtheunwise @tbiggestman
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i have never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
Very less green lol
No pressure tags to: @wowstrawberrycow @gauntletgirlie @valar-did-me-wrong @varda-star-queen @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @assortedvariety @pipis-took @itwillbeourswansong @radagastbrown @sunnyyy-daze + anyone who wants to join!!
i’m over 5'5 /I wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
Tag List: (No Pressure)
@tillywunderwing, @stellar-collective, @sml8180, @ellascreams, @heycerulean + Open Tag
i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don't often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i've known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
Tag List >:3
@kyacchan-comics @laz-laz-ace-pilot @loki-wants-an-army + open taaaaaaaaaag
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
@altergioia @charrednewt @kikingback & open taaags
Thank you for tagging me, I love this sort of things T.T
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
I tag @valevntine @tentacleburnout and whoever wishes to join in! <3
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
Thank you for the tag @bergamote-catsandbooks ❤️❤️
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
thank you so much for tagging me @iamasaddie loveee you!! 💞
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
no pressure tags; @xbeababyx @aureatelys @ohhoneypascal @kunareads @whimsicalwritersstuff and anyone else who wants to do it! ❤️
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
yayyy so fun !! thank you @xodilfluvr for the tag (:
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
Warnings: Obsessive love • Dark themes • Psychological manipulation • Twisted relationships • Intense trauma • Emotional turmoil • Guilt and remorse • Power imbalance • Violence • Grief • Emotional dependence • Toxic attraction • Betrayal
WC: 1.8k
Song Choice: Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey
He said he loved you. He swore that he'd never hurt you.
And he kept those promises. But between the white lines and sirens, his words escalated into heaven. A deadly nightshade he'd call you. Tommy would say you're full of poison, but with a beauty and rage that only he could appreciate. It's how he pulls you back in every single time, whispering those same sweet promises into your ear. Like a siren luring a sailor to their death.
You'd let him. No matter the pain he brought to you, even through the times you and he were in handcuffs and hauled away by police—Tommy stood there fighting back, desperate to get close to you again.
His touch was fire. His love was a hurricane. And you never stood a chance.
You knew it for what it was. You weren't a fool. Even when the dark, mottled stain started to bloom across your skin, you still welcomed his touch. Each one felt like a kiss. Tommy consumed you in such an unforgiving way that there was nothing left of who you were before him. Everything that you are now, your entire identity, is completely and irrevocably Tommy Miller.
He would constantly tell you that he's enraptured by you, completely incapacitated. That you put him under your spell. An excuse as to why he controls your life, not letting you near anyone or anything.
"You make me go crazy, Mi Amor."
A line he used when he dragged you out of a bar. It was after he saw you were talking to a random guy. You weren't gonna go home with him. But you definitely wanted to get a rise out of Tommy.
And a rise out of him is exactly what you got.
He fucked you against the hood of his truck, right there in the parking lot. Tommy wanted to make sure you knew who you belonged to. And you knew that he belonged to you as well. The slightest word, the slightest eye roll, and he's there wrapped around your finger. He's just as much under your control as you were under his.
That was the thing about Tommy Miller. He didn't love easily. He loved like he was at war. Constantly fighting back. Using threats, thinly veiled ones that always ended in you two fucking. Things were thrown, fists raised, and yet every single time, you two were magnets. Finding your way back to the other.
A cycle neither of you wanted to end.
Blessed the union. Cursed the aftermath. But holy was the fire that both of you were fed.
The music had long faded, but the static it left behind still buzzed in your ears. His hand gripped your wrist unforgivingly, leaving marks on that delicate part of your skin. You may have stomped your foot, yelling varying degrees of obscenities, but they fell onto deaf ears. It was no use against the man who had not only height but also weight over you.
The pavement scratched against the back of your heels as he dragged you along—your foolish act of defiance not even putting a dent in whatever he was planning. It was a routine—familiar. The number of times this has happened you can't count on one hand anymore. People had gotten used to it. The police didn't even have to ask your names. Once they heard your home address, they knew exactly what was happening.
You continued to twist against his iron grip before he briefly stopped turning around to face you with anger and desire in his gaze. He stared at you like a man on edge. Tommy was floating dangerously on the brink of losing control and all-out frenzy. He was a man starving, and you were the lifeline. You were the mirage, and he thirsted for you after being in the desert for far too long.
"Do you think this futile attempt will work, cariño? Do you think fighting against me will help?" he taunted, voice as slick as honey but sharp like glass.
You narrowed your eyes at the man in front of you. You tried to throw up a front, shielding yourself from his icy gaze. But no matter how cold it was, you still melted. It was something about him—like a superpower he had to keep you there, no matter how hard his touch landed.
"Bastard," you spat out, trying to hide the way your voice cracked just a bit.
All he did was smile that smug grin of his. Knowing that you truly didn't mean what you said. Tommy knew what you really wanted. That sweet face of yours held so much venom beneath those warm eyes. Jekyll and Hyde. Another name he had for you—sweet and soft until he pushed the right buttons.
"Come on, mi vida," he said mockingly, tsking at you like he was scolding a child. "You call me a bastard now, but I know you'll be moaning it the moment I bend you over."
He leaned more, his hand gripping your forearm so tightly you were sure there would be a bruise. His breath fans your neck, scattering goosebumps and igniting a buzz simmering beneath your skin.
"I could teach you a lesson right now. What is it that has gotten you so riled up? Could it be because you like the idea of being fucked before a crowd of people? Does them watching get you off?"
Every part of you wanted to say no. A silent voice in the back of your mind is telling you this is sick. Perverse. But the throbbing need between your legs said otherwise. You hated it. Hated how easily he could pull you back into his web of destruction—eroding your brain to constantly think only of him.
Tommy.
Tommy.
Tommy.
A rebellious mantra ringing through your ears. And the longer you are with him, the more you are sentencing yourself for a lifetime of beautiful, suffocating damnation. Because being with Tommy isn't love. It's servitude. It was a raw, unfiltered obsession that bordered on psychotic.
The way he makes you lash out, the gaslighting—all of it made you seriously consider if you needed medication. Tommy made you feel crazy, almost insane—drunk on his love. Especially on those lazy Sunday mornings after you fight with him about being out so late, it always ends in him slowly fucking you into your mattress. He would whisper sweet things that made your heart turn to mush.
"Come on, Darlin," he whispered. "Say it. Say that you want me. I know you do."
The urge to say no caught in your throat like some invisible force was holding you back. You tried to scream it out, yelling that the relationship was over. But when his hands cupped your face, any thoughts that were logical or sane flew out the window. And there you were under his spell, like some lovesick puppy.
He was falling apart in front of you, too. How quickly he succumbed to your attempts to make him mad. How much you made him miss your smart mouth—especially when you were on your knees and your mouth wrapped around his cock. A seductress. A temptress in the form of the woman he loved. A love that was broken. Disgusting. Toxic. But real.
"Fuck you."
Those two words fell from your mouth, and that's all it took. His lips smashed against yours before turning you around and leading you to his truck. There was no room for hesitation. No room for breathing. It was all fiery passion that finally burned too bright. His need matched yours as he grinded against your ass—his cock straining hard against his jeans.
"Goddamn, look what you do to me. I can't ever get enough of you."
His hand wrapped around your throat—not choking you, not yet— but reminding you who has your leash. His grip tightened when you moaned, and all he could think was how beautiful you looked, tears running down your face every time he slammed his cock inside you.
"You drive me fucking insane, cariño. Even then, I'd still worship you."
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, his breath ragged against your neck. You gasped, body arching instinctively against him.
"Oh baby, you do want to be fucked and let everyone see the little slut that you are. You want them to see how wet I make you."
Your words were a jumbled mess. incoherent. You tried to manage out a no, but it sounded like a yes.
His free hand gripped your hip, bruising and marking you like a brand. He ripped off your shorts, pulling them down your legs so hard that it made a mark. Then he slammed into you. Unforgiving. Unrelenting. He didn't move at first—letting you lie there and take him in fully. Tommy stretched you, his size filling you up. It burned—the way he made you feel full. But the worst part—the best part—was how your pussy clenched around him like it didn't want to let go.
"That's it," He rasped, voice rough like gravel. "Taking it so well for me. Taking it like a good girl."
Tommy started to move, and god—it felt like heaven. His hips slamming into you, one hand gripping your hair and the other on your hips—all of it overstimulating. The slamming of hips against your ass created a delicious echo, making your knees weak like jelly.
He moved like he owned you. And he did. Every thrust forced a ragged moan from your throat, every smack of his hips was like a symphony of sin. The burn between your thighs, the ache in your pussy—could only be quenched by him. Your legs buckled again, but Tommy didn't let you fall.
"Look at you," he murmured, panting harder with each thrust. "Already fucked out and moaning like you can't take more. But you will."
You couldn't take much more. You weren't sure if you were sobbing or moaning anymore. Your voice was wrecked, your throat raw. He didn't slow down. He didn't soften. He never did. This wasn't about love. Not anymore.
It was about need.
It was about punishment.
It was about the way your body betrayed you every time he touched you. Every time he raised his fists and whispered sorry after, you still wanted him. It was a heartbreaking routine that you didn't want to leave. Your cunt clenched around him like you would rather die than let him go.
"Mine," he said. "Say you'll always be mine."
You couldn't. Not with words. But the way your hips pushed back into him, the way your fingers gripped the cold metal of the truck—he knew it.
And when your body started to shake, your knees buckling, and your words coming out in a strangled gasp.
Tommy just grinned.
A cruel, beautiful, broken grin.
And he whispered...
"God help anyone who tries to tear you away from me."
