summary; Enemies with a deal: play the perfect couple for one week. But in the heart of Texas, under one roof and one lie too many… They forget where the act ends and the feelings begin.
warnings; fake dating au, enemies to lovers, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, jake's in his late thirties) smut, oral (fem receiving), jake has a praise kink, reader has mommy issues (too self-indulgent haha), slight angst, happy ending
ask me anything | status: COMPLETED | total word count; 19.5k |
What are some of the TGM wips you’re working on? If you don’t mind me asking ☺️
Of course, I don’t mind you asking! 🥰 I am thrilled that you’re curious! I know it’s been a bit since I’ve shared anything new on here, so it’s so nice to know someone is still interested!
The two that I’m focusing the most on are a Bradley series and then a Bob series. I always have stories for the Like I Can babes rolling around in my head, but I’m really trying to get dialed in on these two series.
The Bradley series is about a girl who knows the cost of the fame game better than anyone else. She’s learned the hard way how to navigate the lines between what’s truth and what’s press— because when people talk, rumors walk.
When Bradley ends up with the spotlight on him after a fluke at a fundraising gala rockets him into the public eye, they’ll find out if two people with chemistry can ever really keep things casual.
For the vibes, I made a little moodboard ages ago. But you can search #killer ⚡️ or #Bradley and Killer on my blog!
And as for the Bob series! That will be a spin-off featuring an OC (Jacqueline ‘Keeks’ Hartford) who will be introduced in the Bradley series, so it’s fun having them interconnected!
Keeks is the ultimate fun-time party girl. She is used to being perceived, but not truly seen. Until she meets Bob, who makes her feel like there might be more to girl she’s always been told she is. But one bad choice might end up derailing everything before it even has the chance to start.
I shared a bit more about her and the story here! And use the tags #keeks 🪩 or #Bob and keeks for things I find on here!
“well, i do feel a little better now that you’re here”
Bradley and SG please 👉🏼👈🏼 love your work Alexa ☺️☺️
Charlie, you gem! Thank you for always being so lovely and supportive! I hope you enjoy this one! 🥰
There You Are
Summary: It's the first time you're seeing Bradley in over 2 years. A lot of things have changed for you since the night he'd called you before that mission, but if there was one thing you knew you could count on, it was that he'd always be there for you.
Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Female Reader
Length: 1.5K
It had been nine days of radio silence.
Nine days since Bradley had called you in the night before he left for whatever classified mission the Navy had ordered him back to Top Gun for.
Nine days of wondering and hoping for the best. Trying to convince yourself that no news was good news.
Nine days of not tasting any of the meals you'd forced down as you waited. Not that you had much of an appetite anyways.
Nine days of tossing and turning in the bed you slept alone in, as you worked on untangling your life from your now ex boyfriend. The two of you agreeing to share the apartment like roommates until you found out about the promotion you were up for.
The one that might take you to San Diego. To the sunshine and ocean. To new opportunities. To your best friend.
You had pretty much dropped everything the moment you saw Bradley's name flash across the screen of your phone. The relief that washed over you at the sound of his voice- at his Hey, kid- nearly sent you to the floor.
While it had been another few days before you were able to get on a plane- he'd told you there were still some debriefs and paperwork that still needed to be done before him and his team could take leave- but you'd started packing your suitcase the moment the call ended.
You were antsy the entire six hour flight from Boston. You'd apologized more than once for nudging your neighbor's arm as you shifted and squirmed in your uncomfortable seat.
Hearing that final ding of the seatbelt off sign was music to your ears.
You'd called him the moment you stepped off the plane and Bradley picked up on the first ring.
"This feels familiar, doesn't it?" he rasps over the phone. You know he's thinking about the Spring Break you'd went to visit him at UVA. He'd picked you up at the airport then, just like he was doing now. "When is it my turn to be picked up at the airport, kid?"
Of course they'd dropped you off at the furthest gate in Terminal 1. You let out a huff and then set about threading your way through the throng of people standing between you and your best friend.
"Please, when's the last time you flew commercial?" you tease. "And it's not all of us can just waltz onto a Naval Base anytime we want."
"Hey, no one's stopping you from joining up. I'll even write you a letter of recommendation."
You weave around a stroller.
"Hmm, pass. But thank you for the generous offer."
And then past a couple holding hands.
He chuckles. "Guess that means I get to keep my title as designated chauffeur, huh?"
"Lucky you," you sing.
If you weren't on a mission, you'd consider stopping at the coffee shop that you're briskly gliding past for a quick cappuccino. But you had other priorities.
"Such a smart ass." You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
You speed up your steps, the glimmer of the exit now in sight. "Why don't you say that to my face, Bradshaw."
"I'm trying to, but you're taking forever," he grouses, famously the more impatient one of the two of you. "I'm to the left of Arrivals gate, by the way."
You smile to yourself. Knowing him, he has probably been there for at least an hour keeping tabs on you with some flight tracker app he'd downloaded on his phone.
"It's a good thing you told me, I'm not sure if I'd recognize you with that bold fashion statement you're sporting on your face now."
Bradley scoffs indignantly. "You haven't even been here thirty minutes and you're already dunking on the 'stache, kid? It looks better in person, give it a chance."
You pull over just to the right of the Terminal exit, tucked next to a potted ficus, taking a moment to scan through the crowd of people waiting for their own travelers. He's not hard for you to find, standing head and shoulders above everyone else in the area.
Whole and healthy and here in front of you.
It's been a little over two years since you've last seen Bradley in person, he'd been stationed in Japan before his return to Top Gun. It was still hard to believe that the lanky boy you'd grown up with had become the well-built man standing across the way from you.
During his time in the Navy, he'd truly come into himself. The easy confidence in his posture was well earned and looked good on him. But you had to stop yourself from laughing and giving yourself away when you see him impatiently tapping his toes. Because no matter how much some things change, there are some things that will always be the same.
"I don't know about that," you muse, still taking him in because there was a moment there when you weren't sure you'd ever get to see him again. "I can see it from here and I'm still on the fence about it."
You see him look around, confused for a moment, head swiveling trying to spot you. You don't keep him waiting long, stepping out from your hiding spot and into view.
You mouth hi and give him a little wave.
"Hey, there you are." There's no missing the wide grin on his face. "You going to stand all the way over there or are you going to come see the mustache up close and personal?"
You laugh and shake your head making your way to him. "I guess I might as well considering I did fly all the way across the country to see it."
"And me, I hope."
"And you," you confirm.
You end the call, tucking your phone into your bag as you close the gap between him and you.
Those whiskey brown eyes are one you've known your whole life. His curls looked like they've seen some sun, as did the rest of him. And the soft smile he had directed at you looked like contentment.
What stops you in your tracks are the fresh cuts that mark his face, new scars to be mixed in with the ones you already knew so well. They're shade of bright pink that's impossible to miss.
"Oh my god, Bradley."
He doesn't say a word as you gently take his face in your hands, tilting his head this way and that, inspecting him for yourself. He just gazes at you, reading every emotion as they run across your face, as you try to hunt for any clues to an answer about what happened that you know you'll never get.
"I'm fine, I promise," he murmurs.
"It doesn't look fine," you press.
He grasps you wrists with his warm hands and coaxes yours down between the two of you.
Too close. Whatever it was was too damn close. The evidence is right there on his neck and behind his ear, and you hate it.
Bradley squeezes your hands reassuringly. "I'll have you know passed the concussion protocol with flying colors." He tries to play it off as a joke, but the dark circles under his eyes and the weariness you see around the corners of his eyes tells a different story.
"Does it still hurt?" you ask, trying not to let your voice wobble.
"Well, I do feel a little better now that you’re here.”
You let out an exasperated sigh. "You're so-"
Ridiculous. Frustrating. Important to me.
You don't get to finish you sentence because Bradley is tugging you into his broad chest. The arms that wrap around you are fuller now, but his hug is as just a familiar as it's always been.
Yours thread themselves around his waist instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He holds you close, holds you tight. Bradley's always been the type to really hold on tight because he knows what it's like to have to let things go.
People come and go. There's the sound of departure and arrival announcements on the speakers overhead. Some people are saying their goodbyes, and some- like the two of you- are saying hello.
All of it happens around you and Bradley. As you hold him and he holds you. Both of you all too aware that this moment hadn't been a given.
"Thank you for not standing me up," you whisper, throat thick.
"I wouldn’t dream of it, kid," he says, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger, and gives it a little wiggle.
You blow out a breath, not wanting a raincloud of what-ifs to damper your golden afternoon.
"Hi," you say again.
"I'm happy to see you," he replies, earnestly. You just nod your head because the feeling is so, so mutual. "You just gained three hours, you up for a little adventuring?"
"I’m all yours, Bradshaw."
It didn't matter to you what you did for the four days you were in town, just that you got to spend it with him.
"Good." He drapes a heavy arm over shoulder and reaches for your suitcase. "Because I'm pretty sure I owe you a milkshake."
You let him steer you towards the exit, to where you assume the short term parking garage is located, and ask, "Can I drive the Bronco?"
Bradley pauses. "We'll see."
You grin because it's not a no.
The California sun hits you in full force as you step out the automatic doors. You reach up and tug out the sunglasses that had been haphazardly tucked into the pocket of his silly Hawaiian shirt- that you were definitely going to tease him about later- and slip them on your face.
Bradley smiles over at you.
"I think California is going to suit you, kid."
And for the first time, here with him, you think it might too.
Just sliding in to say I went to see TGM in IMAX today, and the hyperfixation is back. Life will hopefully be slowing down soon (trying to change jobs, moving in with the boyfriend so less time commuting, and working to get on a normal 5/8 schedule rather than my current 4/10 that really turns into a 4/13 with all the unpaid over time).
I'm going to get back to writing the Bradley/Lark story that I have 2 chapters written for. While watching the movie, I realized I could connect her to Jake and Bradley's barb about him landing some in an early grave.
Also, I need to get back to writing for my own mental health. Continuing to work as a fed is a problem, but I'm trying to either switch out of my current hospital system into a trauma focused position, or completely out of the VA and into a civilian position with first responders.
Either way, I'm gonna focus on doing what makes me happy and that's writing angst about flyboys. Here's a snippet of the Bradley fic if anyone's still reading TGM fic:
Eventually, the only way to see what was happening in each other’s lives was through social media. Bradley liked pictures of you hanging out at the beach. Gradually, he noticed a guy appearing in more and more of your photos, and then the inevitable status update came that you were dating.
He was assigned to a squadron just in time to be deployed to the Middle East. When he shared the news with his extended family and friends, you messaged him to ask for his mailing address. Every few weeks, he received a care package filled with his favorite snacks. His heart felt an odd pang when he noticed an open package of razors and read your note about taking one “for old time’s sake.”
The squadron was welcoming, and he made a few new friends. Bradley gravitated toward Natasha Trace, another new pilot making her mark in the squad. But the closer he got, the more he realized something. Sure, she quickly became his closest friend, but their friendship was different from what he had with you. While he sometimes crashed on her couch after having one too many at the bar, he never felt the urge to crawl into bed with her at the end of the night to keep the conversation alive. Nat would probably give him a black eye for even suggesting it, whereas you would just flick back the covers and talk until you fell asleep. More often than not, he woke to find himself curled around you or you sprawled across his chest, and he would have to carefully extract himself to get back to his own bed.
Distance grew between you, communication dwindling to a text on birthdays and holidays. You didn’t update social media much, so it was a surprise when a tagged picture of you popped up on his feed. Hundreds of people had commented and reacted to the sight of you kissing the guy in front of a judge. Bradley felt his heart in his throat as he read the caption.
Decided to elope before going underway. We’re hoping to spend some time together in Liberty Ports for a Navy-funded honeymoon. Might have to spend our first few months together on separate ships, but it’s just the start of our adventure.
Bradley stared at the picture for a long time before closing his laptop.
It was over. You were married.
Summary: 5.2k (21+) -- Bob is an idiot, but he's your idiot. Let the miscommunication and smutty FWB shenanigans ensue!
Warnings: Serious smut, secret FWB, alcohol consumption, protected PnV, miscommunication, and Bob has a big dick (not a warning, but a promise).
A/N: Two Bob fics in one week? I've been very inspired!
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Robert Floyd was an idiot. He was also so fucked.
From his spot in the Hard Deck, he watched you laugh with your teammates and flit about with a sweet little sundress on that Bob desperately wanted to get his hands under. His grip on his drink tightened as Hangman slipped behind you, toothpick swirling in that loud mouth of his, to “show you some moves.”
“Thanks, Texas, but your moves just aren’t doing it for me.” You’d teased, twirling right out of his grip. Bob smiled into his drink. Seresin laughed like you hadn’t just turned him down in front of the entire team.
You might not be his, but you certainly weren’t Jake’s. That was a fact Bob knew as well as he knew his own name.
Bob’s eyes were glued to your legs whenever he knew no one was watching him, which was pretty often. He had the uncanny ability to hide in a crowd, something he was thankful for tonight. Because your toned legs? They looked like sin.
Usually, your legs were hidden with a uniform or the basketball shorts he’d seen you wear when you did PT together. Baggy shirts and sports bras usually hid your figure, but tonight? Oh, you were playing dirty.
Your eyes flickered up from the bar where you’d been ordering another drink and met his, and he watched that flash of mischief cross your features.
So, yes, Bob was fucked and he knew it. You knew it too.
You’d been playing this cat and mouse game since Lemoore and the secret of it all was the most exciting. Because you? You were a little better at communicating with people, a little more out there with the team because you wanted their respect. Whereas Bob got their respect in other ways. And he’d gotten yours one night at a bar when you’d been out with some of your old coworkers. He’d complemented a particular call of yours that he thought was brilliant and you’d turned to him, whiskey in hand, and thanked him.
You had noticed him before, obviously. But there was a quiet confidence about him that really drew you in. There was more under the surface and you were determined to figure it out. So you’d invited him back to your place, slammed him against the wall of your studio apartment, and promptly had your way with him. Bob still jacked off to that night and the thought of it again was causing a problem the longer he focused on those memories and the way you looked tonight.
Almost as if you knew what he was thinking, you maintained eye contact at the bar as you drew one finger up and down the side of your glass, condensation dripping from your fingertips. And suddenly, Bob had way more than a little problem. He spread his legs wider on his stool to compensate and sent a quick glare your way, your laugh sounding in response.
No one else had noticed, and that was how he liked it. Because the both of you? There was no label. If either of you felt like it, you spent the night together. There was no domestic bliss, no strings, no morning regrets. You were both free to do as you pleased, but Bob couldn’t help but like that you’d been spending more time in his bed lately than ever before. He hadn’t really had the time to focus on it, but it was nice.
“Fellas, Bagman,” you greeted when you walked back over to the crew who were still hogging the pool tables, “I’m gonna call it a night. Phoenix, you’re in charge.”
“Hey, c’mon,” Jake smirked, stepping closer to you, and Bob decided he really wanted to snap that toothpick before it offended him further, “we all know Trace can’t keep these losers in line.”
“She’s in charge, Seresin, especially since she’s the only sober one left.”
“Baby-on-Board’s always sober and we don’t put him in charge.” Jake flashed a sideways glance at Bob to find Phoenix’s backseater giving him the most unimpressed look he could muster.
“Bob’s driving me home.” you said sweetly, patting Jake’s chest with such a look of false pity that it almost made Bob burst out laughing. Mickey did, and quickly hid his laughter into his beer. That was two for you, and none for Bagman.
“You’re letting Floyd take you home?” Jake quirked an eyebrow and you just knew he was making an innuendo. Bob watched your eyes roll.
“He’s my neighbor, you idiot. And he drove me here?” you sighed and downed the rest of your drink, leaving Hangman and Bob to watch the tepid water on the outside of your drink slide down your chin and onto your chest.
Bob quickly looked away, knowing the attention was turned a little too close to him and his reactions right now. Besides, he knew how to hide his feelings about you. He’d been doing it for a year and half and figured he’d probably be doing it for the rest of his life if he couldn’t figure out how to make your little situationship a bit more permanent.
“Ready?” he asked quietly, keys at the ready along with your flight jacket which you’d left beside him when you came in. Your smile was bright as you took it from him and waggled your fingers back at Hangman. It felt like a threat and the cocky man scoffed at your retreating form.
Bob didn’t say another word and neither did you until you got into his truck. He’d never been more thankful for a bench seat than when you started your little rendezvouses and you were next to him each time.
“God, Jake was insufferable tonight. Kept staring at my ass and trying to touch me,” you frowned, turning on the radio and settling on some station. It was just background noise.
“He wasn’t the only one.” Bob said, turning out of the Hard Deck and back towards your shared apartment building.
“No? See something you liked, Floyd?” Your grin was lethal as you slid all the way over to him on the seat and settled a hand on his thigh. It was far too close to where he really wanted it and he looked at the space between when he hit a red light.
“You’re playing with fire.” Bob muttered, jaw tightening. Because you always did this. You riled him up and let him get all hot and bothered, like you enjoyed when he lost control. He never knew how to feel about it, but he knew he loved being with you.
“Drive faster.” You warned him, fingers inching dangerously close to the bulge straining beneath his jeans.
He made the normally twenty minute drive in about fifteen, breaking at least two traffic laws in the meantime. You’d just smiled, smug like a cat, as you kept your hand on his thigh and drew circles on the denim. A fucking tease, Bob thought, teeth gritted.
And as he shifted into park and turned off the vehicle, he didn’t have to wait before you were kissing his jaw and spreading your whole palm over the crux of his jeans.
“Inside, now.” he snapped, his control hanging on by just a thread. There was that flash in your eyes again as you both climbed out of the truck and headed inside.
“Yours or mine?” you murmured, pressed against him in the empty elevator. You both lived on the third floor, right across the hall from each other, so it wasn’t like you’d travel far either way.
“Mine.” he bit out, key already at the ready. Your giggle nearly set every last ounce of his self control on fire.
He didn’t even get a chance to lock it behind you both before you were tearing into his button up, unbuttoning each one as fast you could.
“Off,” you gasped, trying to pull it away from his arms.
“Stop.” Bob trapped your hands and stopped your frantic movements. “I don’t want it fast tonight. Wanna take my time.”
Your eyes darkened and you resigned yourself with leaning against the wall, that fucking dress on full display. Bob’s eyes raked across the sight and let go of your hands.
“What’s gotten into you, Floyd?” Your smile was soft all of a sudden, comfortable, and he wanted to kiss it off. He needed to make you moan, hear those noises escape your lips like he needed air.
“You wore this for me.” Bob smiled as he dragged his fingers over the soft material of the skirt.
“Maybe,” you quipped, trying to drag him closer but failing. He stood just a step apart from you, but he was unmoving. “Robert, c’mere.”
Bob shook his head, staying exactly where he wanted. With you. Squirming and right where he wanted you.
“You teased me all night. Messing around with Hangman, flirting with the others, dancing around in this fucking dress. Made me want to take you outside and press you up against a wall at the bar.”
“Penny wouldn’t have liked that.”
“We’re not talking about Penny right now.” Bob groaned, finally giving in and leaning in to kiss you. The kiss was hot and messy and your tongue slid against his like a promise, tasting of whiskey and something else he couldn’t place. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”
“Do your worst, Floyd.” You whispered into the dim light of his living room lamp, the one he always left on. It illuminated you both just enough and that soft smile came back. Bob couldn’t have that.
The dress was held up by a zipper on the side, not on the back, and Bob had realized that about fifteen seconds after he saw you at the bar. Because you’d Ubered in just so he wouldn’t see your dress until you were walking into the bar. And Bob had spent the next three hours figuring out exactly how he wanted to take it off you.
He undid the zipper in silence, watching intently as the fabric gave him enough space to then unhook the little eye at the top. The strap on that side was now draping just low enough that he could see the truth. You weren’t wearing a bra. The groan that escaped his lips was painful, and he didn’t waste any more time pulling it down to expose your chest to his wandering gaze. A quick kiss pressed between your breasts was all you got.
And then he dropped to his knees. Bob Floyd on the floor in front of you. Your breath caught, your eyes staring deep into his as he knelt before you and reached between your legs to pull off the skimpy bit of underwear you’d worn just for him, though you’d deny it if he asked. He removed it in ten seconds flat, chucking it over his shoulder. You’d have laughed if the sight wasn’t so hot. But Bob wasn’t done.
His hands, the ones you were so obsessed with. Not huge, but large enough to encompass parts of your body you didn’t even know existed. Those hands were on your hips and between your legs and then he was using his mouth. His tongue.
He was right there, beneath your dress where you couldn’t see him anymore, kissing and licking and his nose was pressed right where it needed to be. The pleasure was immediate, Bob knowing exactly what to do with your body, and he played it like an instrument. His movements were fine-tuned.
“Floyd. Robert,” you moaned, writhing above him. With one hand, he was pressing inside you, making sure you were ready for the main event he was mentally planning in his bedroom, and with the other he was holding your hips in place. He was strong, you remembered in your haze. And just when your moans reached their highest pitch, right before you fell off the cliff, he stopped. He pressed a kiss to your clit and stood up abruptly, glasses fogged.
“What—“
He cut you off with a wet kiss and promptly dragged you onto his bed. Your head was still reeling with the ruined orgasm when you landed on the plush surface. He abandoned his glasses on his bedside table and caged you in.
“Told you,” Bob grinned between kisses, “you’ve been teasing me all night. I wanted to take my time.”
You groaned as he kissed down your face, your neck and that spot that made you keen, and down your chest. He attached his lips to your right nipple, tweaking the other with his fingers and eliciting yet another deep moan.
“I don’t care,” you whined, “just want you.”
“Patience.” he chuckled and let you go.
Your eyes raked over his body and you shuddered. Bob looked dangerous like this. No glasses, gelled hair all messed up. His button up still hung from his shoulders and he still had his jeans on. The effect was sinful.
“Fuck it,” you snapped, launching yourself at him and knocking him over. You succeeded in straddling him and Bob settled in for the ride with a smile like he knew he wouldn’t let you do this for long. “Take these off.”
Your hands shoved the rest of his shirt off and your fingers flew to the buckle of his belt while you pressed kiss after kiss to his toned abs.
Finally, you got the buckle loose and unzipped his pants, gaining a hiss from the man beneath you when you brushed your fingers over the part of him you wanted most right now. And Bob Floyd was not tiny.
“Off off off.” you muttered, yanking the fabric down towards his knees. Bob helped, shoving his jeans and boxers off while you ripped your dress off your body. Both bare, you straddled him again and let yourself slide over his huge dick. He handed you a condom and you wordlessly stretched it over him.
You remembered the first time you’d seen his dick and how you’d fallen in love with the stretch. No man had compared since, which was something you didn’t want to think about right now when you had him under you.
“Not gonna let me take my time with you, are you?” he laughed, leaning in to kiss you again.
“Absolutely not.” you declared, reaching down to position him where you wanted. The head brushed your clit and finally slid between your folds.
Then, he slid home. The first slide was always the most devastating as he filled every inch of you so deliciously. Your moans bounced off of each other as you pulled yourself up and down on top of him. Sure, every position was fun with Bob, but this one? It was a personal favorite. It never lasted long before he’d flip you and fuck you harder.
You decided to make it last by alternating thrusts and grinding, making him emit a string of curses you didn’t even know he knew.
“Y’know, I love that you wear your t-shirts all the time.” you gasped after a particularly deep and heavenly spot was touched on inside you. “Means I can leave as many marks as I want on you and no one but me will see it.”
To make your point, you leaned down and dragged your teeth over one of his nipples. Bob shuddered. Then you attached your lips just above his pectoral, sucking a mark just above his heart. That sealed the deal.
Bob’s eyes glittered as he flipped you over and pulled out, slamming back into you and sucking the breath from your lungs. Taking his time was forgotten as he rearranged your insides and smiled while he was doing it. Robert Floyd was dangerous and he took you apart so thoroughly that he ripped your orgasm out of you before you even sensed it coming.
“Oh, God,” you moaned, clutching onto his shoulders as he continued his punishing pace.
“I’m close.” he whined, reaching a hand between you to brush against your clit. You were still sensitive, but he launched you into yet another orgasm as he shuddered inside you and painted the inside of his condom, his moans settling deep into your skin. When he peeled himself off of you, you whined at the loss of contact until he smiled dopily at you and kissed your forehead.
He always smiled the same way each and every time after your little trysts, but this time the sight punched a hole in your very being.
Bob was right that you’d worn that dress for him. You had. You’d been hoping he’d be watching, had even contemplated not wearing underwear at all just to be able to flash him a peek and make him lose control sooner. Each time you teased him, you hoped he’d break and decide he didn’t want this to just be a friends with benefits thing and maybe he’d want more. But he never said anything. It still stung.
“Same time next week?” he laughed, climbing out of bed to get you both a glass of water. You threw on his button up and stumbled into the bathroom to clean yourself up. But as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you grimaced. How much longer could you keep doing this?
After you’d finished, you left the bathroom to find Bob who was clad in a new pair of boxers and his glasses, sitting on the edge of his bed with a glass of water for you in hand.
He stood up and handed you the glass, pressed a kiss to your temple, and entered the bathroom himself. As you sipped the water, you listened to his movements, sounds that were so familiar to you. You heard the shower turn on and he popped his head out to ask if you’d like to join, but you shook your head.
“Mav asked me to come in early tomorrow for a simulation exercise, so I’m gonna shower at my place and crash. This was fun, though.” You smiled, giving him a once over again. God, he looked good. He always did after sex when his skin had that sweaty sheen and his lips were swollen and his hair was all mussed. You missed the disappointed flash in his eyes when you turned him down, but he helped you gather your things anyway and lent you a pair of his boxers to walk across the hall in.
And when your own door shut behind you, you wondered just how you were going to get over this man when you never really had him in the first place.
The next morning, you were determined not to make it weird. You’d caught feelings, but you knew Bob hadn’t and that had to be okay. So you’d do your job and let him do his. You’d turn down the flirting a bit and see how things went if you didn’t take Bob home for the next week. Or maybe a month. You weren’t sure how long you’d last without giving in.
And Bob? He was none the wiser. Back to his controlled state, he worked alongside Phoenix and made training plans with Maverick silently, just like normal. He didn’t notice anything might be wrong until you didn’t flash him your usual smile when saying goodnight for the day.
That caused him to pause, but he knew you were probably tired so he brushed it off.
“Still up for movie night later?” he asked, hoping you’d say yes. “I’m ordering pizza.”
“Sorry, buddy, but I think I’m gonna go to bed early. Mav wore me out today.” you shrugged, climbing into your own car and leaving the lot before he could try to reschedule. As he stared at the spot where your car had been, he frowned.
You had never cancelled on him before, but maybe you just needed a night. Mav had run you ragged making you do a hundred pushups when you’d failed to master your training simulation. He decided not to let it bother him. But buddy? When had you ever called him that? He shook his head and climbed into his own truck.
Meanwhile, Hangman and Phoenix stared at the man from twenty yards back, coming to a conclusion both you and Bob would be mortified to know about.
“D’you think they’re fucking?” Phoenix asked, eyes bright with mischief. She’d had her suspicions, but she certainly never thought she’d share them with Bagman of all people. She wished it were Rooster.
“Oh, a hundred percent. Why do you think I fuck with them all the time? Haven’t you noticed they sneak off sometimes? Eight out of ten times, she drives with him. And, oh my god, he’s always staring.” Jake drawled, getting his own suspicions off his chest. While he liked to have a good time, he was very aware of when people weren’t on the market and you both were off the market. “Also, that little dress situation last week at the bar? Dude left with a boner and he kept smiling when I was flirting with her, like he knew she wouldn’t be going home with anyone but him.”
“Holy shit.” Phoenix swore. “Do you think they’re just fucking or are we all idiots and they’ve been together this whole time?”
“Bob’s a fucking idiot, so I think it’s just friends with benefits. He’ll never man up to that. Y’know, we could—“
“Get a fucking grip, Bagman.” Natasha cut him off with a fake gag thrown in for good measure. “Some of us have higher standards than you.”
“Whatever.”
It had been a week, and you’d somehow managed not to let Bob in your bed. A very difficult week. And not for lack of him trying, either. He was teasing you just like you’d teased him, hoping you’d break.
He showed up for PT in a tighter shirt than normal, a white Navy shirt that was just threadbare enough that you could see the mark you’d left on his chest right between the V and the Y. When he caught you staring, he had the audacity to wink. You walked away, guzzling your water.
At the Hard Deck, on karaoke night, he brushed a hand down your spine during one of Rooster’s songs that caused shivers to run down your whole body and almost drenched your khakis. He barely touched you and you reacted like that, and it made you leave early. You didn’t let him come with you, claiming a headache from the noise.
He texted you, and you didn’t want to make it weird, so you kept texting back. But absence was making this a whole lot harder instead of easier.
“So, how long have you been in love with my backseater,” Phoenix asked during your run the next morning. You pulled up short.
“Excuse me?”
She shot you with a knowing glance when she circled back to you, not expecting your abrupt stop. “Y’know, Hangman was the one to figure it out. I just started watching and the signs are all there.”
“Hangman thinks I’m in love with Bob, so you listened to him? C’mon, Phoenix. The dude’s demented.”
“No, he brings up some excellent points. Bob’s always staring at you and you’re together more often than you’re apart. It makes sense. And that’s not even mentioning that dress situation two weeks ago.”
“What about my dress,” you deadpanned.
“You left with Bob and he had a boner the size of Mount Everest. So either you’re fucking or you’re in love with each other and we’ve all missed it.” She finished with a smirk.
Your eyes widened.
“Oh my god, do you think he knows?”
And there it was, your almost confession. Natasha’s eyes softened.
“Knows what, babe?” She asked, sitting down on a bench in the park and patting the space next to her.
“I’ve never told anyone. But Bob . . . we’ve been hooking up for about two years.” you sighed, head in your hands. “At first, it was just fun. Everyone expected me to end up in the bed of these fucking hotshot pilots and I ended up in his. It was like an ego boost. I had a secret and so did he and we were just having a good time.”
“But then you fell for him.” Natasha finished.
You nodded miserably.
“I did. He doesn’t know. Or at least, I don’t think he does. I mean, who am I to try and break two years of some of the best sex I’ve ever had—friends with benefits basically—to tell him I’m in love with him? He’s always so careful and purposeful that I figured, if he really wanted me as more then he would say something, right?”
“Well,” Phoenix started, “I haven’t known him as long as you have, but I think we’ve all noticed that he doesn’t look at anyone else but you. When you turned him down for your weekly movie night last week and just left? He stared at your parking space for like five minutes while Hangman and I speculated. That doesn’t look like friendship to me.”
“I just can’t keep doing this. I want him so much, but I’m—“
“Afraid of getting hurt? Listen, in our line of work, I don’t think I need to tell you that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. You should tell him.” Natasha nudged your shoulder with a smile, “Just don’t tell anyone else for another week at least. I kinda made a bet with Bagman.”
“You’re the worst,” you laughed. But in your head, her words made sense. You needed to talk to Bob.
You sent the text before you could overthink it. “Still on for movie night at my place tonight? I’m making spaghetti. Garlic knots or bread?”
“Absolutely!” he texted back immediately with a second one coming right after, “garlic knots pls.”
The first part of your plan was now done, but now you had to ply your man with food and talk to him instead of him ending up in your bed or on the couch where your movie nights always ended up with him inside you. You never thought you’d be telling yourself that sex needed to be on the backburner.
The night started with him showing up freshly showered with a bottle of wine. That was normal. He wore an old Star Wars t-shirt and these grey sweatpants you usually couldn’t get him out of fast enough. Judging by his smug expression when you poured the wine, you knew he was thinking that too. You didn’t give in to his blatant teasing.
He picked some action movie to watch while you plated up the spaghetti and garlic knots, and you took them over to the couch where he was sprawled like he owned the place, bare feet on your coffee table.
“Heathen,” you sniffed like you did every week, and he grinned up at you. He took his feet off the table, but you knew they’d be right back up there as soon as the movie started.
“Food smells amazing, thank you. It’s been awhile since you cooked for me.” Bob’s smile was easy as he took his plate from you and placed it on his lap.
You shrugged, “I wanted real food.”
And despite your uneasiness about finally confessing your feelings tonight—if you got the chance—the night passed normally and comfortably. You both ate your food and stacked your plates on the coffee table, you ended up comfortably tucked into his side, and his quips about the inaccuracies in the film just endeared you both further.
“You’re thinking loudly.” Bob murmured during the film credits, dragging the back of a finger down your cheek. You turned in his arms to face him and your gaze slipped to his mouth. Big mistake.
He surged forward to kiss you, but you stopped him, hands splayed on his chest. He stopped, curious.
“We need to talk.” You stated, and you both winced at the way it sounded.
“Okay.” Bob let you go and turned to face you, knee bent and body leaned against the back of your couch. He looked like he belonged there all the time, and your heart did a painful little squeeze knowing he might not ever again if this didn’t go the way you wanted it to. “Hey, whatever it is, you can talk to me about it. Did I go too hard two weeks ago? Is that what this is about?”
“No, no two weeks ago was perfect.” You muttered, heat rising to your cheeks as you tried to find your words. “I’m just gonna say it.”
Bob looked at you expectantly, quietly, waiting for you. God, he was perfect. You hoped you didn’t ruin him.
“I’m in love with you.” The words left his mouth, not yours.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“It’s true. Took you not really being around for the last two weeks for me to figure it out, but I needed to say it before you ended whatever it is we’ve been doing for the past two years.” He said calmly, like he hadn’t just flipped your world upside down.
“I wasn’t going to end it.” Your smile was watery, “I was going to tell you that I love you.”
“Oh.” Bob said, the words not registering, “oh!”
“We’re such idiots,” you laughed. “Wasting all this time instead of just talking and—”
“Fucking more often?” Bob grinned. You slapped his chest, right over the mark you’d last left on him. He had the audacity to look wounded. “What? I’m just saying that, as my girlfriend, you have a few more perks than I’ve been allowing.”
“Allowing, hmm?” You smiled, and finally leaned in for that kiss he’d been angling for all night. He hummed into it. “You get so crude when we’re alone. Hangman’s really wearing off on you.”
“Don’t bring him up right now.” he groaned, head falling back on the couch cushions behind you. “If he touches you again, I now have the right to pummel him.”
“Well, babes, he figured us out before we did so . . .”
“Don’t you dare tell me Hangman is responsible for this sudden confession.”
“He’s not, but Phoenix is. And we can’t tell anyone about this for at least another week so Phoenix can win the bet they made. I’m sorry!” Bob leveled you with such an unimpressed look that you started pressing tiny little kisses all over his face just to make up for it. You could feel his smile under your ministrations.
“Fine, but I get to kiss you in the Hard Deck the next time he runs his mouth around you.”
“I think that can be arranged.” Your smile was brilliant as you nuzzled your face into his chest, both of you shifting positions so you practically laid on top of him on your oversized couch. Bob’s hands wandered towards your backside.
Summary: You still see the bull, a mean son of a bitch, jumping out of its cage with Rhett on its back, the feeling of nerves filling you because it just feels wrong. And then you hear it. A sound you wish you could unhear, but it’s always there. The gasps as Rhett’s thrown off the back of the bull and sickening crack as its hooves land on his shoulder not once, but twice.
Warnings: bull riding injuries, hurt/comfort, hospital setting, possible medical inaccuracies
Word Count: 1.1k
Note: Oh Rhett Abbott, how I've missed you. I feel like I haven't posted about him in 84 years. TY @iristheplanet16 for proofreading this for me! Hope you enjoy @lewmagoo 🫶! I always love writing some angst with this cowboy! Based off this request here.
Masterlists
🐂Part of my 500 Follower Celebration🐂
Fractured ribs, shoulder broken in two places, a sprained wrist, and bruised lungs.
Those were the words replaying in your head as you sat next to an unconscious Rhett. The fluorescent lights are too bright and it’s too damn quiet in the hospital, leaving you with nothing to distract you from the enormous pit forming in your stomach.
Looking at Rhett doesn’t help either. Usually, all you needed to feel better was to get a good look at your cowboy and a soft, comforting warmth filled you instantly, but not when he’s like this. So beaten and bruised. Wrapped up in gauze and surgical stitches, with a bunch of tubes and IVs attached to him.
He’s never looked so broken before and it fills you with dread when you think about how close you were to losing him tonight. If that bull had hit him a couple inches to the right, you would’ve been watching him from the window in the morgue instead of his bedside. You try to distract yourself with sleep, but it’s futile.
The accident is all you can see when you close your eyes.
You still see the bull, a mean son of a bitch, jumping out of its cage with Rhett on its back, the feeling of nerves filling you because it just feels wrong. And then you hear it. A sound you wish you could unhear, but it’s always there. The gasps as Rhett’s thrown off the back of the bull and sickening crack as its hooves land on his shoulder not once, but twice.
It was a blur after that.
Onlookers standing in shock, medics and Royal rushing to Rhett’s side, and Cecilia holding you back from running out there, her words of comfort doing nothing of the sort. One minute you were watching him being carried up on a stretcher and the next you were in the hospital waiting room, clutching Cecilia’s hand as she prayed next to you and now here you were, alone and waiting for him to wake up.
Royal tried to get you to go home, the doctors tried to as well, saying he was going to be out for likely the whole night sleeping off the anesthesia, but you refused, stating you weren’t going anywhere until he woke up. Shrugging and mumbling something under his breath about you being just as hardheaded as his son, Royal and Cecilia went home with the promise of returning in the morning.
Waiting for him to come out of surgery was the worst. Just sitting there, knee bouncing as anxiety brewed in the pit of your stomach of all the ways tonight could’ve gone differently, of how surgery could go wrong, overthinking is what you do best. And it doesn’t stop when the doctor gives you updates or when they let you come in and see him.
It only subsides when those blue eyes you’ve been in love with since you were fifteen blink open, confused and groggy as he groans awake, voice hoarse and tired, “W-what the fuck?”
If this was any other situation, you’d probably laugh and tease him at the fact those were his first words waking up from a nap, but all you can muster is a light, barely-there chuckle, “He-Hey cowboy. How you feelin’?”
Rhett groans and tries to mask the ache and soreness he feels with a boyish smile, but you can see the pain hidden underneath, “Not too bad for someone who just got stomped on by a bull.” He laughs again, but winces this time, clutching his side as the pain in his ribs makes him wheeze.
That seems to throw you over the edge for some reason. Seeing your Rhett, who’s usually the epitome of strength, always gritting his teeth and brushing off injuries that would make most crumble in pain, flinch and grimace, breaks the damn you’ve been trying so damn hard to keep standing.
Eyes widening in panic, he tries to stop your tears, “Hey, hey, I’m okay darlin. I’m sorry it was a stupid thing to say -”
“N-no, no, it’s not that,” you sniff, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You try to smile, but fail, “It’s just that, seeing you like this and not being able to help – it breaks my heart.” You confess, voice wavering, hands shaking as it hovers over his arm, afraid to touch him. Afraid to hurt him. Your eyes burn as you try to blink back anymore tears from falling.
Rhett’s throat tightened as you cried. He hated seeing you like this. Not caring about the dull pain he feels in his ribs, he reaches for you, wrapping his hand around yours, pulling you closer to the bed, “I – I’m sorry I scared ya -”
“No, no, don't apologize. It was that damn bull and now I just feel helpless and now I’m fucking making this about me when you’re the one in the fucking hospital bed!”
You take in a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. You take a moment to collect your thoughts, your feelings. Rhett needs you right now, and you need him. Stroking his cheek, you whisper, “Just, just get some rest, alright? We can talk more once the doctor comes to check up on ya, okay?”
Rhett nods, turning slightly so he can kiss the palm of your hand with his slightly cracked lips. You walk back to the plastic chair you’ve been resting on for the last few hours. It’s not the most comfortable, but you don’t care. You’re not the one who just went through hours of surgery, you can handle some discomfort.
Not liking how far away you are, Rhett beckons you over, patting the spot next to him on the bed, “Get over here.”
“Rhett no. Your stitches and your shoulder – I don’t want to -”
“Ya can’t hurt me anymore than I already am. Now get in the damn bed and hush.”
You roll your eyes at his attempt to scold you but comply, coming over and being careful not to touch any of the tubes they got connected to him as you slide in next to him. Kissing his bruised cheek, you get as comfortable as you can next to him.
The beeping of the hospital machines hooked up to Rhett lull to the background as you speak in hushed voices, talking about what you’re going to do once he can go home, how you need to get his truck back from the rodeo parking lot since you had to leave it there, being in no state to drive when the accident happened, and sharing quiet laughs when Rhett jokes about you being his in home nurse, joking that he’s going to have to order you a nursing outfit for you to wear as your nursing him back to health. You’re tempted to flick his forehead at that but restrain yourself. This close call has shaken you both to the core, but you know you’ll be able to get through this, as long as you have each other.
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I know it said blurb but I can't do that with these they're too cute!
"You're killin' me, Birdie."
You turned around to find your boyfriend once again at the bar, elbows perched on the counter, hands cupping his chin as he shamelessly stared at you.
Warmth coursed through your body, your mouth unable to stop that giggle from escaping, "I'm just pouring beers Bradley."
He sighs, and you might as well be personally stabbing him with how dramatic it is, "Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"
You placed the empty glasses on the counter, taking in a deep breath. Anything to center yourself on how cute Bradley was in this very moment. When Penny asked if you could pick up a shift at the Hard Deck tonight after a bartender had bailed, you knew damn well that the chances of running into your boyfriend was far from zero.
What you hadn't expected was for Bradley to find reasons upon reasons to situate himself at the bar, no more than four feet away from you.
"Yes, you do. Every day. Multiple times." You reminded him, trying to focus on the new recruits' drink orders than you adorable boyfriend.
"Bradshaw, did you come here to order or just to stare at your girl?" Penny asked. Normally she found you and Bradley cute. But tonight it was slammed and she wasn't in the mood.
"Actually, I do!" Bradley stated, his brown eyes shining, "Bob needs another Diet Coke."
You looked over Bradley's shoulder to find the bespectacled WSO with Jake's partner, Venus, along with another girl. No doubt Venus' latest attempt at setting Bob up with someone.
"Does he want some vodka in it? To help him get through Venus' latest matchmaking attempt?"
Bradley shook his head, "Nah. I already told him that if he needed an out, he could come up to you to help you with something at your house," he paused, "Your house in Stardew Valley. I fix your actual house."
You giggled as you extended your arm out to Bradley, a glass of Diet Coke in your hand, "Yes you do. Now why don't you go play that song that bothers Jake?"
Bradley took the drink from your hand, quickly clasping it with his, allowing him to bring your wrist up to his mouth, placing a long kiss on the sensitive skin. The hairs of his mustache tickle, and you would laugh if it weren't for the downright sensual look in his eyes.
"I'll be back soon with Nat's order," Bradley placed one last kiss to your hand before giving you a wink and leaving you speechless and hot all over.
Pairing: Stripper!Rhett Abbott x Shyish!Fem!Reader!
Summary: When your friends decide to take you out for your birthday, you end up at a strip club called ‘The Lariat Lounge,’ where you meet a mysterious dancer who zeroes in on you for the majority of the night.
Warnings: Fluff, Angst (from Rhett), Alcohol Usage, Reader is extremely shy and their friends definitely take advantage of this, Mentions of Injuries, Rhett is a smoker in this, Rhett is still a softie in this, but a spicy softie, Rhett is a retired bull rider, Normal Strip Club Shenanigans, Rhett is also kind of rugged in this definitely a little bit of a deviation from his Outer Range character (more him just having some scars etc), Reader works at a real estate company but is a starving artist type.
Author’s Note: The long awaited Stripper Rhett fic is here. I loved writing this and I hope y’all enjoy it and it meets expectations <3 Because this is a two parter…😬
Word Count: 14,503
Next Part
When your friends told you they wanted to take you out for your birthday, you pictured something tame. A dinner in town, maybe, or a quiet booth at a bar where the music stayed low enough that you could actually hear yourself think. That was the sort of evening you could handle–a way to slip through the night without making it more of a spectacle than it already felt.
Instead though, they threw you headlong into the heat of strangers, into the chaos of sweaty bodies and sticky floors, into a dive bar where the air itself reeked of beer that had been spilled too many times to ever be properly cleaned away. They had mentioned they had been planning this for weeks, which added a layer of guilt that made you stick around.
The first stop was The Alibi, a bar just outside of town that looked–from the road–more like a building waiting for demolition than a place anyone would willingly gather in. The siding had gone gray decades ago, warped and bowing like an old man’s back, and the neon sign that was buzzing above the doorway only worked in little fits, the “I’s” flickering every so often that the name sometimes read ‘The Alb.’ The gravel lot was cratered and uneven, patched by the half-hearted dumping of concrete bags that had long since cracked back to dust, and a single lamppost leaned at an angle with a stuttering bulb that threw more shadow than light into the area.
Inside, though, was something else entirely. The Alibi was worn down to the bone but it felt lived in. Its character was stitched together from a hundred bad nights and just as many good ones. The floorboards sagged and creaked with every step, scuffed with boot soles and barstools that had dragged across them. The air smelled of fryer grease, stale smoke, spilled whiskey, and something faintly medicinal–wintergreen gum chewed by someone who had left hours ago. Over the bar hung a collection of trophies and oddities: a cracked saddle mounted like wall art, a dartboard that was riddled to splinters, and a Polaroid wall of regulars that were caught in their best or worst moments–passed out in booths, singing on tables, or dancing.
The bar itself was a scarred length of oak, its lacquer worn to matte, cigarette burns pocked the surface which had accumulated over the time when smoking was still okay to do indoors. The mirror behind it was cloudy with age, ringing in Christmas lights that stayed up all year round, and plastered with yellowing flyers: a lost dog notice, a mechanical bull ‘retirement’ photo, and a faded poster for a rodeo from ‘97. Two pool tables leaned slightly downhill toward the far wall and someone had wedged a matchbook under one leg so the game was honest and fair.
It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to know everyone. Men in cowboy hats and boots leaned heavily on their beers talking amongst themselves, and women perched on stools chatted with their laughter ringing out across the room. The speakers coughed its way through an array of Classic Rock tunes, one was tinny, while the others were a hair too loud, almost like the sound system was semi-blown but not enough to be replaced.
You and your friends stayed there longer than intended, nursing a drink that was more sour mix than liquors, while your friends threw back shots and called this the pre-game to the main event. Every time you asked what the main event actually was–because The Alibi truly felt like it was an event on its own–they only grinned at each other with a maddeningly unified type of mischief. The most you got was a hint from Mika who said they would be taking you to a newly reopened lounge across town.
They were giddy about it, trading comments and inside jokes that left you sitting uneasily at the edge of their excitement. And though you could have bowed out at any point, you didn’t. You never wanted to be the one who dragged the group down–not even tonight, when you would actually have a respectable reason to do it. You didn’t want to be seen as the party pooper who ruined their own surprise birthday extravaganza on the account of being a little uncomfortable, especially when there were plenty of other times where you had been put into worse positions. So you grinned and bared it.
By the time you arrived at The Lariat Lounge, you knew immediately that this wasn’t another bar or nightclub. Even from the parking lot where the taxi dropped you all off, it was obvious.
The neon sign that glowed in rope-script letters, had a final flourish that looped into a golden lasso, a little wink to the pun that the name carried. Outside, the building was buzzing–women were scattered in groups everywhere. Clusters of them hurried in through the large red velvety doors, laughing, and tugging at the hems of their dresses, their heels clacking loudly against the pavement in little uneven rhythms. In those moments you were thankful you weren’t underdressed–and that your friends forced you to wear the short red dress that you had stuffed in the back of your closet from your high school days that you were able to still fit into somehow–because this place seemed like the type to have a dress code. You noticed other women were spilling out into the lot giggling loudly, their faces flushed and sheened with sweat, as a mix of their perfumes trailed and hovered in the warmth of the night air. You had taken note that the crowd was nearly all women, and that alone made your pulse raise nervously. Most lounges had a balance, a mix that never leaned too far towards one gender. This, though, was evidently different.
For a moment, you thought your friends had found some all-women club, but when you stepped through the red velvet doors you were immediately struck with the realization that this wasn’t just another bar or nightclub. It was a strip club–a cowboy-themed one at that, which wasn’t surprising for Wabang–and they were unapologetically proud of it.
The place was designed to overwhelm the senses. The lights were low, not pitch dark, but dim enough that the room carried a sultry sheen, a golden-amber glow that washed over everything like lantern light in a barn at midnight. It was just bright enough to catch the gleam of belt buckles, the polished tips of boots, and the rippling muscles of the men who seemed to move with deliberate, prowling confidence through the lounge.
The air was thick with cologne, a heady blend that stuck to your skin and slipped down your throat as soon as you entered. It smelled expensive in a rugged way–sharp tobacco softened by vanilla, warm sandalwood, cedar and leather, with the faint sweetness of amber threaded through. It was intoxicating, the sort of scent that reminded you of a man’s jacket after a long night out, or the memory of a hug that lingered even after they walked away. Beneath all of it though, you could still detect a fainter background note of whiskey, and the tang of money that had passed from hand to hand.
The lounge itself was stretched wide, spacious but intimate all the same. Instead of the clinical shine of chrome poles or sleek modern dećor, this place leaned into the theme. The stage was framed by rough-hewn timber posts, rope accents coiled like lassos, and a glowing neon steer’s head mounted above it. The booths were upholstered in dark oxblood leather, their high backs curving to create private alcoves where women were tucked away with drinks, laughing and shrieking as bronzed cowboys leaned over their tables. The bar gleamed faintly at the back end of the room, its counter a long slab of dark glossy wood, with small little indents from glasses being put down too hard on it.
And then there were the men–and they were something else. They weren’t just attractive; they were sculpted, and deliberately chosen, each one larger than life. Broad-shouldered, sun-kissed, and cut with the kind of physiques that looked half-bodybuilder, half-farmhand, they wore pieces of cowboy attire in suggestive fragments: open plaid shirts hanging loose over bare torsos, denim slung low on their hips, leather chaps framing thighs that looked like they could crush steel. Cowboy hats tilted at teasing angles shadowed sharp cheekbones, and boots stomped to the beat of the low country-rock baseline pumping from the speakers. They didn’t just walk around the room–they patrolled it, weaving between tables and booths like predators circling their prey, stopping to bend low into a woman’s ear, to tip their hat, to flash a grin that could split a heart in half.
The longer you stared, the warmer you became. It was like the air itself was conspiring against you–thick with heat, and heavy with laughter and music–and every time one of the dancers passed close enough that you caught the brush of their scent of the shadow of their body you pulse hopped. Embarrassment rose sharp in your chest, mingled with an anxiety you couldn’t quite shake. You weren’t a prude–never had been, even though you presented yourself as such on the outside–but you had never stepped foot in a place like this before. The sheer boldness of it, the unabashed confidence dripping off every man who prowled the room, made you feel like a turtle retreating back into its shell, your shoulders curling ever so slightly as if to make yourself smaller. You swallowed hard, the sound of it too loud in your own ears.
“Whose bright idea was it to go to a strip club?” you blurted out, your voice cracking slightly at the end. As if the universe were mocking you, one of the dancers passed just then. He was broad, his chest slick with a faint sheen of sweat that caught the light as he tipped his hat your way, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes flicked across yours in passing, just long enough to make your heart thump erratically in your chest. Your friends exchanged glances, their grins equal parts guilty and delighted.
“Well, technically it was both of our ideas,” Beck admitted, lifting her hand to wave at the same dancer like she was already a regular here. “We thought it would be fun! And, I mean–we heard pretty good reviews from other people, so why not try it out?” Her tone was so breezy you wanted to throw a napkin at her from one of the tables. Your cheeks were scorching. You pressed a palm against one as though you could cool yourself down, but it only made the heat worse, your skin hot under your own touch.
“Don’t you think it’s nice?” Mika asked tentatively, her brows pinched as if suddenly worried that they’d made a mistake. You bit your tongue, forcing a smile you didn’t quite feel.
“Yeah, of course…I–uh…I’m going to get a drink, though. Do you guys want anything?” The words tumbled out quickly, a desperate diversion, anything to keep your gaze off the cowboys who seemed to fill every corner of the room. Your heart was hammering hard against the inside of your chest, each beat like a warning drum. Maybe it was because you had been tucked away too long in your routines and hadn’t been out it so long, or maybe it was just the sheer, dizzying proximity of so many impossibly good-looking men in one place, but you swore your body was betraying you, it was as if you were going to have a heart attack or you were going to explode from the weight of it all.
“We’ll take our usual. Here, put it on my card.” Beck slipped her wallet out with the ease of someone perfectly at home, handing you her debit card between two fingers. You took it gratefully, your muttered “thanks” nearly lost beneath the bassline vibrating through the floor, before you slipped away toward the bar.
The bar stretched long and solid at the back of the room, glowing faintly under a string of amber bulbs. Behind it stood a large man, dressed incongruously in a crisp white button-up that made him look more like he belonged behind the counter of an upscale steakhouse than in the haze of a cowboy-themed strip club. His hair was streaked faintly with silver at the temples, and his smile was warm, patient, almost fatherly in its kindness. He was the first calm presence you’d seen since stepping inside.
You cleared your throat, voice catching slightly. “Hey, can I please have two beers–whatever you’ve got on tap–and a lime margarita? Without the salt on the rim, if that’s possible?”
He nodded, repeating the order back with ease, his voice a deep rumble. “Coming right up. Want me to start a tab?”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” You said quickly, sliding Beck’s card across the bar. He tucked it into a small lockbox under the counter, careful and methodical, before turning to pour the beers with practiced precision, filling them up to the rim so the foam threatened but never spilled. You exhaled, trying to steady yourself, but the sensation of eyes lingered–a prickle down the back of your neck, the instinctive awareness that someone was watching. A moment later, the feeling solidified into presence: a tall shadow, a warmth that radiated close enough to disrupt your fragile calm.
You glanced sideways and nearly choked.
The man who had stepped beside you was enormous, his chest bare beneath an open leather vest, skin glistening faintly under the low light. His buzzcut emphasized the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes bright and a little mischievous. He was still a little sweaty from moving around, and it seemed to roll off him like heat from a bonfire. Chaps framed his thighs, the dark leather leading the eye down to worn boots, and beneath them–just underwear, a snug cut that left little to the imagination.
“Need some help bringing those to your table?” he asked, voice pitched low, a teasing smile curving his mouth. Your stomach twisted instantly, your throat tightening.
“I–I think I’ll be okay…” His brows lifted, amused.
“You sure? I’ve got some big hands that can carry all three for you.” He spread one palm open, large and calloused, as if to prove his point. A nervous laugh slipped out before you could stop it, brittle and small. You turned back toward the bar just as the bartender set the drinks down neatly in front of you.
“…Alright,” you muttered, the word escaping before you could swallow it down. “I guess.” He grinned like he’d been waiting for you to change your mind. Then, with surprising care, he arranged the drinks into a neat triangle, wrapping those broad hands around them effortlessly before lifting them from the counter balancing them perfectly.
“Lead the way, little lady,” He drawled, mock-formal, with a wink that should’ve made you roll your eyes but instead made your stomach tighten further.
You could feel your palms dampening, sweat slicking across the skin there. Every step back toward your friends felt too long, too revealing, the weight of him following close behind like gravity itself had fixed on you.
When you reached the booth, his voice boomed cheerfully, drawing your friends’ attention instantly: “Hello, ladies! I come bearing gifts!” He set the drinks down on the table with a flourish, leaning in just enough that you caught the faintest trace of sweat and leather and cologne mixed together–a scent so heady it nearly buckled your knees. Your friends beamed, already charmed. You, on the other hand, sank a little deeper into yourself, your heart still drumming furiously.
You slipped into the booth beside Beck, the leather biting against the backs of your thighs as you settled into the space. Without hesitation you reached for your drink, fingers tightening around the glass almost to a point where you feared you might break it in your hands. The margarita was mercifully cold, the condensation beading and slipping down your palm. You took a quick sip and let the lime hit your tongue like a blade, sharp and tangy before the tequila burned its way down your throat. The sensation was so immediate, and extremely grounding, that you nearly sighed aloud in relief, your chest loosening just enough to draw a full breath in.
Across from you, your friends were already in their element. Beck tucked a few bills with shameless flair into the waistband of the dancer’s underwear, giggling when he leaned in with a wink. Mika followed suit, sliding her folded cash with a shy smile that turned less shy the longer his hand lingered near hers. He played along, flashing teeth in a grin that probbaly undid half the room on any given night.
”You ladies enjoy the show,” He rumbled before moving on, his broad back flexing as he prowled toward the next booth. Immediately, a shriek of laughter and squeals followed him, dollar bills already fluttering around his hips like moths to flame. You lifted your glass again, lashes fluttering as the ice shifted against your lips. This time, one cube slid into your mouth, and you caught it between your teeth, biting down hard, the crack echoing faintly in your ears. The sharp chill gave you something to focus on, a counterpoint to the warmth prickling over your skin.
And then the room shifted.
The lights lowered another shade, dimming into a golden dusk that pooled in corners and clung to the stage. Conversation ebbed, replaced with the rolling murmur of anticipation. The low throb of bass deepened, steady and deliberate, rattling in your chest like the hoof beat of something barreling closer.
A microphone crackled alive, the voice that followed was rich and amplified, filling every pocket of the lounge:
”Ladies…You’ve been waiting patiently, and it’s finally that time again. The man you came here for, the one who never disappoints…Give it up for our hometown favourite. He’s a retired bull rider–but trust me, he’s still got plenty of ride left in him. Put your hands togehter for the one, the only…Rhett Abbott!”
The room erupted.
The sound was deafening–cheers, whistles, the snap of bills pulled from clutches and waved high. Women rose half out of their booths, hands clapping above their heads, voices tangling into a chorus that shook the floor beneath your shoes.
And then he stepped into the light.
At first, it was the silhouette: broad shoulders framed beneath a plaid shirt, buttons loose halfway down his chest. The fabric gaped enough to reveal the swell of his pecs, a very light dusting of hair, with freckles scattered over the planes of it, and the bold lines of a tattoo inked into his skin–a bull rider on a bull that was mid-ruck, wild and stark against his sun-kissed chest. Above, the shadow of a Stetson tilted forward, the brim catching the spotlight.
The crowd howled when he lifted his head, and right then and there you would have known instantly that he wasn’t like the others. His presence didn’t demand attention–it drew it in, effortless as breath. The shirt clung where it needed to, loose where it teased, and his jeans rode low on lean hips. His frame wasn’t the bloated bulk of a bodybuilder–it was built from something realer. Muscle earned from years of work and rodeo grit, from the strain of holding onto something determined to buck him into the dirt. His body was hard, yes, but whipcord lean, honed for endurance more than show.
As he moved, the crowd moved with him. He didn’t strut like the others. He didn’t need to. He let the beat guide his hips, let the roll of his shoulders pull the audience forward until the entire room seemed caught in the gravity of his orbit.
And then he turned.
The light carved across his front and you caught a scar that wrapped around the front portion of his shoulder, it was gnarly, but it gave him something that drew your eye in closer. He had quite a few scars surprisingly, and it dawned on you that the announcer had mentioned that he was a retired bull rider, meaning he must’ve got a career ending injury. The scars may have not been performative but it certainly added a layer of mystery to him, and you couldn’t help but feel a pit forming in your stomach as the curiosity ate away at you.
The women screamed louder. Bills showered down like confetti, some caught in his shirt, others slapped against the stage where he scooped them up and let them dangle teasingly from his mouth. He spun his hat once in his hand before tossing it into the crowd, revealing tousled light brown hair damp with sweat. The spotlight caught it, turning strands this honeyed color for one suspended heartbeat before the shadows pulled them back.
Your eyes stayed on him. You couldn’t stop them.
Every line of his body drew your gaze like iron to a magnet. The curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the freckles faint along his cheeks when the light hit just right, and the way his shimmering blue eyes practically glowed beneath the lighting. The lean planes of his stomach flexed when his shirt slid open farther with his movements, exposing more skin and more ink and more scars to the people in front of him.
The crowd roared, but you couldn’t hear them. Not really. He was the only thing in the room.
Five minutes. That was all it lasted. Five minutes of him on stage, hips rolling, scars glinting, tattoos flexing as his muscles shifted beneath it. But in those five minutes, your body began to really display its discomfort to you. Your chest tightened, your pulse leapt, and the knot of heat and panic in your sternum wound tighter and tighter until it was unbearable.
Your hand pressed flat over the spot, rubbing at the burn as though you could soothe it away. Your breath came shallow, trembling, you were having an episode, maybe it was of anxiety, you had no idea, all you knew was that you needed a break.
“Guys,” You said abruptly, your voice thin and tight. “I’m just going to grab some air. I’ll be back in a bit.” Both Beck and Mika whipped their heads toward you, concern etched in their faces.
“You alright?” Mika asked, her voice gentle, worried. You forced a nod, already sliding out of the booth.
“Yeah. Just a little hot. You guys stay, though–I’m just going to take a breather.” Before they could argue, you were moving, weaving through the press of bodies, past the stage where women hollered Rhett’s name, past the bar where bills changed hands. The velvet doors loomed, heavy and red, and you shoved them open with more force than you meant to.
The night air had turned cool over the time you had spent in the club and slapped against your skin providing a relief so sudden you almost staggered. You didn’t stop until you rounded the corner of the building, pressing yourself into the shadowed brick where the lamplight didn’t reach. Away from the line of women filing in, away from the shrieking laughter.
You pressed a trembling palm to your sternum and dragged in a breath that scraped the edges of your lungs. Another followed–thin, wheezy, like your ribs had been laced too tight. The night smelled like damp asphalt and the faded bite of bleach, a clean ghost beneath the heavier drift of fryer oil from the kitchen vent above your head. You pressed harder against your body.
“Fuck,” You muttered to yourself, heat climbing your cheeks even though you were alone. “You’re such an embarrassment. It’s just a fucking strip club.” The words blew white, and then finally the alley gave you what the lounge wouldn’t…Stillness. No clatter of glass. No flash of teeth. Just a flickering security bulb at the far end, a moth knocking itself silly against plastic, the hum of distant traffic. The bass inside kept thrumming–steady, subterranean–through the wall at your back, but out here the sound rounded off, almost in a helpful way. You found it and matched it with your breathing: in for two, out for two; in for three, out for four. Your heartbeat, which had been punching like it wanted to break loose, eased its fists. And air finally went in without snagging. Your fingers uncurled from the hem of your dress. You tipped your head until the brick caught the back of your skull, the stone cool and dimpled, and closed your eyes. For a few long beats you did nothing but breathe.
“You alright?” The voice came from the side of you–rough-edged, unhurried–threading into the quiet. Your eyes snapped open. Down the short service corridor, where you hadn’t noticed a door at all, you could see a little bright orange dot in the shadows–you assumed it was from a cigarette–and it flared with a drag. Heavy footfalls followed, soft but certain on concrete, the rocks crunching beneath each step. The motion light hiccuped, then steadied, washing the alley in a hazy rectangle.
It was Rhett.
He’d thrown on a denim jacket to cover himself up, it was the sort of one you didn’t buy distressed because life would do it for you anyway–the seams had gone pale, the cuffs were darkened where hands had worked them, and the collar was shaded by old cologne and sweat. The cigarette he was smoking rode easy between two large fingers. His hair had been raked back by someone’s hand–likely his own–with rebellious strands already falling forward to snag on his sweaty forehead. Without the hat and the roar of the crowd, he somehow looked broader and quieter all at once. Your breath caught on instinct and released as a cough you tried to disguise as throat-clearing.
“Yeah…Yeah, I’m okay.” You somehow found a voice that didn’t wobble and offered it up to him. “Just…Needed some air.” His gaze took you in–not the sweeping catalog men do when they think they’re alone, not the hungry appraisal you’d seen inside, but a steady read. The way your shoulders stayed too high. The way your left hand still worried the hem of your red dress while your right flattened your heartbeat. The way you kept your weight on your heels like you were braced for a wave that had already passed. He adjusted to your body language without comment, stopping a step out of your space. The opposite wall caught his shoulder and he leaned there, easily, the toe of one boot idly skimming grit. He turned his head before he took a drag, and sent the smoke outward toward the parking lot.
”This your first time here?” He asked after a breath, that southern vowel drag softening the corners. “Haven’t really seen you ’round here before.”
“Yeah.” You let your palm fall from your chest, felt the low roll of bass through the brick again like the purr of a big engine at idle. “First time. My friends brought me.” He nodded, as if that answered more than one question.
“Special occasion?” He asked, curious rather than nosy. He tilted his head and mirrored you on the opposite wall, denim rasping softly as he settled. For a second, he studied the moth batting mindlessly against the plastic guard around the motion light. When he looked back, the blue of his irises caught the yellow wash and went pale as frost. You swallowed, feeling your pulse thumping a little too high in your throat. Those eyes were worse out here, or better–if only you didn’t feel like you were having an allergic reaction to socializing.
“No, no special occasion.” The lie tasted small. “They just read some reviews, and got curious.”
“Reviews,” He echoed, mouth cinching at one corner. “Reckon that’s one way to pick out how to spend your Friday night…” He added, and then smiled “Did it not spark your curiosity?” Your cheeks heated in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being placed under the spotlight.
“Not really my scene,” You admitted, your nails pressing crescent moons into your palm before you made yourself stop. “I haven’t been to a strip club at all, actually, so…”
“So it all came at you at once.” He flicked ash with a quick snap, then wiped the spent cylinder on the brick so it wouldn’t fall hot. His drawl thickened a shade, warmer. “First time’s like grabbin’ an electric fence…Lil’ shock to the system..” A startled laugh slipped out of you–small, unpretty, honest, and the tight band of anxiety across your ribs loosened another notch. He watched that happen, and the tiny easing in his shoulders said he’d been waiting for it. He lifted the cigarette, then paused halfway and held it out across the little gulf between you with two fingers.
“Want a drag to iron things out?” You shook your head.
“I don’t smoke. Thanks, though.” He nodded.
”Figured I’d ask,” He said, and brought the filter to his mouth. His lips–smaller than the stage would’ve had you think, soft-lipped and a little pouty at rest–closed around the paper. He drew in a slow breath, and when he exhaled, he turned away from you again, a neat curl of smoke drifting out of his mouth, “Sometimes the quiet ones are the most surprisin’.” The words landed heavier than they should have, his tone pitched low enough that it seemed to tuck beneath your skin. Your lashes fluttered at the remark–betrayal in the smallest muscle, and his eyes caught the motion with an interest that was sharper than the lazy lean he held against the wall.
”Unfortunately for you there’s not many things to be surprised about when it comes to me…I’m an open book.” You managed to say, the words pushing out on a thin breath that felt scraped from your throat. He let out a short huff of laughter, head tilting so that his hair slipped loose against his brow.
“Darn,” He said simply, though the drawl stretched it into something softer. “And here I thought you had some mystery to you.” You smirked despite yourself, your lips twitching before you could reel them back in.
“Sorry to disappoint.” His head shifted in an almost imperceptible shake, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
“No need to apologize,” He replied, voice low and steady, a current beneath the night air. “I’m sure you’ve got more surprises that’ll even shock yourself.” The certainty threaded through those words lit your cheeks hotter than the nicotine haze between you. You felt the heat climb into your ears, into the hollow of your throat. He didn’t grin at your reaction, didn’t push it further–he just let the weight of his gaze hold steady until you had to glance down, your hands finding the hem of your dress, worrying at it again. With an ease that came from repetition, Rhett lifted the cigarette for its last drag, drawing in until the ember flared. He exhaled slowly, and then he licked two fingers, quick and practical, before pinching the glow out. The faint hiss of it dying was louder than it should have been. He tucked the flattened filter into the pocket of his jacket, a motion so simple it shouldn’t have felt like punctuation, but it did–the little end mark to the conversation you hadn’t wanted to end.
“Anyways…” He pushed himself off the wall with a quiet rasp of denim against brick, his boots grounding with a hollow scrape against the concrete. The easy shift in his posture made the space between you feel suddenly too empty. “I better get back in there, or else my boss is gonna be askin’ where I am.” His tone carried no urgency, just reluctant obligation, as if he’d linger longer if he thought he could. He started to move, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Hope to see you in there.” His gaze skimmed you again, deliberate but not heavy, before he added, “I didn’t quite catch your name, by the way.” Your hand rose instinctively to scratch at the back of your neck, a nervous tell you couldn’t quite break.
“It’s Y/N.” His mouth softened into a small smile–nothing like the flash of charisma he’d given the stage, nothing like the teasing grin you’d seen him wear with the crowd. This one was quieter, steadier, like he meant to hand it to you alone.
“Y/N,” He echoed, letting the sound roll slowly, “Very sweet name.” And then, with the simplest, most devastating wink, he turned and walked back up the alley. His boots struck against grit, his broad frame swallowed gradually into the amber spill of light, until he entered the building again.
Only then did you let yourself breathe. It came out in a long shudder, your ribcage loosening for the first time since you’d left the booth. The anxiety that had chased you out of the club hadn’t vanished, but it had…Changed. It had softened, bled into something warmer, something that spread heat through the rest of you instead of binding you tight. You pressed your palms flat against the brick at your back, trying to ground yourself again, but the sensation still lingered–his voice, his eyes, the little flare of amusement at your smirk.
It took a few moments before your legs trusted you to move but when you finally rounded back toward the entrance, the red doors loomed brighter than before, and stepping through them felt heavier than the first time. The air swallowed you up immediately–thick with perfume, laughter, leather, smoke, the steady pulse of music–and the hazy heat wrapped itself around your shoulders again.
Your friends spotted you instantly. Beck’s face lit up as you slid back into the booth, Mika leaning forward with concern, her hand brushing your arm.
“You alright now?” Mika asked, voice gentler than the raucous noise around you. You nodded, snatching up your half-forgotten margarita and tipping it back. The ice had melted, watering the drink to a pale shadow of itself, but the sting of lime and tequila still hit enough to ground you. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, setting the glass down with a faint thud.
“Much better than before,” You admitted, breath still a touch uneven. “Guess I just really needed that air.” They seemed satisfied, diving back into their chatter, already flagging down dancers with the ease of regulars. You sat back, your shoulders pressing into the curved leather of the booth, and tried to force yourself into their rhythm. The room surged around you–laughter, shrieks, bills flashing green as they were tucked into waistbands–and though the nerves never quite let go, they loosened. At least enough to sip, to watch, and to breathe.
Some time passed without any issues, that was until Mika spotted the person she had been waiting for. Her gasp was sharp enough to turn heads, her hand gripping Beck’s arm as she half-stood in the booth.
“Oh my god! That’s him!” She exclaimed. You followed her gaze and felt your stomach drop. Rhett had returned to the floor, back in his stage clothes–though now his plaid button-down hung open completely, nothing hiding the firm planes of his chest. Sweat still glistened faintly over his freckles and scars, catching the golden light in shifting glimmers as he moved.
“Apparently the regulars say he’s one of the best dancers here,” Mika whispered like she was revealing a secret. Then, without hesitation: “I have to get you a dance from him.” Your head snapped toward her, heat flooding your face.
“Mika, no–“ But Beck was already waving her arms, joining in with Mika’s whistling until Rhett’s blue eyes cut across the room and landed right on your booth. And on you. Your chest clenched watching as he prowled through the lounge until he stood at the edge of your table. He braced one palm on the wood, leaning in just enough that the cologne clinging to him–warm leather, tobacco, vanilla–wrapped around you, heady and consuming.
“Hello, ladies.” His voice curled warm and low. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he balanced against the table, his height casting the three of you in his shadow. “Anything I could do for you tonight?”
Beck and Mika were nearly vibrating with excitement. Beck grinned, teeth flashing, and Mika was quick to blurt, “We’re celebrating her birthday tonight!” Her finger pointed at you like she was announcing you to the whole room. Rhett’s eyes followed the gesture, landing squarely on you. For a moment, the noise of the lounge seemed to dull. His brows lifted, a slow curve tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Birthday, huh?” Your chest tightened, cheeks scorching hot as you squirmed against the booth’s leather, caught in a white lie.
“Well…” His voice dropped lower, pitched in that easy drawl that seemed to wrap around your ribs. “Here at The Lariat Lounge, we take our birthday celebrations very seriously. Might need to take your friend to one of our VIP rooms for a little complimentary dance, if y’all don’t mind, of course.” You shook your head quickly, words stuck somewhere behind your throat. But Beck and Mika had already squealed their approval, hands tugging at your arms as if they could shove you out of the booth themselves.
“Yes! She’ll go!” Beck announced, far too pleased with herself.
“Go on!” Mika chimed in, grinning wide. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole and engulf you completely, but instead, Rhett extended his hand, palm broad, steady and calloused, his blue eyes fixing on yours with something calmer than the teasing grin his mouth carried.
“I don’t bite,” He said softly, just for you. “C’mon. It'll be fun.” Your pulse hammed as you gave in and slid your hand into his. His palm was rough, warm, grounding in a way that steadied your legs as he helped you out of the booth. He didn’t tug, didn’t rush–just guided. You let him lead, weaving through the crowd until he stopped at a staircase tucked into a shadowed corner of the lounge with a velvet rope that was hooked across the bottom. You hadn’t noticed it when you came into the lounge, which made you a little more nervous, but you kept your composure as much as possible. Rhett unlatched the rope with casual ease and gestured for you to follow.
The air softened as you climbed the stairs, the heavy bass fading into a low, pulsing thrum. He led you into a smaller room–a VIP booth glowing faintly beneath black lights. There was a leather couch curved along the wall, lit violet-blue under the glow, and the shadows seemed thicker, more private.
”You can sit…” He murmured, and you obeyed instantly, sinking into the couch to brace yourself into something before your shaking legs gave out beneath you. Your red dress had turned neon under the lighting, glowing like a beacon against your skin.
Rhett crossed to a small console tucked against the wall and just as he reached for one of the buttons, the words tore out of you quickly: “I-I really don’t want a dance.” He stilled for a moment, and glanced over his shoulder before letting out a quiet laugh.
“I know,” He said, voice threaded with amusement and something gentler. “I’m just turnin’ on the music so it seems like I’m givin’ you a dance.” Your brows pulled together.
“You don’t mind?” He shook his head, pressing the switch. A lazy country-rock rhythm trickled from hidden speakers, low and sultry, filling the silence.
“I’d rather not have you die of a nervous breakdown ‘cause I swung my hips in front of your face,” He joked, a smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. Then his tone shifted, warm, sincere: “And also…I don’t want to make you uncomfortable either.” The honesty in it made your throat tighten.
“Well…That’s very nice of you,” You murmured. He crossed back to the couch, dropping onto it with a heavy sigh that rattled the leather. His body sprawling loose, but his eyes staying sharp on your figure.
“It’s really nothin’,” He shrugged. “I think I’d be a little shy if my friends were pushin’ me into a complimentary dance too.” Heat prickled your cheeks, and you turned your face away, hoping the glow of the black lights might hide how flushed you were. But you could feel his gaze–steady, studying, burning right through the fragile wall of composure you tried to hold up.
“They just like to push me out of my comfort zone sometimes,” You muttered, voice low. He hummed, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest.
“Well, a strip club is definitely one way to do that…” A pause. His tone softened, the teasing edge gone. “But it’s evident you don’t really want to be here.” He pointed out. The silence that stretched next wasn’t uncomfortable, but weighted. Then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he asked:
“So…If you had an actual choice, where would you want to be right now?” You knew exactly where you would’ve wanted to go if your friends had given you the chance to tell them, but the words felt too small in comparison to the room, too fragile against the thrum of low music and the weight of Rhett’s steady gaze. Your hands worried against each other in your lap, nails grazing over knuckles, and you finally let out a breath that sagged your shoulders.
“It’s kind of stupid…” You admitted, eyes fixed on the neon glow of your dress. He shifted beside you, the couch sighing with his weight as he leaned a little closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough that you felt the faint brush of his shirt against your arm, the whisper of plaid and heat.
“Try me,” He murmured, his voice rough-edged but patient. “I’ve probably heard stupider things.” You glanced at him then, half-expecting mockery, but his expression was open–curious, softened by the casualness of the conversation. It tugged the truth out of you before you could retreat.
“If I had a choice…” You sighed, your lips twisting faintly. “I probably would’ve just wanted to go to this little diner in town. The Cozy Fork. Their pie slices are…Fantastic.” A beat of silence stretched, and then the corner of his mouth hitched. He eased back, draping one arm across the backrest of the couch, his posture sprawling in a way that seemed both casual and deliberate. His knuckles rested close behind you, not touching, but near enough that the warmth of him ghosted along your shoulders.
“How about you stay till close,” He said finally, his tone low, unhurried, “And then I can take you there.” You blinked, startled, your brows rising.
“Really?” He gave a lazy shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
“Why not? I wouldn’t mind havin’ some dessert after a long shift.” The way he said it made something coil warm and tight low in your stomach, the word dessert carrying just enough weight to make your breath falter, like it had a double meaning in a sense. You felt your cheeks flare instantly, and you were absurdly grateful for the shadows that cloaked your face, hiding the heat that had crawled up into your ears. Your throat worked around a swallow, the sound loud in your own head.
”Well…As long as I’m not imposing on anything…I would be up for it.” Rhett’s mouth tugged into a grin, wide enough to flash teeth, the kind of smile that felt disarming in its honesty.
“You definitely wouldn’t be imposin’,” He drawled, his voice carrying a lazy confidence that still managed to feel gentle. “Ain’t like I typically got anythin’ planned at two in the mornin’.” The joke landed smooth, and a laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it–lighter than the shaky giggles you’d let slip earlier, more real this time. The sound made his eyes brighten, a spark catching there like he’d been waiting on it.
“That’s true, I guess,” You admitted, still smiling, your shoulders loosening against the leather. “I didn’t really think of that.” He gave his head a slow shake, strands of damp hair slipping loose across his brow.
“Most people don’t,” He said, his tone tilting wry, “But that’s alright–I’ll give you a pass.” Another giggle escaped you, softer, but it hit him like a hook in the chest. He didn’t show it, not outwardly, but inside he felt the pull of it–how clean and unforced your laugh sounded, how it wasn’t laced with expectation the way the noise inside the lounge always was. It stirred something restless in him, something he hadn’t felt in a long while.
He stretched a little deeper into the couch, his arm draped along the back of it, his knuckles hovering just shy of your shoulder. For once, he didn’t feel like the dancer on stage, the man women clawed at bills for. With you, in this smaller booth tucked away from the chaos, he felt like himself again–quieter, steadier, a man who wasn’t being chased, just sitting beside someone who wasn’t asking for anything more than his company.
——————
Rhett had driven Mika and Beck home before doing anything else, brushing off their protests with an easy shake of his head. He wasn’t about to let them waste money on a taxi, not when he had his truck and more than enough space. More than that, he didn’t want to leave them waiting shoulder-to-shoulder in the crowd of people who were trying to make their way home just like them. He said as much, matter-of-fact but kind, and your friends had swooned over him all over again.
The thirty-minute ride back to their place was nothing short of an interrogation for him. Beck leaned over the seat like a reporter with a recorder, firing off questions without pause: craziest customers, biggest tips, strangest requests. Mika’s laugh kept bubbling through, sharp with disbelief every time Rhett answered one of them straight. He never bristled at the curiosity–he answered easily, his drawl curling around stories with the kind of smoothness that came from being asked these questions before. You sat quietly, hands clasped in your lap, sneaking glances at the way his profile caught the wash of passing headlights, the way he seemed so casual, and naturally charming even when people were prying into his life.
By the time he pulled into their driveway, your friends were flushed with exhaustion and still giggling. They promised again and again to text you tomorrow, to demand details, to drag you back out with them sometime soon. Their last words as they clambered out were almost a chant: text us when you get home–or wherever you end up at the end of the night. Which earned a laugh from Rhett and a reassurance that he would get you home safe.
He waited until Beck and Mika got into the house and the door closed behind their retreating forms before glancing over to you.
”Well,” He started, his voice quiet and uneven, “They’re energetic.” A laugh slipped out of you before you could swallow it back, softer than anything you’d let them hear all night.
“Yeah,” You admitted, the corners of your mouth tugging upward, “They’re the life of the party, sometimes it’s hard to keep up with them.” He smirked, just a little, fixing his Stetson on his head so it wasn’t falling off his head, before returning his hands to the wheel.
”I can tell, even I was struggling.” He commented, shifting the truck into gear with a low growl as he pulled back onto the road.
The drive to The Cozy Fork wasn’t long from Mika and Beck’s place. The night outside thinned into rolling darkness, the county road stretching ahead in long quiet ribbons. The cab felt different now–emptied of chatter, stripped of perfume and laughter–quieter, heavier. The radio hummed a low country tune, volume softened enough that it faded into the background, more pulse than sound. Cool air drifted through the slightly cracked windows, brushing against your bare arms, tangling faintly with the lingering warmth of Rhett’s cologne that clung to the seat beside you.
Without your friends filling the space, you didn’t know what to say. But Rhett didn’t press. He didn’t fumble for conversation or force small talk. He just let the silence sit, comfortable, unbothered, like he understood the weight of it wasn’t something to break–it was something to bask in. So you allowed it to settle, listening to the faint music.
The Cozy Fork sat at the bend of the highway like it had always been there, waiting. The building wasn’t flashy, but it carried the kind of presence that made everybody in Wabang know this place, because even if you had only been there once, you wouldn’t forget about it. A wide neon sign glowed over the lot, its fork logo glowing steady in pale blue and pink, buzzing faintly as if it had been shining for decades and would for decades more. The parking lot was gravel packed into asphalt, patched so many times it looked like a quilt. A handful of trucks and cars were scattered across it–late-night regulars who came as much for the coffee as for the company, and to catch the late night grub after a bar crawl. The faint smell of frying bacon and buttered griddle cakes drifted through the night air as Rhett rolled into a spot near the entrance.
The diner itself was squat and rectangular, its big front windows glowing warm with light that spilled across the lot. The door was framed by a faded awning striped in red and white, edges frayed but still standing against wind and weather. Even at nearly two in the morning, it buzzed with life inside.
When Rhett pushed the door open for you, the familiar bell above it chimed sharp and cheerful. The air inside was thick with the perfume of diner food–grease, coffee, maple syrup, bacon fat, and that undercurrent of sugar and flour that came from pies cooling in the case by the counter. The floor was checkerboard tile, cracked in places but polished clean. Red leather booths lined the walls, their backs high enough to grant privacy but worn to comfort. The counter stretched long with stools bolted to the floor, their chrome legs scuffed from decades of boots. Behind it, a glass pie case glowed faintly, rows of lemon meringue, cherry lattice, pecan, and coconut cream lined like a crown jewel display.
The place felt timeless, the kind of diner that lived in every small town–the heart of long nights, early mornings, and in-between hours where people came to breathe. A trucker nursed coffee at the far end, head bent low over a newspaper. Two teenagers giggled in the back booth, splitting a plate of fries. The waitress behind the counter–hair piled high in a massive messy bun of greying brown hair, with her apron smudged with flour–looked up as the two of you entered and smiled wide with recognition.
“Well, if it ain’t Rhett Abbott, haven’t seen you ‘round here in a long time,” She greeted, her voice cutting over the soft hiss of the fryers and the hum of the ceiling fans, “I thought you vanished.” She added. Rhett’s smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he tipped his chin in greeting.
“Hello to you too Deloris…Nice to see that you’re still workin’ the late night shift.” You were a little surprised he was a regular. He hadn’t mentioned it in the VIP room, hadn’t given even the faintest hint that The Cozy Fork was a familiar haunt of his. Maybe he hadn’t expected the employees to remember him–or maybe he just didn’t think it mattered. But evidently, even the waitress had been surprised to see him come through the door.
Rhett slipped off his hat, pressing the brim flat against his stomach in a gesture that was both polite and sheepish. The motion sent his hair tumbling forward in damp, mussed strands that he quickly raked back with his fingers. His freckles caught the warm diner lights, and for the first time that night, you saw him look…Not like a performer, not like the man who’d just owned a stage, but just a regular man.
“Once you work the night shift, you could never go back to workin’ regular days, sweetheart. You of all people should know that by now.” Deloris teased, her sharp eyes narrowing affectionately at him. That made him flush faintly, a touch of pink riding high on his cheeks. His mouth tugged into something shy, caught between a smirk and a grimace. You wondered if he’d ever get used to this–how small towns carried stories the way wind carried dust. Everyone knew something about him, and most people probably knew far more than they ever needed to. It wasn’t embarrassment exactly that colored his cheeks, but you could tell he felt on display even here, away from the stage. Deloris didn’t linger on it. She plucked two laminated menus from the counter and gave them a sharp snap against her palm.
“You want your usual spot?” She asked.
“That’d be great, thank you,” Rhett replied, dipping his chin with polite ease. Then his gaze slid to you, catching the small flicker of surprise you tried to mask with a smile. His lips curved knowingly, but he didn’t say anything–just motioned for you to go first.
You followed Deloris through the rows of booths until she stopped at one near the front window, the kind that looked out onto the dark stretch of highway. The view was nothing more than headlights streaking by in blurred lines, but there was something comforting about it–the reminder of movement, of the world still spinning even at this hour. You slid into the red leather booth, the seat cool against the backs of your thighs, and Rhett dropped into the spot across from you, putting his hat off to the side.
“The two of you want coffee, right?” Deloris asked, already reaching for her notepad and pencil though she clearly didn’t need it.
You both nodded, and Rhett added, “And maybe some waters too. I’m a little thirsty. Worked a little too hard tonight.” Deloris let out a short laugh, shaking her head like she’d heard that excuse a thousand times.
“I’m sure you did,” She said knowingly, tucking the pencil back behind her ear. She turned to you then, her tone softer but still teasing, “If you’ve got any questions about the menu, sweetheart, don’t hesitate to ask him. He’s basically had everything that’s on it.” With that, she shuffled away toward the coffee pots.
When the both of you were left alone your eyes wandered back to Rhett. He was rubbing at the stubble along his jaw, his fingers rasping softly against the coarse growth as though the motion might disguise the color still lingering on his cheeks. His gaze dipped to the menu but didn’t really read it.
”You come here that often?” You asked, tilting your head. He let out a huff of laughter, quiet and self-deprecating.
”I used to, yeah.” He shrugged out of his denim jacket, folding it neatly against the open space beside him. Underneath, he’d buttoned his plaid shirt all the way up to his collar, every trace of skin hidden away. The sharp contrast made your stomach tighten unexpectedly–it was strange to think of him closing himself off after you’d just seen him bare and unguarded under spotlights. But here, in the quiet glow of a diner, it made sense. It wasn’t armor so much as a way to breathe again.
”The place stays open when nothin’ else does, so when I used to work the circuits I would come here afterwards to get some coffee and a nice hot meal, it helped me come down from all the adrenaline.” He explained. You hummed softly, the sound low in your throat, watching as he leaned back into the booth. The red leather creaked faintly beneath his broad shoulders, and his posture shifted into something looser, though not careless. He flipped open the laminated menu, the glossy pages catching the overhead lights, his blue eyes scanning over the familiar list of diner staples as though he hadn’t already memorized them.
“How long has it been since you participated in a circuit?” You asked, mirroring his motions with your own menu, though your eyes lingered more on him than the page in front of you. Rhett’s jaw ticked as he rolled his shoulders, the motion slow and deliberate, like his body still carried the memory of tension it could never quite shrug off.
“Been about a year, actually…” He admitted, his voice low, the syllables curling soft with his drawl. Just then Deloris returned, balancing a small metal tray on one hand. She slid two steaming mugs of coffee onto the table, their heat curling immediately into the cool diner air, followed by the soft clink of glass as she set down the waters. A small bowl of creamers and milk packets followed, the faint rattle of plastic against porcelain filling the brief silence.
“I’ll give you two a few more minutes with the menu,” She said with a knowing little smirk, before bustling away again, leaving behind the scent of coffee and fryer oil that seemed permanently woven into her apron. You wrapped your hands around the mug, the warmth soaking instantly into your palms, grounding you. Only when you were sure Deloris was out of earshot did you tilt your head toward him again, curiosity edging past your caution.
“What made you retire?” Rhett didn’t answer right away. He reached for a cream packet, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until the foil crinkled softly, then set it aside untouched. His gaze dipped to the coffee, dark and rippling faintly with heat, as if the question itself had stirred something unsettled. Finally, he exhaled, slow and resigned.
“Got a few too many injuries,” He started, voice steady but tinged with something deeper. “Dislocated my shoulder a few times, tore ligaments and stuff…Had to get surgery.” As if by instinct, his hand rose to his shoulder, thumb rubbing at the top where you remembered the scar–jagged, and raw under stage lights. The gesture was unconscious, protective, like he was still soothing an ache that never fully left. “So I had to make the decision to end it there.” You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes drawn to that same shoulder, to the way his fingers lingered over the ridge of bone as though he still carried the weight of every fall.
“Do you miss it?” You asked, your voice softening. You knew it was a stupid question to ask, but it was already hitting the air, so you let it settle over the both of you. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted his coffee, blowing gently across the surface before taking a careful sip. The steam clouded faintly in front of his freckled face, hiding him for just a second. When he set the cup back down, his eyes didn’t meet yours immediately–they drifted to the window, to the blur of headlights carving through the dark highway beyond, his blue irises shining in the dimmed lighting.
“Yeah,” He replied finally, the word heavy but honest. “I sometimes wish I could go back in time so that I was payin’ more attention to the signs my body was givin’ me. I think if I actually took breaks and let myself heal properly…I would’ve been able to stick to it for a little longer.” His shoulders shifted faintly with a shrug, but it wasn’t casual. It was the kind of shrug that carried regret, the kind that sat heavy even when spoken lightly. You frowned, gaze dropping to the swirl of cream you’d just stirred into your coffee. The spoon clinked softly against ceramic, a rhythm to distract yourself from the ache you felt for him. He’d said it so simply, but you could hear what was unspoken–the years, the dedication, the sacrifice, all unraveled by a body that demanded more care than he’d allowed. He took another sip, his throat working as he swallowed, then cleared it gently, like he wanted to brush away the weight that had settled between you.
“But…What’s done is done. Can’t rewrite the past. Can only learn from it, right?” You nodded, lifting your mug to your lips, letting the bitter edge of the coffee slip across your tongue. But your eyes stayed on him over the rim, catching the way he rubbed absently at his jaw again, like if he kept his hands busy he could keep the past from clawing too close.
“Sorry if I overstepped or something…I was just curious about it,” you said at last, breaking the fragile quiet that had settled between the two of you. Your thumb traced the rim of your mug, chasing a bead of coffee that slipped down it as if it could keep your nerves busy. “Especially because the announcer at the club mentioned it.” Rhett immediately shook his head, his hand dropping from his jaw.
“Honestly, it’s okay. I know I may look sad when I talk ‘bout it, but at this point I’m used to it bein’ brought up.” His words came low, steady, with just enough truth in them that you believed him, though the flicker of his eyes toward the window told you it still carried weight.
“Does it really come up that often?” You asked carefully, lifting your gaze just enough to catch the faint shine of the diner’s lights reflecting in his eyes.
“Definitely.” He leaned back, the booth sighing under his weight. “Every time I go to the feed store for my parents I’m bound to run into someone who’s either seen me at the club, or who hasn’t seen me at the circuit in a long while. Always one or the other.” You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the awkwardness on his behalf.
“That must be a little…Strange.” You commented
“Sometimes, yeah.” He shrugged, the motion easy, unbothered in a way that told you he’d rehearsed the sentiment a hundred times over. Then, after a pause, he added dryly, “When a good chunk of women in town have seen you almost completely naked, it does tend to cause a little bit of awkwardness.” Your laugh broke out before you could swallow it back, sharp and surprised, bubbling through the tension in your chest. The sound drew his eyes back to yours, and the faintest grin curved across his mouth like he was quietly proud of pulling it out of you.
“I never thought of it that way…” You admitted, hiding your smile against the rim of your coffee cup.
“Most people don’t.” His voice was warm with humor now, threading into your laughter until the two sounds tangled together. It felt easy, unforced–like you had slipped into the beginning of a rhythm neither of you had expected but both of you welcomed. The spell broke only when Deloris returned, balancing her notepad against her hip.
“You two ready?” She asked, her sharp gaze flicking between you like she’d caught the thread of something but didn’t comment on it. Rhett motioned with a nod for you to go first.
“Could I get the Pancake Special, with scrambled eggs if that’s possible.” You smiled, pushing your hair back away from your face.
“Is white toast okay with that?” Deloris asked.
“Yes please, that would be great.” Her pencil scratched once across the pad before she turned toward Rhett with an expectant brow.
“I’ll take the same as her, please,” He said, leaning forward against the table like he’d known his order all along. “Just with some extra bacon and sausage if that’s possible, sunny-side up eggs, and white toast as well–with extra jam.” Deloris smirked knowingly.
“Still have that empty abyss of a stomach, huh Abbott?” Rhett let out a laugh that shook through his shoulders, rich and unguarded.
“Course I do. Not much has changed,” Then, softer, almost sheepish: “Oh, and could we also get a slice of pie to go? I know you guys close for turnover at some point, so I don’t wanna be in your hair all night.” She jotted it down with a nod.
“Sure, of course. Which pie would you like?” Rhett’s eyes flicked toward you almost instantly, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly like he was handing you the choice without question. The quiet expectation in his gaze made your stomach flutter.
“Oh, uh…Apple? If you guys have it,” You said, your voice lifting at the end like you weren’t sure if it was the right answer.
“Great choice,” Deloris said without missing a beat. “I’ll bring that with the bill once you’re done with your food.” She gathered the menus from the table, her apron rustling faintly as she tucked them under her arm before bustling away again, leaving behind the faint rattle of her pencil against her notepad. The moment she disappeared, you glanced back at Rhett.
“You’re not going to have one for yourself?” He shook his head, his lips curving into the faintest tease.
“I’ll probably be too full from all that food. And if I’m not…” He leaned back, draping one arm casually across the top of the booth. “I’ll just steal a little forkful from you.” A laugh slipped out of you, small but bright, and you ducked your head as though you could hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.
“You won’t be getting it so easily, so you better be ready to fight for it.” He huffed, amused, the sound low in his chest.
“Noted…” He bit the inside of his cheek, shifting in his spot as if weighing a thought he wasn’t ready to say aloud. The booth creaked faintly when his leg brushed yours under the table, denim scraping lightly against your calf. It wasn’t an accident–you could tell by the way he didn’t pull back, by the casual ease of his body sprawling into the space between you. You didn’t move either. Instead, you found yourself grounding in the quiet, steady heat of it.
“So how ‘bout you…?”He drawled, his blue eyes flicking up to yours, “What do you do for work?”
You took a sip of your coffee to buy a second of time, the mug warm against your palms, before answering. “I’m a receptionist at a real estate company, actually.” His brows lifted a fraction, curiosity sparking in his expression.
“Really? So you answer phones and organize meetings then?” You gave a little shrug, lips quirking.
“More like I sit at a computer and wait for people to come in and ask for an agent. It’s…Not that fun, but it pays the bills, so I don’t take it for granted.” Rhett hummed low in his throat, leaning forward a bit, his forearm braced against the table. His hand brushed his coffee cup but didn’t lift it.
“But if you had a choice…Would you do somethin’ else?” The question landed heavier than you expected. You bit the inside of your cheek, staring briefly into the swirl of cream that had floated in your cup just above your coffee.
“I don’t know, actually. I love drawing. Painting too. But…It’s not really something I could live off of, y’know? Wabang isn’t exactly known for its artists.” The corner of his mouth lifted, not into a smirk but something gentler, more sincere.
“You never know,” He said, his drawl softening like he was letting you in on a secret. “You could become the first person who pulled it off.”
You rolled your eyes, but it wasn’t dismissive–it was shy. “Sure, Rhett.”
Before the conversation could deepen, Deloris reappeared, balancing two heaping plates with practiced ease. She slid them onto the table, the scent of pancakes, butter, and bacon instantly crowding the booth, making your stomach twist with hunger. A small bottle of ketchup clinked down between the two of you, followed by a brisk, “You two enjoy,” before she shuffled off again. The plates steamed, golden pancakes stacked high and glistening with butter that pooled along their edges, scrambled eggs fluffed yellow on yours, his sunny-side up glistening in their centers. The bacon crackled dark and crisp, the sausages gleamed with grease, and the toast sat stacked neatly beside pots of jam. You dug in with a hum, nodding in satisfaction after the first bite.
“Nothing like breakfast at…” You glanced at the old clock hanging crooked on the wall behind Rhett, its second hand ticking sluggishly past the half-hour. “Three-thirty in the morning.” He let out a laugh, deep and low, shaking his head as he forked up some eggs.
“Couldn’t agree with you more.” He murmured. For a while the table was quiet but not empty–filled instead with the scrape of cutlery against porcelain, the shuffle of toast being buttered, the occasional small sound of contentment when one of you tasted something especially good. Every so often, your knees knocked lightly beneath the table, but neither of you pulled away. You cleared your throat softly after a few bites, setting your fork down for a moment.
“I’ve actually got another question for you…” Rhett hummed, busy spreading jam across his toast. He took a big bite and chewed before swiping his thumb across the corner of his mouth to clean a smear of red. The casual intimacy of the gesture made your stomach dip.
“How did you go from bull riding to stripping?” He washed down the toast with a swig of coffee, setting the mug down with a soft thud before answering.
“It was good timin’, I guess. After I got my surgery and recovered, I couldn’t really do much around my folks’ ranch for a while. I was gettin’ the itch to do somethin’, though. So one day I saw an ad in the classifieds section for The Lariat Lounge and thought it wouldn’t hurt to try out…” His grin turned a little crooked, boyish. “Already had half the job down by bein’ a country boy. All I needed was rhythm.” You raised your brows, cutting into your pancakes with a smirk.
“So now you’re a rancher by day, stripper by night?” He laughed, almost choking on air as he coughed lightly into his fist.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“And how does your family feel about the job?” You asked, glancing at him through your lashes. He shrugged, a motion that was almost careless but not quite.
“Think they were a little concerned at first, but they realized a job is a job. Couldn’t really do much about it at that point.”
“That’s true, I guess…” You both kept eating, talking between bites, the conversation slipping into something easy–lighter in tone rather than an array of questions. By the time your plates were empty and you leaned back against the booth with a sigh, Rhett was sopping up the last of his egg yolk with toast. Deloris came by to clear the table, stacking the plates against her arm with the kind of strength only waitresses developed.
“I’ll bring the bill,” She said, already moving.
Before you could open your mouth to protest, to say the bill would be split, Rhett said smoothly, “Just one bill, Deloris. Don’t listen to the little lady here.” You raised your brows at him, caught between a frown and a smile, watching as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket.
“You really don’t have to…” He raised his hand to stop you, his blue eyes steady on yours.
“Hey, technically this is your little makeshift birthday celebration, that was technically my idea. So…Let me treat.” The heat rushed up your neck before you could stop it, flooding your cheeks. You ducked your head, fiddling with the napkin in your lap.
“Alright…” When Deloris returned, she set down a plastic takeout container with your slice of apple pie between you, with two forks inside it just in case. Rhett slipped a few bills onto the tray that held the bill, more than enough to cover the meal, plus a tip that made Deloris smile as she tucked it quickly into her apron.
“I’m hopin’ to be back more often, Deloris,” Rhett said easily, his grin tugging wider. “That meal just reminded me how good this place is.”
“I’ll be anticipatin’ your next visit,” She said warmly, before heading off to another booth.
You picked up the pie container, pressing the warmth of it between your palms, and followed Rhett out into the cool night–with his jacket over his arm, and his hat in his hands. The bell above the door jingled sharp and sweet, and the air outside kissed against your flushed cheeks, carrying the faint smell of hay and asphalt instead of grease and sugar.
When you reached his truck, Rhett was already moving ahead of you, his hand steady as he opened the passenger door. The motion was almost instinctive, like muscle memory rather than a thought. He helped you up into the cab with an easy strength, his palm warm as it cupped your elbow for balance. Once you were settled on the bench seat, he draped his denim jacket across your bare legs. You weren’t sure if it was simply because you’d taken the spot where he normally kept it, or if it was his way of keeping you warm against the late-night chill–but you appreciated the sentiment all the same.
“Thanks,” You murmured, fingers smoothing over the rough fabric. He only tipped his chin in acknowledgment before closing the door with a solid thunk. When he slid into the driver’s seat a moment later, he replaced his hat with care, tugging the brim until it sat at just the right angle. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening the tension in them, the subtle scrape of fabric against the leather seat filling the cab.
“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” He asked, glancing at you with a quiet sort of courtesy.
You shook your head. “Not at all.” He nodded once, then pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of his jeans. The flame flickered bright against his freckled face as he lit one, then he rolled the window down a few inches. Smoke curled out into the night, thin and silver against the dark. He took a slow drag, exhaled it out the window, then turned the key, the engine rumbling to life beneath you both.
“Could I take you to one more place before droppin’ you off?” He offered, his drawl carrying a note of something quieter, almost careful. Your brows lifted, curiosity sparking.
“Sure…Where are you going to take me?” He shrugged one shoulder, lips quirking faintly around the cigarette.
“It’s a surprise. You trust me?” Your lip caught between your teeth, teasing your nerves into a bite of caution and intrigue.
“I feel like you’re setting me up for something…” He rolled his eyes, dragging from the cigarette again before blowing the smoke out quickly through the crack in the window.
“I can assure you I’m not.” You studied him for a beat before nodding.
“Alright. I’ll hold you to that.” He smirked, satisfied, and shifted the truck into gear, pulling out of the gravel lot. The radio hummed a low tune again, soft against the growl of the engine. The night swallowed the two of you, long stretches of county road winding out under the quiet glow of stars. The drive took twenty minutes, and then he pulled into a lookout perched high above Wabang, a place that only he seemed to know about. The town lay sprawled below, lit in scattered clusters of gold and silver, the glow of streetlights and storefronts twinkling faintly against the black curve of the horizon.
“Woah…” Was all you could manage, the word leaving you in a breath that fogged faint against the cool glass.
“Pretty nice, hm?” His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of pride there too, the kind of warmth that came from sharing something personal. You nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the view.
“It’s beautiful.” He smiled faintly, almost boyish in the shadows.
“Let me adjust the truck so the trunk’s facin’ it.” He eased the gearshift into reverse, maneuvering the truck with careful turns until the bed pointed toward the overlook. Gravel crunched softly beneath the tires, then stilled. He cut the engine, and silence pressed in–thick but peaceful, broken only by the faint sigh of night wind. He left the driver's seat and came onto your side. You climbed out with his hand steady at your elbow again, your shoes scuffing against the grit, as he put his denim jacket over your shoulders to keep you warm. He lowered the lip of the truck bed with a hollow clang, then brushed his palms together.
“Let me grab a blanket from the back seat.” You nodded, watching him quickly climb into the cab for a moment, before returning with a heavy blanket, the edges frayed but warm and worn in. He spread it across the bed in broad sweeps, then helped you up, his hands guiding you with quiet care. You adjusted your dress as you sat, crossing one leg over the other.
“Oh, forgot something…I’ll be right back,” He murmured. Your brows pinched with curiosity, but you let him go. He moved to the front of the truck, opening the driver’s side door again. The sound of shuffling carried faintly, then the door clicked shut again. When he came back, he was holding a sparkler. You blinked, your lips parting in surprise.
“Where’d you get that from?” He climbed up beside you, sitting close but not crowding, the warmth of him seeping through the blanket.
“Had a private party,” He explained with an easy shrug. “Didn’t use all the sparklers for their cake. This was an extra.” His mouth tugged faintly upward. “Now…Can you hand me that piece of pie?” Reluctantly, though amused, you passed him the little plastic container. He popped the lid, pressed the sparkler into the soft center of it, and held it out just far enough that it wouldn’t singe either of you. With a flick of his lighter, the sparkler sputtered to life, showering gold sparks that hissed and danced in the dark.
Then, without a hint of embarrassment, and like he did probably thousands of times before, he began to sing Happy Birthday to you. It wasn’t loud–it wasn’t meant to be. His voice was low, steady, carrying that worn drawl that curled around every word. The sound wrapped around you in the stillness, warm as the sparks that lit his face in bursts of gold. You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across your lips, couldn’t stop the way your chest loosened until your laughter tumbled soft into the night.
When the sparkler fizzled out, Rhett plucked it free, tossed the charred stem aside, and set the container gently in your lap. He handed you one of the forks with a small smile.
“That was really nice, Rhett…Thank you.” Your voice was quieter than you intended. He tipped his head, his smile softening at the edges, pushing his hat up a bit so you could see his eyes.
“Hope I made up for your friends draggin’ you to my part of town to watch me strip on stage.” You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.
“I’ll be honest…It wasn’t all that bad.” His brows lifted, the corners of his mouth tugging sly.
“Oh yeah? Not all that bad, huh?” Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat rushing into your ears. You cleared your throat.
“Well, I mean…I met a pretty nice employee there who took me out for my birthday without even knowing me, so…He definitely made my night better.” He smirked, ducking his head as he used the side of his fork to scoop up a bite of pie, shoving it into his mouth.
“Sounds like he made a good first impression on you,” He said around the mouthful, the words muffled, a little boyish. You smiled, slipping your own fork into it as well.
”He definitely did.” The pie was sweet, cinnamon-heavy, with a flaky crust that melted against your tongue. You ate in silence, passing the container back and forth, until only a few crumbs were left and you tucked the empty box aside.
The quiet stretched again–but it wasn’t heavy. It was warm, threaded with the hum of crickets, the faint rustle of wind against the truck, and the steady presence of him beside you. You turned your head to look at him, and found he was already watching you, his blue eyes steady, reflecting starlight.
“It’s gettin’ pretty late… Or…Early, technically,” Rhett murmured at last, his voice low and a little uneven in the quiet. His eyes lingering on you for a beat before glancing back out over the glow of Wabang below. “I better get you home.” The words hit you like the dull drop of a stone into water. Disappointment tugged heavy at your chest, sinking deep. You almost didn’t want the night to end–not when it felt suspended outside of time, caught between stars and laughter. But you knew it had to. Eventually, all nights had to end. You drew in a small sigh, fighting the instinct to stall, and nodded.
“Yeah… You’re right.” Rhett gave a slow exhale, bracing his hands on the lip of the truck bed as he slid off in one fluid motion. His boots crunched softly against the gravel. When he turned back, he expected you to be climbing down after him. But you weren’t. You stayed put, perched on the blanket, your shoulders huddled in his jacket, your mouth tilted into the faintest frown you hadn’t realized had given you away. He noticed it almost instantly, ever the observer. His brows pulled in slightly, blue eyes softened by curiosity.
“You alright?” You straightened, blinking quickly, and nodded too fast.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He studied you for a moment longer, like he could see through the quick answer, then said nothing more. Instead, he lifted one hand toward you, palm open and steady. His fingers curled slightly, a quiet offer. You slipped your hand into his, and the warmth of him was immediate–calloused, solid, grounding in the cool night air. He helped you slide off the truck bed, guiding you down gently until your feet touched the gravel. But when you landed, you realized how close he’d pulled you. Close enough that your body stopped just shy of his, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to look up at him.
The moment hung sharp, fragile. His gaze caught yours, steady and searching.
Rhett swallowed–an almost imperceptible bob of his throat that betrayed the sudden thrum beneath his quiet composure. His lips parted, his eyes flicking once down to your mouth, then back up. The air between you crackled, soft but undeniable.
And then he kissed you.
It was gentle at first–tentative, careful, as though he was giving you the chance to pull away. His mouth was warm and soft, tasting faintly of coffee and smoke and the sweetness of the apple pie you’d shared minutes ago. His lips pressed against yours with a slowness that made your chest tighten. You leaned in without hesitation, your hands lifting almost instinctively to settle against his torso. The cotton of his plaid shirt was warm under your palms, stretched over firm muscle, and as you pressed closer, Rhett let out a low, unguarded sound against your mouth–a rough little groan that vibrated through him and into you. The sound made your knees go loose, your stomach flip, heat rushing up to your cheeks.
That single noise shifted the kiss. It deepened, not into something hurried or hungry, but into something sure. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that stole your breath, coaxing you rather than taking. He tilted his head just slightly, angling to fit more closely, and the brim of his hat brushed faintly against your hair. His free hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing over the denim jacket he’d draped across you earlier, as if reminding you it was his. As if grounding himself in the nearness of you.
Your breaths tangled, shallow and quick, and the world beyond the two of you–crickets humming, town lights glimmering far below–seemed to blur into nothing but the press of his mouth and the warmth of his chest beneath your hands. Every detail sharpened: the faint rasp of stubble grazing your skin when he shifted closer, the smell of leather and smoke and cologne clinging to him, the way his lips softened and pressed again, and again, until it felt less like a kiss and more like the slow unraveling of something inevitable.
When he finally drew back, it was only far enough to let air slip between you. His forehead hovered close to yours, his breath uneven, his blue eyes shining under starlight. His mouth curved into the faintest smile, tugging with a warmth that left you dizzy.
“Feelin’ better now?” He asked, his voice roughened by the weight of the moment, threaded with something unspoken and tender.
You could only nod, the dazed smile spreading across your lips as you whispered, “Definitely.”
