alana

brooklyn masterlist ao3

[foxtrology]

cruel world (3)

ted garcia x reader

velvet horseshoe series | ao3 link

warnings: explicit sexual content, age gap relationship, sex work (stripper reader), power imbalance, corruption and abuse of power. reader discretion is advised!!!

word count: 16k

⸻

The morning sun cuts through the thin curtains of your house like it owns the place, spilling gold across the walls, across the floor, across the bed where you’re already awake and pretending not to be.

Outside, Eddington sits quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels fake, like the town’s holding its breath and waiting for something to break.

Inside, it’s warm. Way too warm. Ted’s arm is wrapped around you, heavy and solid, his palm spread flat against your stomach like he fell asleep holding on and never let go. His chest is pressed to your back, breath slow, steady, real in a way that makes your throat tighten if you let yourself think about it too long.

He got here early. He always does.Slips in before sunrise, before anyone can see, before he has to be the version of himself that belongs to everyone else. No knocking. No warning. Just the quiet shift of weight in your bed, the feel of him finding you in the dark like it’s instinct. Like it’s habit. Like you are.

Your eyes stay open. You can see the envelope in your head without turning your head toward the kitchen. You know exactly where it is. You know exactly what’s inside it. You swallow hard. Don’t fucking think about it. Not right now.

Behind you, he stirs. It’s slow, just a shift of muscle, a deeper breath, his hand dragging lazily over your stomach like he’s waking up through touch instead of thought. His fingers flex once, then settle, his thumb brushing along your side like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice wrecked from sleep.

You hum back, soft and automatic. His mouth finds your shoulder, not rushed, not demanding... just warm, slow, familiar. It lingers, like he’s reminding himself you’re still here.

“You’re already awake,” he says, quieter.

“Just woke up,” you answer. Lie.

His hand slides down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your hip. You feel the hardness of his cock pressing against your ass already, insistent even in the lazy haze of waking.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, half under his breath.

You turn slowly in his arms, careful, like the moment might break if you move too fast. His eyes meet yours— soft and unguarded in a way that doesn’t exist anywhere else.

For a second, it almost feels normal. That’s what makes it so fucking dangerous. He's dressed only in his boxers, his head dusted with salt and pepper hair, soft muscles toned from years of ranch work before politics took over. At forty-eight, he's got that mature strength, the kind that makes you feel small and cherished all at once.

“Ted,” you say, quieter than you meant to.

Your hand slides down his chest, feeling the heat of him, the steady rhythm under your palm. He exhales at that, something in him easing like he didn’t realize how tight he was holding himself together.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’ve got a meeting in an hour.”

You nod like you give a shit about that. Like the world outside this bed isn’t already waiting to tear everything apart.

His mouth hits yours, slow at first, then deeper, his hand coming up to the back of your neck like he needs to keep you right there. He kisses you like he’s not leaving in an hour. Like there’s nothing waiting for him outside this room.

“Jesus,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your chest tightens. If he knew—if he had any idea what’s sitting on your counter—he wouldn’t sound like that. But he doesn’t. So you let yourself fall into it.

Ted's an astonishing lover, the kind who reads your body like a map he's memorized, pushing you to edges you didn't know existed. As the kiss deepens, his hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch. You arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. 

You don’t stop him. You don’t think. Because this part is easy. This part doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.

"That's my girl," he says against your mouth, his voice dropping to that loving rumble. "So responsive for me. I swear, you make me feel like a kid again, all excited and stupid in love."

He rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The age difference hits you once again... his solid frame over your lithe one, his experience guiding every move while your body responds with eager fire.

You shut your eyes as he touches you—slow, deliberate, like he’s dragging it out on purpose. Your body reacts immediately, hips shifting, chasing the pressure without thinking about it.

“Easy,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “I’ve got you. Never gonna lose you.”

The words hit harder than they should. You wrap your legs around him anyway. Pull him closer. Let him believe it.

His mouth trails down your neck, sucking at the skin, not careful enough, leaving marks that could raise questions in this gossip hungry town.

"I hate leaving you," he confesses, nipping at your collarbone. "Wish I could stay buried inside you all day, just like this."

You feel his cock twitch against your thigh, thick and ready, and your core aches in response. 

Ted's hands roam lower, parting your thighs with firm insistence. He looks up at you, eyes sparkling with that cute affection.

"You're so perfect, you know that? My sweet, sexy girl. Gonna make you feel so good before I go," His fingers slide between your folds, finding you already wet for him. He groans, circling your clit with just the right pressure. "Fuck, you're soaked. All for me, huh? That's what I love about you, always ready, always wanting your old man."

You gasp as he dips a finger inside, then two, curling them to hit that spot that makes your toes curl.

“You feel—” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. “Fuck.”

The desert heat seeps into the room, making your skin slick, but it's nothing compared to the fire he's stoking. He pumps his fingers slowly at first, building the tension, his thumb still working your clit.

"Look at you, taking my fingers like a champ," he praises, his tone loving and playful. "Bet you can't wait for my cock, can you, baby? Gonna fill you up so full you'll feel me all day."

The roughness starts to creep in as his pace quickens, his free hand pinning your wrist above your head. He's strong, unyielding, but his eyes stay soft, locked on yours. Your hand tightens on him, grounding yourself in something real—his skin, his weight, the way he whispers your name like it actually means something.

Not the fucking envelope or what's in it. Just this.

"I love you like this... wild and mine." He leans down to capture your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard while his fingers thrust deeper, faster. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing the building pleasure, and he smiles against your skin. "That's it, ride my hand. Show me how much you need it."

By the time he withdraws his fingers, you're trembling, on the edge but not quite there—he knows your body too well, pulling back just to heighten the ache.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, voice rough.

You don’t answer. He shifts up, shoving his boxers down to free his cock. It's thick, veined, the head already glistening with precum, and at his age, he stays hard like he's got endless stamina just for you.

"Gonna fuck you now, sweetheart," he says, positioning himself at your entrance. “Don’t hold back.” 

You don’t. With one smooth thrust, he buries himself inside you, stretching your pussy around his girth. You cry out, the fullness overwhelming, and he pauses, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours.

"Shh, I've got you," he whispers cutely, kissing your nose. "My beautiful girl, so tight for me. Love how you squeeze my cock like you never want me to leave."

Then he starts moving, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that's intense from the start. His hips snap against yours, the bed creaking under the force, but his words stay loving.

"Fuck, you feel amazing. You're my everything, you know? This pussy was made for me."

Each thrust is rough, his cock hitting deep, brushing your cervix with every plunge. Sweat beads on his brow, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, but he checks in with a soft, "Too much, baby? Tell me if it's too rough—I just can't hold back with you."

You shake your head, urging him on, and he grins that boyish smile that contrasts his forceful pace.

"Good girl. Gonna make you cum so hard." He angles his hips, grinding against your clit with every inward stroke, the friction building that coil in your belly tighter.

The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping skin, your wetness coating him, easing the way for his relentless pounding. Ted's breath comes in heavy pants, but he doesn't falter, driving into you like he needs to imprint himself before the world pulls him away.

He flips you suddenly, pulling out just long enough to maneuver you onto your hands and knees.

"Ass up for me, baby," he commands gently, his hand stroking your back.

You comply, and he slams back in from behind, the new angle letting him go even deeper. His palm comes down on your ass cheek, hard enough to sting and send sparks through you.

"God, this view," he groans, thrusting harder. "Your pretty pussy taking my cock so well. I love you, you hear me? Love every inch of you."

The roughness intensifies, he grips your hair, pulling your head back slightly to arch your spine, his other hand reaching around to rub your clit in fast circles.

You're moaning loudly now, the pleasure and pain mix pushing you toward the brink.

"That's my baby, scream for me. Let it out— no one's gonna hear but me."

His cock pistons in and out, the head dragging along your walls, hitting every sensitive spot. The desert morning heat makes your bodies slick, sliding together effortlessly despite the ferocity.

Ted's loving talk keeps flowing, lovingly amid the intensity. "You're doing so good, sweetheart. Squeezing me just right. Gonna make me cum inside you, fill my girl up."

He spanks you again, lighter this time, then soothes the skin with a kiss to your shoulder as he leans over you. The position lets him wrap an arm around your waist, holding you close even as he fucks you raw. Your orgasm crashes over you first, waves of ecstasy ripping through your body, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

"Yes, cum for me, baby! That's i-it—my perfect love." He doesn't stop, riding through your spasms, prolonging the high until you're shaking.

Only then does he let go, thrusting erratically as he buries himself deep one last time.

"Fuck, here it comes. Take it all, sweet thing," His cock pulses, hot cum flooding your pussy, marking you as his in the most intimate way. He groans your praises through it, "Love you so much, filling you up... you're mine."

He collapses over you gently, both of you panting in the aftermath. Ted pulls out slowly, a mix of your releases trickling down your thigh, but he turns you to face him, cradling your face in his hands.

"Hey, baby," he says softly, kissing your forehead. "You okay? Was that good for my girl?" His eyes are full of that tender affection, the roughness giving way to care.

You nod, spent and glowing, and he smiles, pulling you into his chest. But reality intrudes too soon. He glances at the clock—9:15. The spell snaps.

"Shit."

He checks the clock again, already pulling away, already putting himself back together piece by piece.

“I’ve gotta go,” he mutters. “Meeting’s in forty five.”

You watch him from the bed, the warmth already fading.

“Your computer still fucked?” you ask.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Piece of shit froze twice yesterday.”

“I’ll come by later,” you say. “Fix it.”

He looks at you—really looks this time. Something shifts. Something searching.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He nods once. “Good.”

He grabs his jacket, steps into his shoes, hesitates just long enough to come back. This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Like he knows something’s off, even if he can’t name it.

“Be careful,” he murmurs.

Your chest tightens.

“You too.”

He lingers. Then he’s gone. The door shuts. And just like that, it’s quiet again. Wrong quiet.

You sit there for a long moment before moving. mThen you get up. Walk into the kitchen. And see the envelope is still there. Waiting.

You stand there for a long time. Not moving. Not breathing right. Just staring at it. It sits exactly where you left it—on the counter, crooked at the corner like it shifted when you dropped it there, like it knows you’ve been trying not to look at it.

Like it’s patient. Like it can wait you out. Your body still feels like him. Ted. That’s the worst part.

His warmth hasn’t left yet. It clings to your skin, settles into your muscles, lives in the quiet ache between your legs, in the faint marks blooming along your neck and collarbone. You can still hear his voice if you let yourself... low, rough, saying things that sounded too much like truth to be just heat.

You’re gonna ruin me.

You press your lips together.

“Bullshit,” you mutter, but it comes out thin.

Because you didn’t tell him. Didn't tell him about the danger imposing on him and his career. You let him touch you, kiss you, hold you like nothing was wrong... like there wasn’t a loaded gun sitting ten feet away on your kitchen counter. You chose not to tell him. And that choice sits heavy in your chest now, something sharp and unfamiliar. Not guilt. Not exactly. Something worse. Care.

You laugh once, under your breath. It sounds wrong in the empty house. Of course that’s what this is. Of course.

You didn’t tell him because you didn’t want to watch his face change. Didn’t want to see that moment where everything in him goes hard and cold and dangerous. Didn’t want him storming down to that station, badge-less but still powerful enough to ruin himself trying to protect you.

You didn’t tell him because you know him. And because somewhere along the way—quiet, stupid, irreversible—you started to matter to him. And he started to matter to you. Deeply. Too deeply.

Your fingers curl against the counter.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

The word lands heavy in the still air. You push off the counter hard enough that the chair legs scrape behind you, the sound loud and jarring. You don’t look at the envelope again. You can’t. Not if you’re going to do what you’re about to do.

You turn and head back to your room. Fast. No hesitation now. The mirror catches you for half a second—bare skin, messy hair, marks that don’t belong in a town like this—and you almost stop. Almost. But then Joe’s voice cuts through your head like a blade.

Thought the Mayor should be more careful who he screws.

Something in you snaps. You grab the first clothes you can find—a thin tank top, soft from too many washes, and a pair of leggings that cling to your hips like they were made for you. You don’t think about how they look. You don’t think about anything except getting dressed.

You don’t shower. Not even for a second. You could. You should. You know what’s still on your skin, what’s still inside you, what any normal person would wash away before stepping out into the world. But you don’t. Because this... this is yours.

This is the one thing in this entire goddamn town that isn’t fake, or whispered about, or turned into something ugly. You don’t want to scrub it off. You don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Let them look. Let them think whatever they want. You’re done shrinking for people who already decided who you were.

By the time you’re out the door, your pulse is loud in your ears. The heat hits you immediately. The kind that settles into your lungs and makes every breath feel like work. You don’t slow down. You walk fast. Faster than usual. Almost running.

Dust kicks up around your ankles as you cut through the road, past houses that all look the same, past windows that might have eyes behind them. You don’t care. Not today.

The church comes into view before you expect it.

White paint peeling, cross casting a long shadow across the cracked ground. A handful of people stand outside—spaced awkwardly apart, masks half on, half off, like even they don’t know what rules they’re supposed to follow anymore.

The pastor is talking with his hands clasped and voice calm. Until they see you. Every single one of them.

It’s like a ripple. Heads turning. Eyes narrowing. You feel it before you fully register it. The weight of their attention, the judgment, the quiet disgust they don’t even bother to hide.

One woman pulls her cardigan tighter around herself. Another leans closer to the man beside her, whispering something that makes him glance at you, then quickly look away. You almost stop. Almost. But then something hot and ugly rises in your chest, and you keep walking. Head high. Chin up. Let them look. Let them choke on it.

You’re not the one sneaking around in the dark pretending to be something you’re not. You’re not the one hiding behind a pulpit or a wedding ring. You’re just honest about it. And somehow that makes you the problem.

Your jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” you mutter under your breath as you pass them. “Real fucking sinners, right?”

No one answers. Of course they don’t. They never do. You keep moving. Faster now.

The flat, beige, and unwelcoming station comes into view like a bad memory you can’t shake. The flag barely moves in the lazy wind like even it’s too tired to care.

By the time you reach the steps, sweat is sliding down your chest, sticking your shirt to your skin. Your hair is already coming loose, strands clinging to your neck. You don’t slow down. You shove the door open. And the cold hits you like a shock. You freeze for half a second. Just enough to feel it.

Air conditioning blasting like a miracle, like stepping into a different world entirely. Your skin prickles, goosebumps rising instantly, your breath catching as your body tries to adjust.

For a second—just one—you forget why you’re here. And then you see him. And you laugh. You can’t help it. It bursts out of you, loud and sharp and completely out of place in the sterile quiet of the station.

Joe Cross stands in the middle of the room, squared up like he’s on a stage instead of in a half empty office that smells like paper and bleach. An iPhone is pointed at him. One of his officers—some kid who looks like he regrets every life choice that led him here—is holding it up, trying to keep it steady.

Joe clears his throat.

“For the people of Eddington,” he starts, voice already too stiff, too rehearsed, “I believe in strong leadership. Real leadership. Not the kind that hides behind—”

He stumbles. Just a little. Enough. Your laugh gets louder. He falters completely this time, eyes snapping toward you. The officer lowers the phone slightly, confused. Joe straightens, irritation flashing across his face like a crack in glass.

“What the hell is so funny?” he snaps.

You lean against the doorframe, still laughing, shaking your head.

“This?” you gesture vaguely at him, the phone, the whole pathetic setup. “This is your campaign?”

He bristles. “We’re filming—”

“No, I can tell,” you cut in, wiping under your eye like you’re actually crying from it. “I just didn’t realize it was supposed to be comedy.”

The officer snorts before he can stop himself. Joe shoots him a look that could kill. You push off the wall, stepping further inside, the cool air wrapping around you, grounding you just enough to keep going.

“You don’t even know what you’re saying,” you go on, voice lighter than you feel. “You’re just…standing there. Talking. About nothing.”

His jaw tightens.

“I’m talking about change,” he says, forcing control back into his voice.

“Yeah?” you tilt your head. “Name one thing.”

Silence. Just for a second. But it’s enough. Your smile widens, slow and sharp.

“Thought so.”

The room shifts. You can feel it—the tension, the attention, the way every set of eyes is now on you instead of him. And for once? You don’t hate it. You step closer. Slow and deliberate. Your voice drops just enough to make it personal.

“You really think you can run this town?” you ask. “You? With nothing to say and nothing to offer except whatever dirt you think you’ve got on people?”

His expression changes. Not much. But enough. There it is. That flicker. You see it. And now he knows you see it too.

“Careful,” he says quietly.

You smile.

“Or what?”

It lands sharper than you expect. Like you finally stopped flinching. Joe watches you for a second too long. Something in his face shifts—not anger, not yet. Something meaner. Like he’s been waiting for you to step into this exact spot so he can pull the ground out from under you.

The officer with the phone lowers it completely now, glancing between the two of you like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be. Joe exhales through his nose, slow. Then he smiles.

“Tell me something,” he says, tone suddenly casual, like you’re back to small talk. “You know when the Horseshoe's opening back up?”

It hits strange. Out of nowhere. You blink once, thrown off just enough to hate it.

“What?”

“The club,” he repeats, tilting his head. “You still working there, right?”

You stiffen. You don’t like how he says it. Working there. Like it’s something sticky. Like it leaves residue.

“I don’t know,” you answer, clipped. “Nobody does.”

That part’s true. Everything’s been limbo. Waiting. Delayed announcements and empty promises. You’ve been surviving day to day, same as everyone else. Joe hums like he expected that.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a beat.

You shift your weight, impatient. “You got a point, or—”

He cuts you off.

“They’re opening the diner next week.”

You frown. “I know that.”

“Mechanic’s right after,” he adds, watching you carefully now.

“I know that too.”

You feel irritation climbing your spine. Why is he telling you this? You’ve talked about this with Ted. Late nights, early mornings, quiet moments where the world felt almost normal again. You’d joked about eating greasy takeout food in his SUV like nothing had changed. You remember telling him—clear as anything—you couldn’t wait for the greasiest burger and a strawberry shake. You remember the way his mouth had twitched at that. The way he’d said, “I know.”

Joe keeps going.

“And after that…” he shrugs lightly, like it’s nothing. “Garcia’s place.”

Your body goes still. Not visibly. But inside? Everything halts.

“What?” you ask, slower this time.

Joe watches it happen. Watches the exact second something in you catches.

“His bar,” he says, like you’re the one who’s behind. “He’s got the paperwork ready. Just waiting for the green light after the first two reopenings go smooth.”

The words don’t land right. Like your brain doesn’t want to hold them. You blink.

“That’s not—” you start, then stop.

Because suddenly you’re not sure. You think back. Every conversation. Every night he’s been in your bed, in your kitchen, in your space like he belongs there. You talked about the diner. You talked about town hall. You talked about Joe, about the campaign, about everything. He never mentioned the reopening of his bar. Not once.

Your chest tightens.

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say, but it comes out quieter now. Less certain.

Joe shrugs again, easy.

“Why wouldn’t it?”

Because he would’ve told me. The thought hits hard. He tells you everything that matters. Doesn’t he? You remember...

Him showing up late, exhausted, talking about council votes like they weighed on him. Him muttering into your shoulder about budgets, closures, pressure from the county and state. Him asking what you thought. Actually asking. Like your opinion mattered.

Your stomach twists.

“You’re lying,” you say, trying to remain composed.

Joe smiles. There it is again. That knowing look.

“I don’t have to lie to you,” he says. “Not about this.”

Silence stretches. The officer shifts awkwardly behind the counter, clearly wishing he was anywhere else. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Your brain is moving too fast now. Replaying things. Small things. Ted checking his phone more often. Ted getting quiet mid conversation sometimes. Ted saying “we’ll figure it out” instead of anything concrete.

Your pulse ticks up. No. No, that doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. He’s busy. He’s the mayor.

Of course there are things he doesn’t say out loud right away.

Of course—

Joe interrupts your thoughts like he can hear them.

“Funny thing about small towns,” he says lightly. “Nothing stays quiet for long. Especially not decisions that big.”

Your jaw tightens. “Spit it out.”

You don’t want him dragging this. You don’t want him enjoying it.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re something under glass. And then—

He drops it.

“They already voted.”

The words don’t register at first.

“What?”

“At the last closed session,” he continues, almost bored now. “Couple weeks ago.”

Your heart stutters.

You swallow. “Voted on what?”

You already know. Somewhere deep down, you already know. But you need him to say it. You need to hear it. Joe doesn’t rush. He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms like he’s settling in for a show.

“The Horseshoe,” he says. “Permanent closure.”

Everything inside you goes quiet. Just... gone. Like someone cut the power.

You stare at him. Not moving. Not breathing right.

“That’s not…” your voice trails off. “No.”

Joe watches your face carefully.

Enjoying this.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“No,” you repeat, sharper now. “They can’t just—”

“They can,” he cuts in. “And they did.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. Your mind is scrambling now. Trying to catch up. Trying to find a version of reality where this makes sense.

“They didn’t announce anything,” you say. “There would’ve been—people would’ve—”

“It’s coming,” Joe says. “They’re waiting to stagger the reopenings. Make it look less…targeted.”

Targeted. The word burns.

“Bullshit,” you snap. “That place employs half the girls in this town.”

Joe lifts a brow. “Did.”

The officer winces. Actually winces. You don’t even notice.

Your chest is tight now. Too tight. You think of the Horseshoe. The lights. The noise. The way it felt alive. The way it paid your rent, your bills, your life. Gone. Just like that.

“You’re lying,” you say again, but there’s no bite left in it now.

Joe doesn’t even react this time. He just watches you.

And then because he’s not done. Of course he’s not done.

“He knew,” Joe says.

That one hits. Clean and precise.

You blink. “What?”

“The mayor,” he clarifies, voice almost gentle now. “He’s been aware for weeks.”

Your stomach drops.

No. No, no—

“He didn’t—” you start, but the words won’t finish.

Joe tilts his head.

“He voted for it.”

Everything stops. This time for real. You feel it happen. Something inside you—something you didn’t even realize you were holding—just…gives.

“No,” you say, barely above a whisper.

Joe doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“He signed off,” he says. “Same as the rest of them.”

You stare at him. And suddenly you’re not in the station anymore. You’re in your kitchen. You’re in your bed. You’re on your couch, watching him on that stupid campaign video, talking about protecting the town. You’re laughing at his texts. You’re waiting for him to show up with takeout.

You’re remembering...

Strawberry milkshakes.Cheeseburgers wrapped in paper. Him handing them to you like it was something important. Like you were something important.

Your throat tightens painfully. He knew.

All those nights...

All those conversations...

All those times you talked about things opening back up, about getting back to normal, about surviving this...

He knew. And he didn’t say a word. Your hands feel numb. You look down at them like they belong to someone else. The officer is staring at you now. Not smug. Not amused. Just… watching. Like he knows something just broke.

Joe pushes off the desk, slow and measured. 

“Guess he forgot to mention that part,” he says.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your brain is trying to rearrange him. Trying to make the man you know fit into this new shape.

The man who holds you like you matter. The man who says your name like it’s something soft. The man who just this morning told you...

Never gonna lose you.

Your chest aches. Because now it sounds different.

Now it sounds like something else. Like a promise he made knowing exactly what he’d already taken from you. Your job. Your stability. Your place in this town, shitty as it was. Gone. And he helped make it happen.

You feel sick.

“You’re wrong,” you say finally, but it’s hollow.

Even you can hear it. Joe doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to.

“You can ask him,” he says.

The words sit there. Daring you. The station feels too cold now. Too bright. You suddenly hate being here. Hate him. Hate this town. Hate the way everything is always just out of reach—normal, decent, fair.

Your jaw tightens hard.

“Stay out of my life,” you say, voice low and shaking just enough to betray you.

Joe smiles again. Because he knows. He knows he doesn’t have to. He’s already in it.

You turn before he can say anything else. Before you can see whatever expression he’s wearing now. Before you break in front of him.The door slams harder than you mean it to. Heat crashes into you again. Blinding and immediate. But it doesn’t feel the same now. Nothing does.

You stand there for a second on the steps, breathing hard, the sun beating down on you like punishment.

Your head is spinning. Your chest feels tight. Ted’s face flashes in your mind... soft, half asleep, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

You swallow hard.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but you don’t know who you’re saying it to.

Him. Joe. Yourself. Maybe all three.

The town stretches out in front of you. Same as always. But something about it feels different now. Like it’s already moved on without you. Like it always was going to.

And you—

You’re just standing here, realizing you might not have known him at all.

You decide not to go to Ted.

That’s the first decision you make, even if it doesn’t feel like one. It just… happens. Your body turns away from the station, away from the hill where his house sits like something permanent and unreachable, and instead you start walking in the opposite direction.

Home.

You don’t run or rush. You just walk.

Step after step, the heat pressing into your skin, the sun high and merciless like it wants to expose everything you’ve been trying not to see. The same streets stretch out in front of you, the same cracked pavement, the same sagging porches , the same desert wind dragging dust across everything like a quiet warning.

You pass the same houses you passed an hour ago, but now they feel different. The windows feel sharper, like eyes instead of glass. The silence feels heavier, like it’s not just empty but watching. You can feel it in the way people look at you when you pass—still the same judgment, the same quiet disgust but now it lands differently.

Before, it was them versus you. Now it feels like him too.

Your jaw tightens. You keep walking. You don’t look at anyone directly, but you see everything anyway. A woman pulling her kid a little closer as you pass. A man pretending to check his phone while his eyes follow your ass. Someone across the street pausing mid-conversation, voice lowering just enough that you know it’s about you.

It’s always about you. But now your mind isn’t on them. It’s on him. On the way his name sits in your chest like something that used to be solid. You keep replaying it. He knew. Weeks.

Joe didn’t hesitate when he said it. Didn’t fumble, didn’t guess. He knew exactly what he was saying, exactly where it would land. And worse—worse than Joe knowing is the way it fits.

Too easily. Too fucking clean.

Your steps slow without you meaning them to. You pass one of his posters nailed to a wooden post, the paper curling slightly at the edges from the heat. His face stares out at you, calm, composed, and steady. The kind of face people trust. The kind of face that promises things without saying them outright.

You stop. Just for a second. Look at it. Really look at it. Before, you liked seeing him like this. It made you proud in a quiet, private way you never admitted out loud. Like you knew something no one else did. Like the man on the poster and the man in your bed were two versions of the same truth.

It looks fake now. Though not entirely fake. That’s the worst part.

It’s still him. The same eyes. The same mouth. The same quiet strength that made people listen when he spoke. But now it feels…constructed. Like something built. Like something chosen.

Like something that doesn’t include you.

You look away. Keep walking. Your chest feels tight, like something is pressing inward from all sides.

You think about his speeches. The way he stands at a podium, voice steady, talking about community and safety and doing what’s right. You think about the way he picks his words carefully, the way he pauses just long enough to make people lean in.

It all felt real before. Now it feels calculated. Intentional.

Like he knows exactly what people need to hear and gives it to them. Even if it costs something else. Even if it costs you.

Your chest tightens.

You think about the nights he spent in your house. The way he’d talk to you like you mattered. The way he’d ask what you thought about things like it wasn’t just polite, like it actually meant something. The way he’d listen.

And now you can’t stop hearing it...

Everything he didn’t say.

Every time you brought up the club. Every time you joked about going back, about getting your life back, about things returning to normal. Every time you said you couldn’t wait.

And he—

What? Nodded? Changed the subject? Kissed you?

Your stomach twists.

He didn’t trust you enough to tell you. That’s what it comes down to.

Not just that he voted. Not just that he chose. That he decided your future for you. Quietly. Without you in the room. Without giving you a chance to react, to fight, to even know.

Your pace picks up again, anger starting to bleed into something hotter, sharper.

He protected the town. Of course he did. That’s his job. That’s what he does. That’s what everyone loves him for.

But he did it while still coming to your house. While still crawling into your bed, touching you like you were something precious, saying things that felt dangerously close to love.

He chose the town. And still chose you. Like you were separate. Like you weren’t affected by the same decisions. Like you could just… exist in the space he carved out for you.

Your chest aches. Because you know. You know he cares.

You know he loves you in the only way he knows how—quiet, restrained, and careful, like he’s always one step away from losing something.

You’ve felt it. In the way he holds you. In the way he looks at you when he forgets himself. In the way he says your name when he’s not thinking about anything else.

But he still chose them. Over you.

And that...

That’s what breaks something.

By the time your house comes into view, your head is buzzing with it. Every memory reframed, every moment turned over and over until it doesn’t fit the same way anymore.

You don’t slow down when you reach the porch. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open, step inside, and the air hits you like something stale, something waiting.

The envelope is still there. Exactly where you left it.You stare at it. For one second. Two. And then you cross the room, grab it, and throw it straight into the trash like it burned you.

You don’t want to look at it again. You don’t want to give it that power. Fuck Ted. And fuck his political career. 

Your hands are shaking now. Not from fear. From something else.

You turn and head straight to the bathroom.

The shower turns on with a violent hiss, water sputtering before it steadies. You step in before it’s even fully warm, the cold biting at your skin, making you suck in a sharp breath.

You just stand there. Let it hit you. Let it soak into your hair, your skin, everything.

You reach down, scrub hard. Harder than you need to. Like you’re trying to erase something. The feeling of him. The warmth. The evidence.

His cum still inside you, still on you, still something you chose to keep just hours ago... now it feels different. Now it feels like something you need off.

You wash it away. All of it. Every trace.

Your hands move fast, rough, like you’re angry at your own body for holding onto it, for wanting to keep it. Soap lathers, rinses, disappears down the drain, and you keep going until your skin feels raw, until there’s nothing left but heat and water and your own breathing echoing off the tile.

By the time you step out, your hair is dripping, your skin flushed. You don’t look in the mirror. You don’t want to.

You wrap yourself in a towel for all of ten seconds before dropping it and moving again.

The bed. The sheets. They smell like him.

You rip them off in one motion, yanking the blankets with them, pillows tossed aside like they offended you. Fabric piles up on the floor, tangled and heavy and still holding onto something you don’t want anymore.

Trash bags.

You grab them from under the sink, shove everything inside without folding, without caring. The sound of plastic crinkling fills the room, loud and harsh.

You tie the bag off tight. Too tight. Like that’ll do anything. You stand there for a second, breathing hard, staring at it. Then you grab another. More sheets. More blankets. Everything. Gone.

By the time you’re done, your room looks bare. Different. Like something was stripped out of it.

You then pull on clothes, shorts, another tank top. You shove a handful of coins into your pocket, not even counting them. And then you leave again. 

You don’t stop moving until your legs force you to.

The laundromat sits on the edge of town like everything else—sun bleached, low, humming with machines that sound older than the building itself. The sign out front flickers even in daylight, letters half dead, like no one’s bothered to care in years. You push the door open with your shoulder, trash bags digging into your fingers, the plastic biting into your skin as the weight shifts.

Inside, the air hits you all at once.

It smells like detergent and metal and something faintly sour underneath, like too many people trying to wash things that don’t really come clean. The machines rattle and churn along one wall, a steady, grinding rhythm that almost drowns out your thoughts if you let it.

You don’t.

You drag your bags across the tile, not caring about the noise, not caring about anything except getting the sheets out of your hands. You shove everything into the first open washer you find—blankets, pillowcases, tangled fabric that still feels like him if you let yourself think about it long enough.

You don’t.

You dump soap in without measuring. Slam the lid shut harder than necessary. The machine kicks to life with a violent jerk, water slamming into fabric like it’s trying to beat something out of it.

Good.

You turn away before you can second guess it.

There’s a plastic chair near the wall, cracked along the edge. You drop into it, legs spread slightly, elbows braced on your knees as you lean forward, breathing hard like you ran the whole way here instead of just walking too fast.

Your skin is still sensitive from the shower. Your hair is half dried in uneven strands, clinging to your neck. Sweat gathers anyway—Eddington doesn’t care what you’ve already been through today. It just keeps taking.

You stare at the floor. At the scuffed tile, the faded footprints, the quiet evidence of people coming in here to clean things they couldn’t fix any other way.

Your phone vibrates. You don’t even look at it at first. You already know.

It keeps going. Buzzing against your waistband, persistent, familiar. That rhythm you’ve learned without trying. Him.

You close your eyes for a second.

Then you reach down, pull it out, and look. Ted. Of course.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You can picture him without even trying—jaw tight, pacing somewhere, probably already halfway through whatever meeting he rushed to, checking his phone between conversations, expecting you to answer like you always do.

Because you always do. Because you never don’t.

The phone buzzes again in your hand.

And you just…

Let it.

You hit silence. Not decline. 

The vibration stops. The screen goes dark. Your reflection stares back at you faintly—tired, blank, something harder sitting behind your eyes that wasn’t there this morning.

You shove the phone back into your waistband like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. It doesn’t feel like nothing.

It feels like holding your breath underwater and pretending you don’t need air.

The machines keep running. Time stretches. You don’t notice how long you’ve been sitting there until a sound cuts through the noise... sharp, deliberate. Someone clearing their throat. Loud.

You blink, head snapping up, irritation already climbing your spine before you even look.

There’s a guy across from you. You hadn’t registered him when you walked in—just movement, presence, something you didn’t care enough to focus on. But now he’s there, leaning back against one of the machines, arms crossed loosely, watching you like he’s been trying to get your attention for a while.

He’s not ugly. That’s the first thing you think.

Clean enough. Early thirties maybe. Broad shoulders, sun-tanned skin, hair that looks like he actually tries with it. The kind of guy who blends in here—construction, oil, something steady and physical. The kind of guy who probably has a truck that smells like dust and fast food.

Not your type. Not him. Not even close.

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary, unimpressed.

“What?” you ask, flat.

He doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like he expected that.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “Just figured you’d notice eventually.”

You huff quietly, leaning back in your chair now, arms folding across your chest.

“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You got my attention.”

Something about that makes him smile. Not cocky exactly... more like he’s amused you didn’t immediately shut him down.

“Rough morning?” he asks, nodding toward the washer.

You follow his gaze without thinking. The machine’s still going, water slamming, fabric twisting violently.

“Something like that,” you say.

He nods like that makes sense.

“I get it,” he says. “This place tends to catch people on bad days.”

You let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh if you were in a different mood.

“Yeah?” you say. “What’s yours?”

He gestures vaguely around the room.

“Same as everyone else,” he says. “Work dried up. Too much time. Not enough money. Figured I’d at least keep my clothes clean while everything else falls apart.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Construction?” you guess.

He nods.

“Yeah. You?”

You pause. There’s a version of this answer you’ve given a hundred times. A softer one. A vague one. You don’t use it.

“Club,” you say. “Or I was.”

His expression shifts—not judgmental, not surprised. Just…processing.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That makes sense.”

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He holds his hands up a little.

“Nothing bad,” he says quickly. “Just—you’ve got that look.”

“That look?” you repeat.

“Like you don’t belong sitting still,” he says. “Like you’re used to moving. Talking. People paying attention.”

You stare at him. He’s not wrong. You don’t like that.

“Yeah,” you say after a beat. “Well. Nobody’s paying for that right now.”

He nods again.

“Same,” he says.

Silence settles for a second, but it’s not awkward. Not heavy. Just…there.

Then he shifts slightly, pushing off the machine.

“So,” he says, a little more direct now. “You single?”

The question lands clean. Simple. Normal.

You almost laugh. Your brain doesn’t answer right away. Because what is that? What are you?

Almost two years. Almost two full years of him showing up in the dark, slipping into your life like something that only exists when no one’s looking. Two years of not needing to ask that question because the answer didn’t matter.

You haven’t been with anyone else. Not once. Not even close.

Your thumb presses lightly against your waist where your phone sits tucked away. Silent.

You think about this morning. About his hands. His voice. The way he said things like they were real.

Then you think about Joe. What he told you.

Your jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” you say finally.

The word comes out steady. Like you didn’t hesitate at all. His brows lift slightly, like he didn’t expect that.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you repeat, firmer.

Something settles in your chest as you say it. Relief? Regret?

He studies you for a second, then nods slowly.

“Good to know,” he says.

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He shrugs, a hint of a grin pulling at his mouth.

“Because,” he says, “there’s a thing tonight.”

You don’t react right away.

“A thing,” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he says. “Small. Just…people who are sick of sitting around doing nothing.”

You huff quietly.

“That’s illegal right now,” you say.

“So is half the shit everyone’s been doing to get by,” he shoots back easily.

You don’t argue that.

He shifts his weight, watching you closer now.

“Come with me,” he says. “Couple drinks. Music. Something that doesn’t feel like this.” He gestures around the laundromat.

You glance at the machines. The noise. The empty chairs. The silence.

You think about going home.About the bare bed. The stripped sheets you would have to put back on. The empty space. You think about waiting. About him maybe showing up. About him explaining.

Or not.

Your stomach twists. You look back at the guy.

“At a house?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Out past the edge of town. Nothing fancy.”

You consider it. Really consider it.

Not him. Not the party. What it means. Doing something you wouldn’t have done yesterday. Something you wouldn’t have even thought about.

Your fingers tap lightly against your knee.

“Why me?” you ask.

He smiles, a little crooked.

“Because you look like you need it,” he says.

You stare at him for a long second.

Then you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly.

“Maybe I do,” you say.

The words hang there. And for the first time all day, you don’t think about turning back.

You sit there for a second in silence, the weight of your own words settling into your chest in a way that feels unfamiliar and a little reckless. It’s not like you’ve never made impulsive decisions before—you live off them, survive off them—but this one feels different. This one isn’t about money, or distraction, or getting through another night. This one feels intentional. Like you’re choosing something instead of just falling into it.

You look at him again, really look this time, and let out a short breath that turns into a quiet laugh.

“If you’re driving,” you say, nodding toward the machines, “you can take me home after this finishes.”

He straightens a little, interest sharpening.

“And then?” he asks.

You shrug, like it doesn’t matter, like it’s casual.

“Then I’ll go,” you say. “But you’re picking me up. I’m not walking all the way out there.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.

“Deal,” he says.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

He shrugs, mirroring you from earlier.

“Desperate times,” he says.

You huff out another laugh, softer this time.

“Yeah,” you say. “Guess so.”

The machines keep running, filling the silence between you with a steady hum that almost feels comforting now. You don’t think about your phone again. You don’t think about the house waiting for you, stripped and empty.

You just sit there, talking about nothing and everything... weather, stupid town gossip, what little there is left to do in a place that feels like it’s holding its breath.

By the time your laundry is done, the sun has shifted just enough to change the color of everything outside. The heat hasn’t let up, but it’s softened at the edges, like the day is finally starting to loosen its grip.

He helps you carry the bags without asking. You don’t thank him. It’s not that kind of interaction.

The drive back to your place is quiet in a way that isn’t uncomfortable. His truck smells like dust and something faintly sweet, like gum or air freshener that’s been there too long. The windows are cracked, hot wind pushing through, carrying that familiar desert smell.

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes half lidded, watching the road blur past.

You don’t think about Ted. Not really. You don’t let yourself. Or so you tell yourself.

When you pull up to your house, it looks exactly the same as when you left. Like nothing inside it could possibly have shifted, even though you know better.

You grab your bags, stepping out onto the gravel.

“Seven?” he asks, leaning out the window.

You glance back at him, shielding your eyes from the sun.

“Seven,” you confirm.

He nods once.

“I’ll be here.”

You don’t respond. Just shut the door and head inside, the weight of the bags pulling at your arms again.

The house greets you with that same stale quiet. It doesn’t feel as sharp now, though. Not as suffocating. Maybe because you’re not planning to stay in it all night.

You dump the laundry on a chair, not bothering to put anything away yet. You’ll deal with it later. Or tomorrow. Or never.

Right now, all you want is to shut your eyes.

The bed is bare, stripped down to the mattress, and for a second you hesitate. The absence is loud. Too loud. But you’re too tired to care.

You grab a thin throw from the couch, drag it back with you, and collapse onto the bed without thinking too hard about it.

The ceiling stares back at you. Your body is still buzzing, not from anything physical now, but from everything sitting just under the surface. The conversation at the station. The look on Joe’s face. The words that won’t stop replaying no matter how hard you try to push them away.

He knew.

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Stop,” you whisper to yourself.

You turn onto your side, curling slightly, pulling the throw up around you even though it does nothing to block out the heat.

Sleep comes anyway. Not deep. Not peaceful. Just enough to drag you under and give your mind something else to chew on.

What you don’t see, what you don’t feel, is the quiet shift happening somewhere else entirely.

Across town, a house sits just as still as yours. A driveway empty. A door closed. And on that door, an envelope—thick, deliberate, familiar in all the worst ways—is slid into place by hands that don’t linger.

It sits there. Waiting.

At the courthouse, Ted's moving through his day like he always does, controlled and focused. Papers in hand, voice steady, answering questions, signing things that affect everyone but him... or at least that’s how it’s supposed to feel.

But something’s off. It’s small. Subtle. The kind of thing no one else would notice.

He checks his phone more than usual. Between conversations. Between signatures. Between moments where his attention should be elsewhere. Your name sits there in the silence. Unread. Unanswered.

He tries again. Call. Straight to nothing.

His jaw tightens just slightly. He tells himself you’re busy. That you’re sleeping. That you’re doing exactly what you always do. But the feeling doesn’t leave.

It lingers...

Quiet. Persistent. Wrong.

By the time the sun starts to drop, painting the sky in those washed out desert colors that never quite feel real, you wake up with a sharp inhale.

Your body feels heavy, like you’ve been dragged through something instead of resting. Your hair sticks to your face. The throw is half on the floor.

For a second, you don’t remember where you are. Then it all comes back. Your stomach twists.

You sit up slowly, pressing your palm to your face, dragging it down like you can wipe the memory away.

Your phone sits somewhere in the house. You don’t go looking for it. You don’t need to. You already know. Calls. Messages. Probably more than you want to count.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching out the stiffness in your body. The light coming through the window is different now.

Seven isn’t far off.

You move toward the bathroom without thinking too hard about it. The mirror catches you again, and this time you stop.

You look… different.

Not in a dramatic way. Nothing obvious. But there’s something sharper in your expression. Something less willing to bend.

“Good,” you mutter under your breath.

You reach for your makeup. It’s not about looking good for him. Not really. It’s about control. You take your time with it.

Foundation first, smoothing over skin that still feels raw in places. Concealer where you need it. Powder to set everything into place. Your hands move automatically, muscle memory guiding you through each step.

You focus on it. On the lines. The blending. The small details that demand your attention just enough to quiet everything else. Your eyes take longer. You darken them more than usual. Sharper edges. Heavier liner. Something that makes you look a little less approachable, a little more untouchable.

Good.

Your lips last. You pause there, staring at your reflection. Then you choose something bold anyway. Because why not? Because you can. Because no one gets to tell you what version of yourself you’re allowed to be tonight.

Your hair comes next. You don’t overthink it. Just work through it until it falls the way you want... messy but intentional, like you didn’t try too hard even though you did.

By the time you’re done, the sun is nearly gone. You step back, looking at yourself fully now. You don’t look like someone who spent the day breaking.

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

“Good enough.”

Your outfit comes together quickly after that. Something that fits tight, clings where it should.  You don’t think about Ted while you get dressed. Not consciously... But his absence is there anyway, sitting just under the surface of everything.

You ignore it.

By the time you’re pulling your shoes on, you hear it. A horn. You glance toward the door.

Seven.

Of course.

You grab your keys and phone without hesitation, heading out into the cooling air. The sky is streaked with color now, fading fast into that deep desert blue that swallows everything after dark. The heat lingers, but it’s softer, less punishing.

His truck idles in your driveway. He leans over, pushing the passenger door open from the inside before you even reach it.

“Right on time,” he says.

You don’t answer. You just climb in, pulling the door shut behind you. And for the first time since this morning, you let yourself go somewhere that has nothing to do with him.

You don’t say anything for the first few minutes after getting into the truck. The engine hums low beneath you, tires crunching over gravel before easing onto the open stretch of road that cuts through the desert like a scar. 

He doesn’t push it. He just drives. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gear shift, like this is normal for him. Like picking you up, like bringing you somewhere like this, is something he does all the time.

You glance at him briefly.

“You got a name?” you ask, finally breaking the silence.

He lets out a quiet laugh, like he’s been waiting for that.

“Joseph,” he says. “Figured we should probably start there.”

You nod once, leaning your head back against the seat again.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”

“Yours?” he asks.

You tell him.

He repeats it once, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth, then nods to himself.

“Fits,” he says.

You don’t respond to that.

The road stretches on, empty and endless, desert on both sides like it’s swallowing everything whole. The wind pushes through the cracked window, warm and dry, carrying that familiar smell of dust and heat and something faintly metallic underneath.

“Friend’s place,” he says after a while, nodding ahead. “He’s got some land out past the edge. Nobody really bothers him out there.”

You hum softly.

“Makes sense,” you say.

Silence settles again, but it’s lighter this time. Easier.

“You been losing your mind yet?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him.

“What?”

“This whole thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Lockdowns. Curfews. Everyone acting like the world’s ending.”

You let out a breath.

“Yeah,” you say. “Little bit.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Little bit?” he repeats. “I’m about two days away from losing it completely.”

You smirk faintly.

“Same.”

And that’s the truth. Because it’s not just the pandemic. It’s everything wrapped up inside it.

The shutdowns. The silence. The way your life just… stopped without asking you first. The way the one place that kept you afloat is gone now, erased like it never mattered.

The way he—

You cut the thought off. Hard. But it lingers anyway.

You stare out the window, watching the darkness creep in.This pandemic. It’s the reason the club is closing. The reason everything is falling apart. The reason he made that decision. The reason he didn’t tell you.

Your jaw tightens. The reason whatever you had with him is starting to crack down the middle, whether either of you wants to admit it or not.

You shift in your seat slightly. Maybe this is good. Maybe this—this ride, this night, this random guy who showed up out of nowhere—is exactly what you need. A distraction. A break. Something that isn’t him.

Your eyes flick toward Joseph again. He’s focused on the road, relaxed in a way that feels… simple. No weight behind it. No hidden meaning. Just a guy driving you somewhere.

The thought slips in before you can stop it. Maybe you should. Maybe you should just… let yourself go tonight. Let it happen. Let something happen.

Sleep with Joseph... Forget everything else for a few hours. Forget the envelope. Forget Ted's vote. Forget the way your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and filled with something sharp.

Your stomach turns. Hard. You look away immediately, pressing your lips together.

No.

The idea alone makes something in you twist wrong. Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how hurt—

Your heart doesn’t move that fast. It’s still there. Still tangled up in someone else. In someone older, steadier, complicated in ways that make your head spin. In someone who said things this morning that you didn’t question until it was too late.

You swallow.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath.

Joseph glances over.

“You good?”

You nod quickly.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just tired.”

He accepts that without pushing.

“Not much farther,” he says.

You nod again, grateful for the shift.

The road turns rougher after that, dirt kicking up behind the truck as he veers off onto a path that barely looks like one. You can see it before you even fully arrive—the glow of lights in the distance, headlights scattered everywhere, silhouettes of cars and trucks parked in uneven rows across an open stretch of land.

It’s bigger than you expected. Way bigger.

“Jesus,” you murmur.

Joseph grins slightly.

“Told you,” he says.

It looks like a ranch.

Wide. Open. A house sitting in the middle of it like it doesn’t care about anything outside its own walls. Music drifts through the air, low but steady, bass thumping just enough to feel it under your skin before you even step out.

People are everywhere. Not just a few. A lot. More than there should be. More than anyone’s supposed to allow right now.

Your pulse ticks up. Not from fear. From something else. Energy. Movement. Life.

Joseph pulls the truck to a stop among the others, engine cutting out with a soft rumble. For a second, neither of you move.

Then he’s already unbuckling, stepping out before you can reach for the handle. You blink. He moves fast, circling the front of the truck like it’s second nature, like he doesn’t even think about it. By the time you reach for the door, it’s already being pulled open from the outside.

You pause. He stands there, one hand on the door, waiting.

“After you,” he says.

You stare at him for half a second.

It’s… nice. Simple. Normal. Not complicated. Not hidden.

You step out, brushing past him slightly.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter than you expected.

He nods like it’s nothing.

“No problem.”

But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

Because another man is doing something small and considerate for you, out in the open, without hesitation, without needing to hide it. And it throws you off. More than it should.

You follow him toward the house, gravel crunching under your shoes, the sound of voices getting louder the closer you get.

Inside, it’s chaos. Not bad chaos. Alive chaos.

Music louder now, people packed into rooms that feel too small for the amount of bodies in them. Laughter. Shouting. Someone yelling over a song you vaguely recognize.

It hits you all at once. The noise, heat, movement. You almost laugh.

Joseph doesn’t hesitate. The second you step in, he’s already being pulled into a group of guys near the doorway.

“Holy shit, you made it,” one of them says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Joseph laughs, easy, like he belongs here.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Told you I would.”

Then he gestures toward you.

“This is—” he says your name, clear, direct.

Every single one of them looks at you. Of course they do. They try not to make it obvious. They fail. You can feel it. The way their eyes linger just a second too long. The way they take you in, piece by piece, like they’re trying to figure you out without asking.

You don’t react. You’ve been looked at your whole life. This is nothing.

“Hey,” one of them says, a little too eager.

You nod once.

“Hey.”

Joseph doesn’t let it linger.

“C’mon,” he says, lightly touching your arm. “Let’s get you a drink.”

You let him guide you through the crowd, weaving between bodies, the music vibrating through the floor under your feet. The kitchen is worse. Packed. But there’s a table set up against one wall, bottles lined up like a display—cheap liquor, plastic cups, whatever people could get their hands on.

Joseph grabs one without asking, pours something dark into it, then holds it out to you. You don’t hesitate. You take it. Don’t say thank you. Don’t think. You bring it straight to your lips and take a long drink. It burns. Exactly what you need.

You exhale through your nose, eyes closing for just a second as the heat spreads through your chest.

“Damn,” he laughs softly.

You glance at him.

“What?” you say.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just… you really needed that, huh?”

You let out a short laugh.

“Yeah,” you admit.

And you do. God, you do. The tension in your shoulders eases just slightly. Not gone. Never gone. But dulled. Manageable.

You take another sip, slower this time. Joseph grabs his own drink, leaning back against the counter beside you.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

“Better.”

And for a second—

Just a second—

It is. Because this is something else. Not quiet. Not empty. Not filled with thoughts you can’t shut off. Just noise. People. Music. Heat. You look around, taking it in. This is what you’ve been missing. Not the club. Not exactly. But this. Being somewhere. Being seen. Existing in a space that doesn’t pretend you don’t.

You glance at Joseph again. He’s watching you, not in that heavy, consuming way you’re used to—but in a lighter one. Curious. Interested. Present. It’s easier... simpler.

You take another drink. Maybe he is a good distraction. Maybe that’s all this needs to be. Because the man you’ve been tangled up with for almost two years—

He would never bring you here. Would never stand beside you in a room like this, introduce you to his friends like you belong there. Would never risk being seen with you.

And here you are. Standing next to someone you met less than five hours ago. Holding a drink he handed you. Surrounded by people who are all looking at you like you’re part of something.

It shouldn’t feel as good as it does. But it does. And that realization sits somewhere deep in your chest, quiet and dangerous in its own way.

The night kept on moving, and you let it.

That’s the simplest way to describe it. You stop resisting the pull of it, stop analyzing every little thing, and just let yourself be carried by the noise, the heat, the alcohol settling deeper into your bloodstream with every sip, every laugh, every careless decision.

At some point, someone grabs your arm and you turn to see a girl with glossy lips and big hoop earrings smiling at you like you’ve known each other for years. She pulls you into a small circle of girls near the living room, their voices layered over the music.

“Where’d you come from?” one of them asks, leaning in like it’s a secret.

You shrug, lifting your cup slightly. “Around.”

They laugh like that’s the right answer. They don’t press too hard, but they’re curious. You can feel it in the way they ask questions, in the way they look at you like you’re something new dropped into their night. Where do you live, what do you do, how do you know Joseph.

You answer enough to keep it easy, keep it flowing, leaving out anything that matters too much. The club doesn’t come up. He doesn’t come up. That part of your life stays exactly where it is—hidden, tucked away, safe from being touched by this.

They like you anyway. You can tell. It’s in the way they laugh a little louder when you speak, in the way one of them bumps her shoulder against yours like you’ve earned your place without asking for it. It’s easy to forget yourself here. Or at least, easier. The alcohol helps.

By the time Joseph finds you again, weaving through the crowd with that same easy grin, your head is light and your edges are softer. He leans in close so you can hear him over the music.

“Beer pong,” he says, nodding toward the back room. “You with me?”

You don’t even think about it.

“Yeah,” you say.

Of course you are.

The table is already set up, cups lined in uneven triangles, the floor sticky under your shoes from spilled drinks and something else you don’t want to think about. People crowd around, cheering too loud for something that doesn’t matter at all. But it does. Because it’s something.

You stand beside him, shoulder brushing his, your hip knocking lightly into his when you shift your weight. He hands you a ball, your fingers brushing his for a second too long.

“Don’t embarrass me,” he says, teasing.

You scoff.

“Please,” you shoot back. “You’re the weak link here.”

He laughs, and it’s easy. Everything about him is easy.

The game starts.

You don’t even remember how long it lasts, just flashes of it—cups disappearing, cheers getting louder, your aim getting worse and better at the same time. The alcohol blurs the edges, but your body knows what it’s doing, instinct taking over where thought would slow you down.

At some point, it’s down to the last shot. Joseph nudges you.

“Your turn,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at your mouth. You toss the ball lightly in your hand once, twice, then throw. It arcs perfectly. Drops and the room explodes.

You don’t even think. You jump. Right into him. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, his hands catching your waist without hesitation, lifting you just slightly off the ground as both of you laugh, loud and unfiltered.

For a second, it feels… good. Too good. Then it hits you. What you’re doing. Where you are. Who this isn’t.

Your body reacts before your brain fully catches up. You pull back quickly, sliding out of his grip, your hands dropping to your sides like you’ve been burned.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t show it.

He’s still laughing, still caught up in the win, clapping someone on the shoulder as people crowd around you both.

“Damn,” he says, looking at you. “Told you you’d carry me.”

You smile, playing it off.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Try to keep up next time.”

And just like that, it passes. But it lingers in you. That moment. That instinct.

You drink more after that. Because you want to. Shots get passed around... cheap, strong, burning in a way that makes your eyes water and your chest feel like it’s on fire in the best way. You don’t count after the third. By the fourth, you’re not really thinking about anything anymore.

Except maybe how good it feels not to think.

But your body eventually calls it. Too much noise. Too much heat. Too many people pressing in from every side.

“I need air,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

You push through the crowd before anyone can stop you, weaving your way toward the back of the house, out into the open.

The backyard is darker and quieter. Not empty, but close enough. A few scattered people sit on the ground or lean against the fence, talking low, smoking, existing in a different rhythm than the chaos inside.

You step out onto the dirt, the night air wrapping around you, cooler but still carrying that desert heat underneath. You inhale deeply, like you’ve been holding your breath all night.

“Hey.”

You turn. Joseph. Of course.

He walks up slower this time, hands in his pockets, watching you carefully.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod, leaning back slightly against the side of the house.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just needed a second.”

He steps closer, not too close, just enough.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

You let out a soft laugh.

“Yeah?” you ask.

He nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Back at the laundromat… I wasn’t sure if you were gonna tell me to fuck off or not.”

You grin slightly.

“I almost did,” you admit.

He laughs.

“Figured,” he says. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

You tilt your head, studying him.

“Why?” you ask.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Because I thought you were pretty,” he says.

It’s so simple it almost throws you. You laugh.

“Yeah?” you say, a little incredulous.

“Yeah,” he repeats.

You shake your head, amused.

“Or,” you add, raising a brow, “you just wanted to get into my pants.”

He immediately shakes his head.

“No,” he says, serious now. “Not like that.”

You watch him for a second, the alcohol making everything feel a little slower, a little heavier.

“Then what?” you ask.

He shrugs slightly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Just… wanted to talk to you. Get to know you.” He pauses, then adds, “Maybe take you out or something when all this shit’s over.”

Your chest does something weird at that. You’re not used to that kind of offer. Not like this. Not out loud. Not this simple.

You open your mouth to respond—

But your phone vibrates...

Right against your chest.

You groan.

“Are you kidding me,” you mutter, already reaching for it.

You pull it out from where you tucked it in your bra, squinting slightly at the screen.

Of course. Ted. Calling. Again.

You don’t even hesitate. You decline it. The screen shifts, lighting up with everything else. Missed calls. Texts. A lot of them.

Your eyes skim over them just long enough to catch the tone.

Ted: Where are you?

Ted: Are you okay?

Ted: Pick up.

Ted: We need to talk.

Your jaw tightens.

“Jesus,” you scoff.

You hold the button down, powering the phone off completely. The screen goes black in your hand. You look at Joseph, then hold the phone out.

“Hold this for me,” you say.

He takes it without question.

“Sure,” he says, slipping it into his pocket.

You exhale, running a hand through your hair.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

He shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You hesitate. Then the words just… come out. Not all of them. But enough.

“There’s this guy,” you say, looking anywhere but at him. “Been… seeing him.”

Joseph doesn’t interrupt. You keep going.

“Won’t go out with me,” you say, your voice sharpening slightly. “Won’t be seen with me. Keeps everything… private.”

You laugh, but it’s bitter.

“Private,” you repeat.

Joseph’s expression hardens slightly.

“That’s bullshit,” he says.

You glance at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “It is.”

“He sounds like an asshole,” he adds.

You huff.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter this time.

He shifts closer, not touching, but near.

“You shouldn’t be hidden,” he says. “Not like that.”

You don’t respond right away. Because the words hit. Harder than they should.

“You deserve better than that,” he continues. “Someone who actually shows you off. Who isn’t scared to be seen with you.”

Your chest tightens.

“You’re…” he pauses, searching for the word, “you’re not something to keep on the side.”

Something in you snaps. Fast. You move before you think.

Your hand comes up to his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling him down just slightly—

And you kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant. It’s messy, sudden, fueled by something that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with everything else.

Your lipstick smears immediately, the taste of alcohol still on your tongue, your breath uneven as you press into him. He freezes for half a second. Then he responds. His hands come up, not grabbing, just holding, like he’s not sure how far to go.

You are. Until you’re not. You pull back first, breath catching, your forehead almost brushing his as you laugh—soft, a little unsteady.

Your lips brush against his neck as you tilt your head down.

“Shit,” you murmur.

And for a second, everything feels like it’s spinning just enough to keep you from thinking too hard about what you just did. But it doesn’t last. It never does.

The second your lips leave his skin, the second the air hits your mouth again, it all comes rushing back in.  Ted. The man you didn’t just kiss. The one you always go back to.

Your stomach drops, hard.

“Can you—” you start, your voice coming out rougher than you expect. You swallow, trying to steady it. “Can you take me home?”

Joseph doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Of course.”

He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t make it weird. That almost makes it worse.

You nod once, already stepping away from him, already putting distance between what just happened and what you’re trying to pretend didn’t.

“I’m just tired,” you add, like it explains anything.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer but not touching you this time. “You don’t have to explain.”

That makes your chest tighten. You don’t respond. Instead, you turn and start walking back toward the front, your steps a little less steady now that the adrenaline is fading and the alcohol is settling deeper into your bones. The ground shifts under your heels, uneven dirt catching you off guard more than once.

Joseph notices. Of course he does.

“Careful,” he says, moving beside you, his hand hovering just behind your back like he’s ready to catch you if you slip.

You don’t tell him to stop. You don’t lean into it either. You just let it happen. The truck feels farther away than it did when you arrived. Or maybe you’re just more aware of every step now, every movement exaggerated by the buzz in your body and the weight sitting heavy in your chest.

By the time you reach it, your head is spinning just enough to make you pause. Joseph opens the door for you again, steady, careful.

“Up you go,” he says lightly.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite in it.

“I’m not that drunk,” you mutter.

“You almost tripped twice,” he counters.

“…shut up.”

He laughs under his breath but doesn’t argue further. He just waits until you’re inside before closing the door and circling back to the driver’s side.

The second the engine turns over, you feel it. The full weight of it. Your body tingles, not in a good way now, but in that heavy, sluggish way that makes your limbs feel disconnected. Your head leans back against the seat, eyes slipping half closed before you force them open again.

You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have gone to the laundromat and talked to Joseph. You shouldn’t have said yes. You shouldn’t have gotten in this truck. You definitely shouldn’t have kissed him.

Your stomach twists violently. You press your lips together, staring straight ahead as the truck rolls forward, the party lights fading behind you.

What the fuck did you just do?

Your fingers curl slightly against your thigh. You imagine his face. The older man with the tired eyes and that mustache that scratches just enough when he kisses you. The way his jaw tightens when he’s pissed, the way his voice drops when he’s trying to stay calm. If he knew. If he saw you like that.

Your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

But then—

Another thought cuts through it. He lied to you. He knew. About the club. About your life. About something that mattered and decided you didn’t deserve to know.

Your jaw clenches.

“Fuck him,” you mutter under your breath.

Joseph glances at you briefly but doesn’t comment.

The drive back feels shorter this time. Or maybe you’re just too lost in your own head to notice the distance.

By the time he turns onto your street, the familiar stretch of road coming into view, you start trying to piece together something to say. Something normal. Something that puts a boundary back in place before this turns into something else entirely.

Your throat feels dry.

“Hey,” you start, pushing yourself upright slightly. “You’re—”

The truck slows. Your house comes into view. And then... you stop. Everything in you goes cold.

There’s a figure on your porch. Sitting. Still. Head down, shoulders tense, one hand gripping a phone like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He looks up the second the headlights hit him. And you know.

Fuck.

“Stop the truck,” you say, your voice sharp, immediate.

Joseph’s already slowing, confused.

“What—?”

“Just stop.”

He does.

The second the truck halts, you’re out.

The door swings open hard, your heels hitting dirt, kicking up dust as you move fast, too fast for how unsteady you actually are. You barely register Joseph behind you, the slam of his door, the sound of his footsteps.

All you see is Ted. Standing now. Already moving toward you.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demands, his voice tight, strained in a way you’ve never heard before.

But then he’s closer. And it shifts. His hands come up, not grabbing, just checking—your arms, your shoulders, your face.

“You okay?” he asks, softer now, searching your expression like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because behind you—

Joseph steps into the light. And everything changes. The older man’s head turns slowly. His eyes land on him. Then back to you. Then to him again. You feel it. The shift in the air.

“Who the fuck is that?” he asks, his voice dropping low.

Joseph freezes for a second. Then something clicks for him. You see it happen in real time. Recognition and shock.

“Wait,” Joseph says, his brows pulling together as he looks between the two of you. “You’re May—”

He stops himself, but it’s too late. He knows. Your stomach drops.

The older man steps slightly in front of you now, not blocking you, but close enough that it feels like it.

“Why is he holding your phone?” he asks, sharper now.

You stay silent for a second. Too long.

“Answer me.”

“Go inside,” you snap suddenly, your voice cutting through the tension.

He blinks.

“What?”

“I said go inside,” you repeat, louder now, your head pounding. “We’re not doing this out here.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you—”

“Go the fuck inside!” you shout, your voice cracking through the quiet street.

That stops him. Really stops him. For a second, neither of you moves. Then his jaw tightens. Hard. He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you for a split second. Then he turns. Without another word. And walks into your house. The door shuts behind him.

The silence that follows is deafening. You turn back to Joseph, your chest rising and falling too fast.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward him. “I didn’t—this isn’t—”

He raises a hand slightly.

“It’s fine,” he says, but it’s not fine.

You can hear it. See it.

“I didn’t know,” he adds, glancing toward your house.

“I know,” you say.

You reach into his pocket without thinking, grabbing your phone back.

“Thank you,” you mutter.

There’s a pause. Then, quieter...

“You should go.”

He nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”

You hesitate.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat.

He studies you for a second, then gives a small nod.

“Take care of yourself,” he says.

Then he turns. Gets in his truck. And leaves.

The sound of his engine fades into the distance, leaving you alone in the dark with everything you’ve been avoiding all night. You don’t give yourself time to think. You turn. March straight into your house.

The door slams behind you, loud enough to echo through the empty rooms.

“Ted!” you call out, your voice already edged with anger.

“Kitchen,” he responds immediately.

You head there, fast, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clenched at your sides.

You round the corner—

And stop. Dead. Your breath catches.

Because the counter...

It’s covered. Photos. Scattered and familiar. Too fucking familiar. Your stomach drops so fast it feels like you’re falling.

The same photos. The ones you threw away. The ones you tried to pretend didn’t exist. There they are. Spread out like evidence. Like a warning. Like something that was never going to stay hidden.

You don’t even get a second to process it.

You don’t get to feel the shock fully, or the fear, or the creeping realization that whatever was circling the two of you is no longer circling—it’s here, it’s real, it’s sitting on your kitchen counter like proof that nothing about this has ever been safe.

Because he doesn’t care. Not about the photos. Not at first.

“What the fuck were you doing with him?” Ted demands, his voice cutting through the room sharp and immediate.

It hits you sideways.

You blink once, slow, your brain still stuck on the images in front of you—the ones you tried to throw away, the ones that somehow found their way back here, doubled, mirrored, multiplied into something you can’t ignore.

“What?” you say, but it comes out flat.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t play dumb. You show up here with some guy—some kid—and I’m supposed to just what? Ignore it?”

Your head turns toward him slowly. There it is. Anger. Possession.

Your jaw tightens.

“Where did you get these?” you ask instead, gesturing toward the counter.

He scoffs like you’ve just insulted him.

“Are you serious right now?” he says. “That’s what you care about right now?”

“Yeah,” you shoot back, sharper now. “That’s what I care about. Where did you get them?”

He stares at you for a second, something in his expression shifting, like he’s recalibrating, trying to decide which fire to put out first.

“There was an envelope,” he says finally, clipped. “Taped to my door when I got home.”

Your stomach drops again. Of course. Of fucking course. You shake your head, a bitter laugh slipping out before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Figures.”

He watches you, confused now, frustration building under his skin.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You don’t answer. You don’t want to stand here. You don’t want to look at those photos. You don’t want to look at him.

So you turn on your heel and walk out of the kitchen.

“Hey—” he calls after you.

You ignore him. Your footsteps are heavy, fast, carrying you down the hallway toward your room like if you move quick enough, you won’t have to deal with what’s coming. Behind you, he follows.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he snaps, his voice louder now, filling the space, bouncing off the walls. “I’m fucking talking to you.”

You keep walking.

“Who the hell is that guy?” he presses. “Why is he bringing you home? Why did he have your phone?”

You don’t answer. Not a word. You step into your room, the stripped bed, the empty space, the lingering absence of everything that was here this morning hitting you all over again. It fuels you. It feeds something ugly and hot and overdue.

“Answer me,” he demands, right behind you now.

Still, nothing. And that—

That’s what does it. His hand grabs you. Hard.

Fingers digging into your shoulders, spinning you around before you can brace yourself, before you can stop it. Your back hits the wall with a dull thud, the impact rattling through you, your breath catching for just a second.

“Enough,” he says, his voice low and dangerous now, his face inches from yours. “What the hell is going on?”

Something in you snaps. You shove against his chest, not enough to move him, but enough to make your point.

“Do you love me?” you demand, your voice breaking out of you before you can stop it.

He blinks. Thrown.

“What?”

“Do you love me?” you repeat, louder now, your chest heaving. “Do you respect me? Do you even see a future with me, or is this just—” your hand gestures wildly between you, “—just nothing? Just something you come to when it’s convenient?”

His brows pull together, confusion flooding his expression.

“Where is this coming from?” he asks, genuinely lost now. “What are you talking about?”

You laugh. It’s sharp. Ugly.

“Don’t do that,” you snap. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” he fires back. “You walk in here with another man, you won’t answer me, and now you’re—”

“I know,” you cut him off.

The words land heavy. He stills.

“What?” he asks, quieter now.

“I know,” you repeat, your voice dropping, steady but shaking underneath. “About everything.”

His expression changes.

“What are you talking about?” he says.

“Joe told me,” you say.

You see it. The flicker of realization.

“I went down to the station today,” you continue, your voice gaining momentum now, fueled by everything you’ve been holding in. “To protect you. Because he was messing with Jessa, because he was trying to get to you through me, and I thought—” you laugh again, bitter, “—I thought I was doing something for you.”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him speak.

“You didn’t think to tell me your bar is opening back up?” you demand. “You didn’t think that was something I should know?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand over his face.

“I was going to tell you—”

“When?” you cut in, stepping closer now, not backing down. “After it happened? After everything was already decided?”

“It’s not like that,” he says quickly. “I just—I didn’t want to—”

“You didn’t want to what?” you snap. “Tell me the truth?”

He hesitates.

“No,” you say, your voice quieter now, more dangerous. “You didn’t.”

You take another step forward.

“And then there’s the Horseshoe,” you add.

He goes still. Completely still.

“You voted for it,” you say, each word sharp, deliberate. “Permanent fucking closure.”

Silence from him. You watch him. Watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes shift just slightly, like he’s searching for something to say and not finding it fast enough.

“That’s what I thought,” you say softly.

“I—” he starts.

“No,” you cut him off again. “Don’t. Don’t even try to spin it.”

He exhales, his shoulders dropping slightly, like something in him is finally giving in.

“I didn’t want it to happen like that,” he says.

“But it did,” you fire back.

“I had to—”

“You didn’t have to do shit,” you snap, your voice rising again. “You chose to.”

“It wasn’t that simple,” he says, frustration bleeding through now. “There were votes—there were numbers—I was already slipping in the polls and they told me if I didn’t—”

“They told you,” you repeat, your voice dripping with disbelief. “They told you, so you just went along with it?”

He steps forward now, his hands coming up like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare.

“I was trying to secure my position,” he says. “If I lost that seat, I couldn’t help anyone. Not you, not me, not the town—”

“You didn’t help me anyway,” you cut in.

That cuts him. You see it and you feel it.

“You didn’t protect me,” you continue, your voice quieter now but cutting deeper. “You didn’t even respect me enough to tell me.”

He looks at you like that’s the part that hurts the most. Because it is.

“I was going to tell you,” he insists, softer now, almost pleading. “I just—I didn’t want to lose you.”

You laugh.

“You already did,” you say.

He shakes his head immediately.

“No,” he says. “No, I didn’t. I just—I needed time, I needed to figure out how to—”

“You were too busy fucking me to say anything,” you snap, your voice breaking through whatever restraint you had left. “Too busy letting me believe everything was fine.”

“That’s not fair,” he says.

“Fair?” you echo. “You want to talk about fair?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your hands shaking now, not from fear, but from the sheer force of everything coming out.

“You’re going to die alone,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Do you know that?”

He flinches. Actually flinches.

“With your shitty political career and your carefully planned speeches and your fake fucking morals,” you continue, relentless now. “That’s going to be your legacy. Not this. Not anything real. Just you, standing at a podium, pretending to give a shit about people you’re willing to screw over the second it benefits you.”

“Stop,” he says quietly.

But you don’t.

“You don’t get to have both,” you push. “You don’t get to have me and that. You don’t get to crawl into my bed at night and then turn around and destroy the only thing keeping me afloat without even telling me.”

“I didn’t destroy you,” he says, his voice rough now.

“You didn’t?” you shoot back. “Because it feels like you did.”

Silence crashes over the room. He stands there, just… looking at you. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you. Like he’s realizing, maybe for the first time, that he doesn’t know how to fix this.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

It’s quiet but you can tell it's real.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, stepping closer, his voice breaking slightly. “I was selfish. I didn’t—I didn’t think about it the way I should have. I thought I could handle it, keep it separate, protect you from it—”

“By lying to me?” you interrupt.

He closes his eyes briefly.

“Yes,” he admits.

That honesty hits different. Worse.

“I love you,” he says, opening his eyes again, looking straight at you now. “I do. I love you more than I should. That’s why I messed this up.”

You don’t react. You can’t. Because something in you has already started shutting down.

“I didn’t want to lose this,” he continues, his voice softer, more desperate now. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

You stare at him. At the man who held you this morning like nothing could touch you. At the man who just admitted he chose everything else anyway. And you feel…

Nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Just… empty.

“That’s the problem,” you say quietly.

He goes still.

“You didn’t want to lose me,” you repeat. “But you were willing to risk everything that mattered to me to keep what you wanted.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. There isn’t one.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, weaker this time.

You can feel it... the shift, the break, the quiet, irreversible snap of something that used to hold weight and now just… doesn’t. He sees it too. You know he does. Because the next thing he does is something you’ve never seen before.

He drops. Not slowly. Not carefully. Just... down. Like his legs gave out, like whatever was keeping him standing just couldn’t anymore. His knees hit the floor hard enough that you hear it, the dull impact echoing in the room.

“Ted—” you start, but the word dies in your throat.

He’s already shaking his head.

“No,” he says, his voice cracking, rough and uneven in a way that doesn’t match the man you know. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t say my name like that right now.”

He drags a hand down his face, but it doesn’t help. Nothing about him looks put together anymore. Not his posture, not his voice, not the way his breathing stutters like he’s trying to hold something in and failing.

“I fucked up,” he says, the words coming out fast now, messy, like he’s afraid he won’t get them out in time. “I know I did. I know I did, I just—I thought I could fix it before you found out. I thought I could make it right first.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t move.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues, his eyes glassy now, red at the edges. “I swear to you, I didn’t. I was trying to hold onto you, that’s all I was thinking about. You—just you.”

A tear slips down his cheek. You freeze. Because you’ve never seen him like this. Never.

“I love you,” he says again, quieter this time, like it’s the only thing he has left to offer. “I love you so much it makes me stupid. It makes me make decisions I shouldn’t make, it makes me selfish, and I know that—I know that now.”

His voice breaks completely on the last word.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he adds, barely above a whisper. “I can’t lose you.”

The room goes quiet around him. And you just stand there. Looking at him.

taglist @the-curator1 @eviispunk @dilfs4life69 @onlythehobi @vinyl-and-coffee @indiegirlunited @motomamita

[foxtrology]

hey guys, quick question for my fellow fic readers….

how many words per chapter are you personally comfortable reading?

i’m asking because i’ve gotten a few anonymous asks lately saying my chapters are too long. some of them have been constructive, some of them…not so much lol.

i know a lot of people consider 6k–8k words to be the sweet spot for fanfic chapters, but i tend to write much longer chapters (10k+ sometimes) because that’s what feels right for the story and where the natural stopping points end up being.

i’m genuinely curious where everyone stands on this. do you prefer:

under 5k

5k–8k

8k–12k

12k+

“i’ll read whatever you give me”

i’m not planning to start cutting chapters in half just to hit a specific word count, but i am interested in hearing what readers actually enjoy.

also, a gentle reminder: if a chapter is too long for your personal preference, that’s completely okay. reading is supposed to be fun. but please remember there’s a real person on the other side of the screen. you can tell me something isn’t your cup of tea without being rude about it.

anyway, let me know! i’m curious what the consensus is. 🤍

[foxtrology]

ayy thank fuck for these prompts cause I'm already missing this series 😭 can I get prompt number 28, please? thank you

dad!harry castillo

prompt 28: harry starts carrying adella’s artwork in his wallet. doesn’t tell anyone. pulls it out in meetings like it’s a credential.

prompt list

⸻

The morning begins before the sun fully commits to rising.

There’s that soft, bluish light filtering through the curtains, the kind that makes everything feel quieter than it is. You’re awake before you mean to be, your body heavy in that way that only comes with late pregnancy. Not just tired, but full. A kind of weight that lives in your bones, in your hips, in the way turning over in bed has become a small, deliberate task instead of something thoughtless.

You lie there for a second. Listening.

Harry is already awake.

You can tell by the absence of him beside you, the slight dip in the mattress gone cold. There’s movement somewhere down the hall. Low and controlled. The kind of quiet that means he’s trying not to wake you.

You push yourself upright slowly, one hand pressing into the mattress, the other instinctively going to your stomach.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself. “We’re up.”

Your feet hit the floor.

You move slower now. Everything takes an extra second. An extra breath. But you’ve learned the rhythm of it, the way to work with your body instead of against it.

By the time you make it to the bathroom, you hear it—

Small, fast footsteps.

Then—

“Mommy!”

Adella bursts into the hallway like a firework.

Hair a mess, still in her pajamas, energy already dialed all the way up like she’s been awake for hours instead of minutes.

“We’re going to the city today!” she announces, as if you might have forgotten.

You laugh, leaning against the bathroom counter as you reach for your toothbrush.

“We are,” you say around the toothpaste.

She bounces on her toes.

“Are we leaving right now?”

“No, we have to get ready first.”

“How long does that take?”

“Longer than you want it to.”

She groans dramatically.

You spit, rinse, then glance at her through the mirror.

She’s watching you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

“Are we going to see your baby stuff?” she asks, eyes dropping to your stomach.

You soften immediately.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re going to look at cribs.”

“Can I pick one?”

“You can help pick one.”

“Can it be pink?”

“We’ll see.”

She nods like that’s a reasonable compromise.

You move into your skincare, slow and practiced, while she hovers nearby, leaning against the counter, then spinning in a small circle, then leaning again.

“Is the baby awake?” she asks.

“The baby doesn’t sleep like you do.”

“So she’s always awake?”

“Kind of.”

“That’s weird.”

“You were like that too.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

She considers this, frowning.

“I don’t remember that.”

“Because you were a baby.”

“That doesn’t count.”

You laugh softly.

She watches you a little longer, then reaches out and pokes your stomach gently.

“Hi,” she whispers to it.

You feel something shift inside you. Something emotionall.

“She can hear you, you know,” you say.

Adella gasps.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She leans closer, pressing her cheek lightly against you.

“We’re going to the city,” she tells your stomach very seriously. “But you can’t come out yet. You have to wait.”

You swallow.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “She knows.”

There’s a sound behind you. A quiet step.

Harry.

He pauses in the doorway for just a second, watching the two of you.

You catch his reflection in the mirror. There’s something in his expression. Soft and grounded.

Like this moment is something he wants to hold onto.

“Morning,” he says, voice low.

“Morning.”

Adella spins toward him immediately.

“Daddy! We’re going to pick the baby’s bed today!”

He smiles, walking in, resting a hand automatically at your lower back as he passes you. It’s instinct now. Always touching. Always checking.

“That we are,” he says.

“I’m picking pink.”

“We’ll discuss,” he replies.

“That means no.”

“That means we’ll discuss.”

She narrows her eyes at him.

“You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.

“Okay,” you say. “Just slow today.”

He nods.

His hand lingers at your back a second longer than necessary.

“Take your time,” he says.

“I am.”

He studies you like he’s deciding whether to believe you.

Then nods again.

“Alright.”

The next part of the morning moves quickly, but not rushed.

Adella is halfway dressed and halfway distracted at any given moment, hopping from one foot to the other while you try to get her into clean clothes.

“Arms,” you say.

“I’m doing it.”

“You’re not doing it.”

“I am!”

Harry steps in without saying anything, gently steadying her as you pull her shirt down properly.

“Team effort,” he murmurs.

She grins.

You change slower.

Harry helps without making it obvious that he’s helping.

He hands you things before you ask. Keeps a hand near your elbow when you step into your jeans. Adjusts the hem of your shirt when you don’t quite reach it right.

It’s quiet and unspoken. But constant.

By the time you’re both dressed, the kitchen already smells like coffee and something warm.

Harry is moving again. Bagel in one hand. Knife in the other.

“Sit,” he tells you, nodding toward the chair.

“I’m fine.”

“Sit.”

You sit.

He slides the plate in front of you. Toasted. Cream cheese already spread. Cut in half.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

You look up at him.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just pushes your coffee a little closer.

Adella climbs into her chair, immediately reaching for a bagel.

“Snack?” she asks.

“It’s breakfast,” he corrects.

“Breakfast snack.”

He exhales through his nose, amused.

“Give me five minutes.”

He moves to the counter again, grabbing a tote bag.

You watch as he starts packing it. Very very methodical. Water bottles. Small containers of snacks. Crackers. Fruit. Something sweet tucked in at the bottom.

Then toys. A small coloring book. Crayons. Her favorite stuffed animal, slightly worn at the edges.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t forget anything. It’s like he’s building a system in his head and checking it off one by one.

“You’re packing like we’re going on a week long trip,” you say.

“It’s a long drive.”

“It’s three hours.”

“Sometimes four.”

You smile into your coffee.

Adella leans over the counter, watching him.

“Can I bring everything?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because everything doesn’t fit in the bag.”

“Make it fit.”

He glances at her.

“Not how that works.”

She huffs but doesn’t argue.

Eventually, everything is ready. Shoes on. Bags by the door. The house quieting again as you prepare to leave.

Harry grabs the keys. Then turns back. Looks at you.

“Ready?”

You nod.

Adella is already halfway out the door.

“Come on!”

The air outside is crisp. Fresh. You take it in slowly as you walk to the car.

Harry stays close. Always close. His hand at your back again as you move. Not guiding. Just there.

Adella climbs into her seat, already talking.

“Can I have a snack now?”

“You just ate.”

“That was breakfast. This is a car snack.”

He buckles her in carefully, adjusting the strap, making sure it sits right.

“Later,” he says.

“When?”

“When we’re on the road.”

“That’s now.”

“That’s in five minutes.”

She groans.

He kisses the top of her head anyway.

“Five minutes,” he repeats.

You slide into the passenger seat slowly. Harry watches you. Waits until you’re fully settled before closing the door.

Then he’s in the driver’s seat. Engine on. The car hums to life.

And just like that, you’re moving. Montauk fades behind you. The road stretches out ahead.

For a while, it’s calm.

Adella watches out the window.

You lean back, one hand resting over your stomach.

Harry drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, close enough to reach you if he needs to.

It’s quiet.

Until it’s not.

“Are we there yet?” Adella asks.

Harry glances at the clock.

“We’ve been driving for twelve minutes.”

She sighs dramatically.

“This is going to take forever.”

You smile.

“Do you want a snack now?” you ask.

“Yes.”

Harry reaches into the tote without looking, already knowing where everything is. Hands it back.

“Don’t make a mess,” he says.

“I won’t.”

She does. Crumbs everywhere within minutes.

You and Harry exchange a look. He shakes his head slightly. But there’s no frustration. Just quiet acceptance.

Time passes. The road stretches.

Adella shifts in her seat. Kicks lightly. Sings something under her breath. Then louder. Then asks questions.

A lot of questions.

“Why are we going to the city?”

“For my meeting,” Harry says.

“What’s a meeting?”

“A place where people talk about work.”

“That sounds boring.”

“It can be.”

“Are you going to be boring?”

He glances at her in the rearview mirror.

“Probably.”

She gasps.

“I don’t want you to be boring.”

He smiles.

“I won’t be boring with you.”

She considers that.

“Okay.”

Then she leans forward slightly.

“Can I come into your office?”

“We’ll see.”

“That means no.”

“That means we’ll see.”

She groans again. You laugh softly.

And Harry—

He just keeps driving. Steady and calm. One hand on the wheel. The other reaching over to rest against your knee, grounding you. Like everything that matters is right here in this car. And nowhere else.

The drive stretches in that slow, uneven way that only long car rides with a child can manage.

Time doesn’t move in hours.

It moves in questions. In snacks. In songs that repeat too many times. In the shifting of small legs against a car seat that suddenly feels too tight, too boring, too everything all at once.

Adella lasts maybe twenty minutes of quiet before she begins to unravel.

It starts small. A sigh. Then another. Then the soft kick of her shoe against the back of your seat.

“Are we halfway?” she asks.

Harry glances at the dashboard, then at you, then back at the road.

“No,” he says gently.

“How much is halfway?”

“About an hour and a half.”

She goes quiet. Processing.

Then—

“That’s too long.”

You turn slightly in your seat, resting your arm along the back so you can see her better.

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s helpful,” Harry murmurs.

She ignores him.

“I’m bored,” she says.

He hums under his breath, thinking.

“You’ve got your coloring book,” he says.

“I don’t want to color.”

“You’ve got snacks.”

“I already had snacks.”

“You’ve got your stuffed animal.”

She holds it up briefly, then lets it flop back into her lap.

“He’s boring.”

Harry exhales softly through his nose.

You can see the faint curve of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“Alright,” he says. “Then we improvise.”

Adella perks up slightly.

“What’s improvise?”

“It means we make something up.”

“I like making things up.”

“I know you do.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Okay,” he says. “Game.”

“What game?”

“I’m thinking of something.”

She gasps. “I love this game.”

“You love every game.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s mostly true.”

She waits, leaning forward just a little in her seat, eyes fixed on the back of his head like she can see his thoughts forming.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I’m thinking of something you can find in the city.”

“A building!”

“That was fast.”

“You said city. There’s buildings.”

He nods. “There are.”

“Was I right?”

“You were right.”

She beams.

“Again!”

He shakes his head, amused. “Alright. My turn to guess.”

“Okay,” she says, suddenly serious. “I’m thinking of something.”

He glances at her in the rearview mirror.

“Give me a hint.”

“It’s…big.”

“Everything in the city is big.”

“It’s really big.”

“That narrows it down.”

She frowns. “It’s…taller than our house.”

He huffs quietly. “That still doesn’t help.”

“It’s gray.”

“Most buildings are gray.”

She groans. “You’re bad at this.”

“You’re bad at giving hints.”

You laugh softly, one hand resting over your stomach as the baby shifts faintly beneath your palm.

Adella notices immediately.

“Is she kicking?” she asks.

“A little,” you say.

“Can she hear us in the car?”

“Yes.”

She leans forward as far as the seatbelt allows.

“Hi,” she says again, softer this time. “We’re going to the city. It’s really big. Daddy says everything is big.”

Harry smiles to himself.

“That’s a fair summary,” he says.

She settles back, satisfied, like she’s completed an important task.

The game dissolves after that. Replaced by singing.

Adella picks a song she half remembers, filling in the parts she doesn’t know with her own version of the lyrics. It’s off-key. Loud. Completely committed.

Harry lets her sing. Doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. Every now and then, he glances at you. Checks in.

“You okay?” he asks quietly at one point, his voice dropping so it doesn’t interrupt her.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Back alright?”

“Mm,” you murmur. “Just stiff.”

His hand leaves the wheel for a second, settling gently over your knee. Warm and steady.

“Tell me if you need to stop,” he says.

“I will.”

He watches you for another second. Then nods.

Adella’s singing fades into another wave of restlessness. She shifts again. Kicks lightly. Then harder.

“Hey,” Harry says, calm but firm. “Feet down.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re kicking the seat.”

“I don’t mean to.”

He softens slightly. “I know. Just keep them still, alright?”

She tries. Lasts maybe ten seconds.

Then—

“Can we stop?” she asks.

“We stopped already,” he says.

“That was a long time ago.”

“That was thirty minutes ago.”

“That’s a long time.”

You turn again, smiling softly.

“Do you want another snack?”

Her face lights up.

“Yes.”

Harry reaches for the tote again, handing something back without looking.

“You’re spoiling her,” you murmur.

“She’s growing,” he replies.

“So am I.”

He glances at you. There’s something in his expression. Something immediate.

“You want something else?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary. Then nods.

“Alright.”

The road begins to change slowly. Less open.

More crowded. More cars. More movement.

Adella notices immediately.

“Is this the city?” she asks, pressing her hands to the window.

“Not yet,” Harry says. “Almost.”

“It looks like the city.”

“It’s getting there.”

She leans forward, eyes wide, completely awake again. Every building becomes something to comment on.

“That one’s big.”

“That one’s taller.”

“That one looks weird.”

“That one looks like it’s made of glass.”

Harry answers every single one. Patient. Consistent. Like he has nowhere else to be.

Eventually—

The skyline shifts. Familiar, dense, and alive.

They cross into Manhattan, and something in the air changes.

Even you feel it. That low hum. That constant movement that never quite stops.

Adella gasps.

“Daddy!”

“I know.”

“We’re here!”

“We are.”

She presses her face closer to the glass.

“I love it here.”

“You’ve been here twice,” you remind her.

“That’s enough times.”

Harry smiles.

“You’ve got good taste.”

“It’s because of Aunt Maya,” she says immediately.

There it is.

He nods. “Probably.”

“Are we seeing her?”

“Not today.”

“Why?”

“She’s working.”

“She always works.”

“So do I.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re my dad.”

He exhales a quiet laugh.

“Fair enough.”

She watches the streets as they pass. People walking fast. Cars weaving through traffic. Noise layered over everything.

It’s overwhelming. But to her, it’s magic.

“Can we live here again?” she asks suddenly.

The question lands softly in the car.

You glance at Harry. He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the road.

Then—

“No,” he says gently.

“Why?”

“Because we like where we live now.”

“I like it here too.”

“I know.”

She frowns, thinking.

“But we can visit,” he adds.

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

She leans back slowly. Still watching. Still taking everything in.

Then she says, quieter—

“Can we see Aunt Maya next time?”

Harry nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Next time.”

That seems to settle something in her. She relaxes. Just a little.

The car moves deeper into Tribeca. The streets narrower now. Familiar in a different way.

Harry’s grip on the wheel shifts slightly. Not tighter. Just…more aware.

You notice it. The way he straightens a little. The way his focus sharpens. Not the version of him the world sees. Not fully. But closer to it.

Still, when Adella leans forward again—

“Daddy, look at that dog!”

He looks. Immediately.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s a good dog.”

“Can we get a dog?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We already have enough going on.”

She sighs.

“You always say no.”

“Frances wouldn't want a sibling.”

You smile softly, resting your hand over your stomach again. Watching them.

The way he moves between worlds without letting her feel it. The way he keeps his voice soft. Keeps his attention on her.

Even as the city closes in around you. Even as everything else begins to pull at him.

To her—

He’s still just her dad.

And to you—

He’s still right here. Hand brushing yours briefly at the red light. A quiet squeeze. Grounding.

By the time you make it to the company building Adella is jumping in her seat. The car barely finishes rolling to a stop before she is already unbuckling herself halfway, twisting in her seat to look out the window like she might miss something if she blinks.

“We’re here,” she breathes, like it’s something sacred.

You smile, one hand braced against the dashboard as you shift carefully, your body slower to respond than it used to be.

Harry is already out of the car. Of course he is.

By the time your door opens, he’s there, one hand on the frame, the other reaching for you before you even ask.

“Easy,” he murmurs, like you might forget.

“I know,” you say softly, but you take his hand anyway.

Because you always do.

He steadies you as you step out, his grip firm but gentle, his attention entirely on you for that moment. The city hums around you, loud and constant, but it feels distant. Secondary.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes scanning your face, your posture, the way you shift your weight.

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just stiff from the drive.”

He nods, not fully convinced, but willing to let it go for now.

He reaches back into the car, grabbing your purse, slinging it over his shoulder without thinking. The other shoulder already holds the tote bag—bright, soft, unmistakably a child’s, the edge of a coloring book peeking out from the top.

It looks almost absurd on him. Almost. Except he carries it like it belongs there.

“Daddy!” Adella calls from inside the car. “I’m stuck!”

“You’re not stuck,” he says, already moving.

But he doesn’t get there first.

Danny does.

He appears like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, stepping off the curb with a grin that’s too wide to be anything but genuine.

“There she is,” he says, already reaching for the car door. “My favorite girl in the world.”

Adella lights up immediately.

“Uncle Danny!”

He leans in, unbuckling her with practiced ease, lifting her out like she weighs nothing.

“You got taller,” he says, like he says it every time.

“I did not.”

“You did. I can tell.”

She squints at him. “How?”

“Professional opinion.”

“What’s your job again?”

He glances at Harry. “Apparently this.”

Harry exhales quietly, but there’s no bite to it.

Danny sets her down, but keeps a hand on her shoulder, like he’s not quite done greeting her yet.

“How’s school?” he asks.

“I’m not there today,” she says proudly. “It’s a family day.”

Danny nods, impressed. “That’s my kind of day.”

He finally looks at you, softening immediately.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just slower than usual.”

He glances at your stomach, then back at your face.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That tracks.”

Harry steps closer then, his hand finding your lower back again, grounding, protective without making a show of it.

“Let’s get inside,” he says.

Inside, everything changes.

The building is quieter than the street, but not calm. Controlled. Structured. Every movement purposeful. Every voice lowered just enough to suggest importance.

And then—

They see him.

It happens in waves. A glance.

Then another. Then another and another.

Then the subtle shift of posture, of attention, as people realize who just walked through the door.

Harry Castillo.

Here. Not alone.

With a child’s tote bag slung over one shoulder. And his wife’s Birkin on the other. And his daughter holding his hand, pointing at something only she finds interesting.

People don’t stare. Not openly.

But they look.

Then look away. Then look again.

Adella doesn’t notice.

She’s too busy turning in slow circles, taking everything in.

“Daddy,” she whispers loudly, “this is so big.”

“It is,” he says.

“Do you work here?”

“Yes.”

“I want to work here.”

“You can. This is all yours.”

“That’s so cool.”

Danny smirks. “Wait till you see upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” she echoes, eyes widening.

Harry presses the elevator button.

“We’re going up,” he says.

The doors open almost immediately. They step inside together. The space is mirrored, polished, quiet.

Adella gasps softly as the doors close.

“It’s like a spaceship.”

Danny laughs. “Yeah, something like that.”

As the elevator begins to move, she presses closer to the glass panel, watching the city shift beneath them.

Buildings stacking. Streets shrinking. Cars becoming small, distant things.

“Whoa,” she breathes.

Harry watches her. Not the view. Her.

The way her face changes. The way wonder settles into her like it belongs there.

You lean slightly into him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just tired.”

He nods. His hand brushes yours briefly.

“Almost there.”

The elevator slows. Stops. The doors open to a different world.

This is his.

Danny steps out first, already moving.

“Let’s get you settled,” he says.

They walk down the hall.

Doors closed. Voices behind glass. Eyes following again, more carefully this time.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

He guides you and Adella forward like nothing else exists.

When they reach his office, he opens the door himself.

It’s large. Larger than it needs to be. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Light pouring in. Clean lines. Minimal.

Same as you remember it..

Adella steps in like she’s entering a museum.

“Whoa,” she says again.

Harry drops the tote bag onto the couch. Sets your purse carefully on the desk. Then turns back to you immediately.

“Sit,” he says gently.

You do.

He kneels slightly in front of you, one hand resting against your knee.

“You need anything?” he asks.

“Water would be good.”

He grabs it before you finish the sentence. Hands it to you.

Then looks at Adella.

“You okay in here?”

She nods, still spinning slowly.

“This is your office?”

“It is.”

“You work here?”

“Sometimes.”

She points to the chair behind the desk. “That’s your chair?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I sit in it?”

He glances at you. You nod.

“Go ahead,” he says.

She climbs up carefully, settling into it like it’s a throne. He watches her for a second. Then looks back at you.

“I’ll be six minutes,” he says. “I just need to shut them up.”

You smile faintly. “Six?”

“Six.”

Danny appears in the doorway.

“They’re waiting,” he says.

Harry stands. Leans down. Presses a kiss to your lips.

Then to Adella’s hair.

“Stay here,” he murmurs.

“We will,” you say.

He nods. Then he’s gone. The door closes behind him.

And the room shifts again.

Back in the hallway, the air tightens.

Danny walks beside him, already talking.

“They’re pushing on the numbers,” he says. “Trying to get ahead of the quarter.”

Harry nods once. His posture changes. Not dramatically. But enough. Shoulders straighter. Focus sharper. Still calm. Still controlled. But different.

They step into the conference room.

It quiets immediately.

People straighten. Papers shift. Eyes lock in.

Harry doesn’t rush.

He takes his seat at the head of the table like it’s the only place he’s ever sat.

Danny moves to his side.

The meeting begins.

It’s numbers, projections, voices layered over each other, trying to sound confident.

Harry listens.

That’s the first thing.

He listens. Completely. No interruption. No reaction. Just stillness.

It unsettles them more than anything else.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet.

“That’s not accurate,” he says, tapping the paper once.

The man across from him falters.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re projecting growth based on a model that doesn’t hold past Q2.”

Silence then papers shuffle.

Danny doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Harry leans back slightly.

One hand slipping into his jacket. Almost absent-minded.

He pulls something out. Small.

Folds it between his fingers as he continues.

“If you adjust for market pressure here,” he continues, tapping again, “your margin disappears.”

The room tightens. They listen. Because they have to. Because he’s right.

He always is.

His voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t sharpen. It stays even, controlled.

But there’s no room for argument in it.

And still—

There’s something else. Something softer at the edges.

A patience that wasn’t there before. A restraint.

Danny notices it.

He doesn’t say anything. But he sees it.

Harry glances down briefly at what’s in his hand. Just for a second.

Then back up. Grounded again.

“Fix it,” he says simply.

No anger, no threat. Just expectation.

They nod. Of course they do.

The meeting moves quickly after that. Efficient and clean.

Six minutes. Maybe seven.

When he stands, it’s over.

No one argues. No one tries.

Danny follows him out.

“Still terrifying,” he mutters under his breath.

Harry exhales quietly.

“Let’s go,” he says.

But his hand is still in his pocket.

Fingers brushing against that small, folded piece of paper he carries without telling anyone.

Like it matters. Like it’s part of him now. Like something steady he brings into rooms that used to take everything out of him.

And when he opens the office door again—

He softens. Immediately. Because his girls are there. And that is the only thing that ever really counts.

taglist: @heytherebabycakes @okiegal68 @jo1818 @sesdeuxyeux @indiegirlunited @jothenurse91

[foxtrology]

I found you through your Pitt au (which I am dying for the next update btw) and binged all of your works over the weekend. eternally devoted obsessed etc.

stoppp that’s actually the sweetest thing ever 😭 thank you so much. and yes I promise the next chapter is coming soon… joel and reader are currently ruining my life in the best way possible

[foxtrology]

I'm loving these new Harry Castillo stories so so much, and I was wondering if requests for the Harry Castillo prompt list are still open... in case they are, could you possibly write prompt 7, please? Thank you!

dad!harry castillo

prompt 7: harry tries to make heart-shaped pancakes on valentine’s day. adella insists hers looks like a rain boot. he agrees.

prompt list

⸻

The morning starts earlier than it needs to.

It always does when Harry decides he’s going to do something “special.”

You know it before you even open your eyes. There’s a shift in the air. A quiet kind of determination that settles into the house like something has already begun without you. You hear it first… soft movement in the kitchen, cabinets opening slower than usual, like he’s trying not to wake you. The faint clink of a bowl. A drawer sliding shut with care.

You stay where you are for a moment.

Curled under the blanket, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, listening.

There’s a murmur of a voice. Low. Warm. Trying to whisper, failing slightly.

Adella.

Of course.

You smile into the pillow.

“Daddy,” she whispers loudly, which defeats the purpose entirely. “You said don’t wake her.”

“I know,” he murmurs back. “You’re the one announcing it to the entire house.”

“I’m whispering.”

“You’re whispering like a megaphone.”

There’s a pause. Then a small giggle.

You don’t move yet. You let yourself listen.

Because there’s something about this—about them, about mornings like this—that feels too fragile to interrupt. Like stepping into it too quickly might break the spell.

“Okay,” Harry says after a second, quieter now. “We need to do this carefully.”

“What are we doing again?” Adella asks.

He exhales, soft, amused. “We’re making breakfast for your mom.”

“Oh yeah,” she says, like she forgot the entire plan. “Because it’s…Valen-times.”

“Valentine’s,” he corrects gently.

“Valen-tines,” she repeats, proud.

“Close enough.”

There’s a rustle of movement.

You imagine him there, sleeves pushed up, hair still slightly disheveled from sleep, standing at the counter with that look he gets when he’s focused. Not on numbers or contracts or anything the rest of the world associates with him, but on something small. Something domestic. Something that matters in a completely different way.

“Okay,” he says again. “Step one. Pancakes.”

Adella gasps like this is revolutionary.

“We’re making pancakes?”

“Yes.”

“Heart pancakes?”

There’s a beat.

You can hear it in the silence.

That moment where he realizes he’s committed to something slightly more complicated than he intended.

“…Yes,” he says anyway.

Adella squeals.

You bite back a laugh.

There’s the sound of something being dragged across the counter. Probably the mixing bowl. Then a soft thud as it’s set down.

“Can I pour?” she asks immediately.

“No,” he says just as quickly.

“That’s not fair.”

“You can help. Just not with the pouring.”

“Why not?”

“Because last time you helped with pouring, we had flour in places flour should never be.”

“That was one time.”

“That was three times.”

You hear her huff.

“I’m older now,” she says, like that settles it.

He hums, unconvinced. “You’re five.”

“That’s older than four.”

“That’s technically correct.”

“See?”

You shift slightly in bed, turning onto your back now, eyes still closed but fully awake.

There’s something so steady about the way he speaks to her. No impatience. No sharpness. Just quiet correction, quiet humor, like he has all the time in the world to meet her exactly where she is.

“Alright,” he says after a moment. “You can pour the milk.”

“Yes!” she whispers loudly again.

“But slowly,” he adds.

“I will.”

“Carefully.”

“I said I will.”

“Adella—”

“I know!”

There’s a pause. Then…

A splash.

Followed by silence.

Then…

“…I think I poured too fast.”

You press your lips together.

Harry exhales slowly. Not angry. Just…processing.

“How much did you pour?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it…overflowing?”

“…Maybe.”

Another pause.

You imagine him looking at the bowl, then at her, then back at the bowl.

“It’s fine,” he says finally, calm. “We’ll fix it.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, quieter now.

“I didn’t say you weren’t allowed to make mistakes.”

“I made a big one.”

“It’s just milk.”

“It was a lot of milk.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll add more mix.”

“Okay.”

“And we’ll try again.”

“Okay.”

There’s a small shuffle of feet.

Then her voice again, softer now. “You’re not mad?”

“No,” he says simply.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

A pause.

Then, very quietly—

“I love you.”

Your chest tightens.

There’s a beat.

Then Harry, softer still, like he doesn’t want the words to carry too far….

“I love you too, babygirl.”

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above you is pale in the morning light, soft gold filtering through the curtains. The house smells faintly like batter now. Warm. Familiar.

You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders, and make your way toward the kitchen.

You don’t announce yourself.

You just stand in the doorway for a moment.

And watch.

Harry is at the counter, exactly how you pictured him. Barefoot, wearing an old t-shirt and sweats, sleeves pushed up, a light dusting of flour already on his hands. His hair is slightly out of place, curls falling forward just enough to soften the sharpness of his features.

Adella stands on a stool beside him.

Too small for the counter, but determined anyway. Her hair is messy, still half-sleepy, one side flattened from the pillow. There’s a smudge of something on her cheek. Flour, maybe. Or batter.

The bowl in front of them looks…questionable.

Too thin. Too uneven. But neither of them seems concerned.

“Okay,” Harry says, picking up the whisk. “We’ll mix it like this.”

He moves slowly, deliberately, letting her watch every motion.

She leans closer, eyes wide, completely focused.

“Can I try?”

“Yeah,” he says, handing it to her. “Just like that.”

She grips it with both hands, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as she stirs.

It’s uneven. Messy. Perfect.

You lean against the doorframe.

He glances up then. Sees you. And everything about him softens instantly.

“Hey,” he says, voice quieter now.

“Hi.”

Adella turns at the sound of your voice, gasping.

“Mommy! Don’t look!”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s a surprise!”

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. “Bit late for that, sweetheart.”

“No, she didn’t see anything,” Adella insists, scrambling slightly on the stool. “She just saw…us standing here.”

You raise your hands in surrender. “I saw nothing.”

“Good,” she says, satisfied.

Harry meets your eyes again. There’s something in his expression. Something warm. Soft. A little proud.

“Go sit,” he says gently. “We’ve got this.”

You nod. You do as you’re told. Because you know better than to interfere when he’s like this. When he’s decided something matters.

From the table, you watch them.

He heats the pan. Lets Adella hold the bottle of oil, guiding her hand so she doesn’t pour too much.

“Okay,” he says. “Now comes the hard part.”

“The hearts,” she says, serious.

“The hearts,” he agrees.

He takes the ladle. Pauses.

You can see it already. The doubt. The realization that shaping pancake batter into a heart is not as simple as it sounded.

“Do you know how to do it?” Adella asks.

“Of course I do,” he says immediately.

You almost laugh.

He pours. Carefully. One curve. Then the other. A point at the bottom.

It…almost works. Almost.

But the batter spreads. Edges softening. Losing shape. Becoming something else entirely.

Adella leans in. Squints.

“…That doesn’t look like a heart.”

Harry looks at it. Considers.

“It’s abstract,” he says.

“What’s abstract?”

“It means…not exactly what it’s supposed to be.”

She frowns.

“It looks like a blob.”

He exhales through his nose. “Alright. Fair.”

They wait. The pancake bubbles slightly. He flips it. It lands with a soft thud. Still not a heart.

He tries again. This time slower. More careful.

Adella watches like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Is that one better?” she asks.

He glances at it.

“…Yes.”

It isn’t. But he says it anyway.

She nods, satisfied. Then he pours a smaller one.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She takes the ladle. Too much batter. Of course.

It spills slightly as she tries to shape it. One side too big. The other too thin. The bottom stretching out awkwardly.

They both stare at it. There’s a long pause.

Then Adella says, very seriously—

“…It looks like a rain boot.”

You press your lips together.

Harry looks at it again. Then nods.

“It does look like a rain boot.”

She brightens immediately. “It’s a rain boot pancake!”

“It is,” he agrees.

“For Valentine’s Day.”

“Of course.”

She beams.Proud. Thrilled. Like this is exactly what it was supposed to be all along.

He slides it onto a plate. Sets it carefully beside the others. Protective even now, like it matters that it stays intact.

Like it matters because she made it.

You watch him.

The way he adjusts the heat.

The way he keeps one hand lightly at her back when she leans too far forward.

The way his voice never sharpens, never hardens, even when things go wrong.

This man.

The one the world thinks is cold. Untouchable.

You see him here. Flour on his hands. Standing in a kitchen at sunrise. Making misshapen pancakes with his five year old daughter. Agreeing that a heart looks like a rain boot because she said so. And meaning it.

He glances at you again. Catches you watching. His mouth lifts slightly at the corner. Soft. Almost shy.

Like this matters more than anything else he’s ever done. And maybe it does.

taglist: @heytherebabycakes @okiegal68 @jo1818 @sesdeuxyeux @indiegirlunited @jothenurse91

[foxtrology]

Heyyy not sure if I'm doing this right but could you please write prompt #49 please 🌞

dad!harry castillo

prompt 49: harry writes “i love you” on a post-it in adella’s lunchbox. she keeps it in her pencil case for months.

prompt list

⸻

The note is an afterthought.

Not because it means little, but because everything else that morning feels louder. More urgent. The clock, the stove, the small chaos of getting a seven year old out the door with matching shoes and brushed hair and something resembling a balanced lunch.

You’re at the counter, half leaning, half standing, your coffee untouched and cooling near your elbow. The baby monitor hums softly beside it, a low, constant reassurance. Estelle had gone down twenty minutes ago, finally, after a stretch of fussiness that left your shoulders tight and your nerves just a little frayed.

Harry is already moving through the kitchen like he’s been awake for hours.

He probably has.

There’s a quiet efficiency to him in the mornings now. Not rushed, not frantic, just steady. Like he’s learned the rhythm of the house so well he doesn’t have to think about it anymore. He moves around you without bumping into anything, opening drawers, closing cabinets, reaching for things before you even realize you need them.

“Where’s her lunchbox?” he asks, not looking up as he checks the fridge.

“By the sink,” you say, voice still thick with sleep.

He finds it immediately. Of course he does.

It’s the one with the cartoon bear on the front. Slightly faded now, the edges worn soft from being carried every day. Adella insists on that one, even though there are newer ones tucked away in the cabinet.

“It’s lucky,” she told him once, very seriously. “And the bear looks like you.”

He didn’t ask why.

He just smiled and said, “Then I suppose I better pack it right.”

Now he sets it on the counter and opens it, already scanning what’s inside like it’s a checklist in his head.

“Did she eat the strawberries yesterday?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Traded them for crackers.”

He hums. “Of course she did.”

He takes them out anyway. Replaces them with apple slices this time, cutting them fresh with careful, even strokes. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t cut corners. Everything is deliberate.

You watch him for a moment.

There’s something about it that still catches you off guard sometimes. This version of him. Sleeves pushed up, hair still slightly mussed from sleep, standing barefoot in the kitchen packing a lunch like it’s the most important thing he’ll do all day.

Which, to him, it probably is.

Adella comes in then, dragging her backpack behind her, one sock halfway off her heel.

“I don’t want apples,” she announces.

Harry doesn’t even look up. “You liked them last week.”

“That was last week.”

He glances at her now, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “So what changed in the last seven days?”

She shrugs. “I’m different now.”

You smile into your coffee.

He considers her for a second, then nods like that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“Fair enough,” he says. “What do you want instead?”

“Chips.”

“Not happening.”

She groans, dropping into the chair at the table like her entire life has been ruined.

“You’re ruining my life,” she mutters.

“I’m saving your life,” he corrects calmly, sliding the apple slices back into the container anyway.

She narrows her eyes at him. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you’ll eat them if you’re hungry enough.”

She huffs but doesn’t argue further.

You watch the exchange, something warm settling in your chest. It’s so easy between them now. The push and pull. The quiet understanding. The way he never raises his voice, never rushes her, just meets her exactly where she is and nudges her forward.

He finishes packing the rest of her lunch. Sandwich cut into neat halves, a small treat tucked into the corner, napkin folded properly.

Then he pauses.

Just for a second.

His gaze lingers on the open lunchbox, like he’s thinking about something else entirely.

You don’t say anything. You’ve learned to recognize that look. It means he’s about to do something small. Something that will matter more than he realizes.

He reaches for the pen sitting near your coffee mug.

Then, without making a big deal of it, he pulls a small yellow post-it from the stack by the phone.

Adella doesn’t notice. She’s busy kicking her legs against the chair, humming something under her breath.

You watch him.

He leans slightly against the counter as he writes, his hand large around the small square of paper. His handwriting is neat, deliberate, the same way he does everything else.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Just writes it.

Three words.

Simple.

I love you.

He folds the corner slightly, just enough to make it easier to grab, then tucks it carefully into the side of her lunchbox, between the napkin and the container so it won’t get lost.

It’s quiet.

So quiet that if you weren’t watching, you’d miss it entirely.

He closes the lid like nothing happened. Slides the lunchbox toward her.

“Done,” he says.

Adella looks at it, then at him. “Did you put dessert?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“If I tell you, it ruins the surprise.”

She considers this, then nods, satisfied.

“Okay.”

She hops down from the chair, grabs her backpack, and slings it over one shoulder.

Harry steps in automatically, fixing the strap, tugging it into place so it sits properly on her back.

“Shoes,” he says.

“I’m wearing shoes.”

“You’re wearing one shoe.”

She looks down, surprised.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly.

He crouches, steadying her as she slips the other one on, tying it for her without making a big deal of it.

“You’re going to be late,” you say gently.

“We’ve got time,” he replies, not rushing.

He stands, brushing his hands together lightly, then reaches for her jacket.

“Arms,” he says.

She lifts them, letting him slide it on, her small body leaning into him for just a second before she pulls away again.

It’s quick. But you see it. He does too.

His hand lingers at her shoulder just a second longer than necessary.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.”

He glances at you then, a small, quiet check in.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He walks over, presses a kiss to your temple, quick but warm.

“Text me if you need anything,” he murmurs.

“I will.”

Adella is already at the door, bouncing slightly on her toes.

“Come on, Daddy!”

He smiles, soft and immediate.

“I’m coming.”

They leave together.

The door closes. And the kitchen feels different in their absence. Quieter.

You take another sip of your coffee, now lukewarm, and glance at the counter where the post-it stack still sits.

You think about the note. About how small it was. How easy. How unannounced.

You don’t say anything about it when he comes back later. You don’t need to.

Because you already know...

He didn’t do it for recognition. He didn’t do it to be seen.

He did it because, somewhere between cutting apples and tying shoelaces, he thought...

She should know. And that was enough.

Hours later, when the house settles into the slow rhythm of the afternoon, when Estelle wakes and you move through the quiet routine of feeding and rocking and swaying, when the sun shifts across the floor in long, golden lines—

You find yourself thinking about it again. The note. Folded carefully. Tucked into a lunchbox with a cartoon bear.

Waiting to be found. And you imagine Adella opening it.

Maybe not right away. Maybe halfway through lunch, distracted, trading snacks, laughing with friends. Maybe she almost misses it. Until her fingers brush the edge of the paper. Until she pulls it out, unfolds it, sees the words written in her father’s careful hand.

I love you.

Simple. Uncomplicated. Certain.

You imagine her face.

The way it might soften. The way she might pause, just for a second, in the middle of everything else.

And keep it. Not because she’s told to. Not because it’s important in any obvious way.

But because it’s his. Because it came from him. Because it means something she can’t quite explain yet.

You shift Estelle higher on your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to her head.

And you think—

This is how he loves. Not loudly. Not for show.

But in these small, steady ways that slip into the spaces of everyday life.

And stay there.

Lunch is loud in the way only a room full of children can be. It echoes.

Plastic containers snapping open, chairs scraping against the floor, voices layered over one another in a constant, overlapping rhythm that never quite settles. Someone is laughing too hard at something that wasn’t that funny. Someone else is already complaining about carrots. There’s the faint smell of peanut butter and juice boxes and something warm from the cafeteria line that no one can quite identify.

Adella sits in the middle of it like she always does.

Not at the center of attention, not trying to be, but surrounded anyway. Two girls on either side of her, one leaning too close, the other talking with her mouth full. There’s a boy across from her who keeps tapping his spoon against the table, over and over, like he’s trying to create a rhythm no one else can hear.

Her lunchbox sits in front of her.

The same one she carries every day. The cartoon bear on the front a little more faded than it used to be, the corners softened from being shoved into her backpack and pulled out again without much care.

She doesn’t open it right away.

She’s busy.

Trading, negotiating, listening, talking.

“I’ll give you two crackers for your gummy bears,” the girl next to her says.

“That’s not fair,” Adella replies immediately. “Gummy bears are worth at least three crackers.”

“Two and a cookie.”

“No cookie. Three crackers and half your juice.”

“That’s too much juice.”

“You have a big one.”

“It’s not that big.”

“It is that big.”

The boy across from her interrupts. “I have chips.”

Everyone turns to him.

“What kind?” Adella asks.

“Barbecue.”

She considers it. Barbecue is good. Not her favorite, but good enough to matter.

“I’ll trade apples,” she says.

“I don’t like apples.”

“You haven’t even tried them.”

“I don’t need to try them. I already know.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.”

She rolls her eyes in a way that feels older than she is.

“Fine,” she mutters, finally reaching for her lunchbox. “Your loss.”

She flips the latch open.

The familiar smell hits her first. Bread, fruit, something sweet tucked somewhere inside. It’s the same every day in a way that makes it feel safe. Predictable.

She starts pulling things out one by one.

Sandwich.

Apple slices.

Napkin.

Small container with something inside she hasn’t opened yet.

She’s halfway through the motion, already distracted again by the conversation happening around her, when her fingers brush something that isn’t supposed to be there.

Paper. Not the napkin. Something smaller. Thicker.

She pauses. Just for a second.

Her hand lingers inside the lunchbox, fingertips grazing the edge of it again like she needs to make sure it’s real.

“What’s that?” the girl next to her asks, leaning closer.

“I don’t know,” Adella says, a little quieter now.

She pulls it out.

It’s a small yellow square.

Folded slightly at the corner.

Nothing special about it at first glance. It could be anything. A note from the teacher. Something she forgot. Something her mom tucked in without telling her.

But it’s not her mom’s handwriting.

She knows that immediately.

Her fingers unfold it slowly, careful without realizing she’s being careful.

The noise around her doesn’t stop. But it fades.

Not completely. Just enough that it feels like it’s happening somewhere else. Somewhere a little further away.

She looks down.

Three words.

Written in a hand she recognizes without thinking about it.

I love you.

There’s no name No explanation.

But she knows. Of course she knows. Her dad. It’s her dad.

Something shifts in her chest. It’s small. So small she doesn’t have a word for it yet. But it’s there.

Warm and quiet.

“Is it from your mom?” the girl next to her asks.

Adella shakes her head.

“My dad,” she says.

She doesn’t mean to sound the way she does when she says it. But there’s something in her voice. Something a little softer. A little more sure.

“Oh,” the girl says, like that explains something. “What does it say?”

Adella hesitates. Just for a second.

Not because she doesn’t want to share.

But because it feels like something that belongs to her in a way the rest of lunch doesn’t. In a way the noise and the trading and the talking can’t quite touch.

Still, she turns the note slightly so they can see.

“It just says ‘I love you,’” she says.

“That’s it?” the boy across from her asks.

She shrugs, but there’s no dismissal in it.

“That’s it.”

He frowns. “That’s kinda boring.”

She looks at him then. Really looks at him.

And for a moment, she doesn’t feel like explaining it.

Doesn’t feel like she has to.

“It’s not,” she says simply.

He shrugs, already losing interest.

“Okay.”

The conversation shifts again. Something about recess. Someone forgot their homework. Someone else is telling a story that doesn’t quite land but keeps going anyway.

Adella folds the note back up. Carefully.

She smooths the edge with her thumb like she’s memorizing the shape of it. Then she doesn’t put it back in the lunchbox.

She keeps it in her hand for a second longer. Looking at it. Feeling it.

Like it might disappear if she doesn’t.

“Are you gonna eat your apples?” the boy asks again, eyeing them.

She glances at them.

Then back at the note.

“Yeah,” she says.

He looks surprised. “You just said you’d trade them.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You always change your mind.”

“So do you.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again.

“Whatever.”

She takes a bite of one of the slices.

It’s crisp. Sweet. Better than she expected.

She chews slowly, still holding the note in her other hand.

The rest of lunch moves on. It always does. But something about it feels different now.

Not in a big, obvious way. Nothing dramatic. Just…quieter. Like there’s a small, steady thing sitting underneath everything else.

She finishes eating. Packs everything back up.

Except the note. That stays out.

When the bell rings, chairs scrape back, voices rise again, the room shifting into motion all at once.

Adella stands, slinging her backpack over one shoulder.

She hesitates for a second. Looks at the note again.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, she opens her pencil case.

The one with the slightly broken zipper and the colored pencils she doesn’t always sharpen properly.

She tucks the note inside.

Between the pencils and the eraser that’s worn down to a small, uneven shape.

Closes it. Zips it halfway. Just enough.

It doesn’t feel like putting it away. It feels like keeping it. For later. For no reason she can explain.

The rest of the day passes like it always does. Lessons. Numbers. Words on a board. Someone whispering when they’re not supposed to.

The teacher calling on her once, twice. She answers. She listens.

But every now and then, without meaning to, her hand drifts to the zipper of her pencil case.

Just touches it. Not opening it. Just checking.

Like she needs to make sure it’s still there.

It always is.

When the final bell rings, she packs up slowly. More carefully than usual.

She makes sure the pencil case is zipped all the way this time. Tucks it into her backpack like it’s something fragile.

Something that matters.

Outside, the air feels different. Cooler. Quieter than the lunchroom. Parents waiting. Cars lining the curb.

She scans the crowd automatically.

And then she sees him.

Standing a little apart from everyone else. Hands in his pockets. That same calm, steady presence that always seems to find her first.

Her dad.

He sees her at the same time.

His expression shifts immediately.

Softens. Like it always does. Like it’s something he doesn’t even think about anymore.

She starts toward him. Faster than she means to.

He meets her halfway.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for her backpack, taking some of the weight without asking.

“Hi.”

“How was your day?”

She shrugs.

“Good.”

He studies her for a second. Not suspicious. Just attentive.

Like he’s trying to read something small in her expression.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He nods.

“Alright.”

They start walking toward the car. Side by side.

His hand finds the top of her head for a second, brushing her hair back gently.

It’s habitual and she leans into it just slightly. Just enough that he notices.

He glances down at her.

“Everything okay?” he asks quietly.

She looks up at him. For a second, she thinks about telling him. About the note. About how it felt.

But something stops her. Not because she wants to keep it from him. But because she doesn’t need to say it.

He already knows.

In a way.

She can feel it.

“Yeah,” she says again, softer this time.

“Okay.”

He opens the car door for her. Helps her climb in. Buckles her without rushing.

His hands steady. Familiar.

She watches him for a second.

Then, without thinking too much about it, she leans forward. Wraps her arms around his neck.

It’s quick and unexpected.

He stills. Just for a fraction of a second. Then his arms come up around her automatically. Holding her close.

“What was that for?” he murmurs, voice low.

She shrugs against him.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask again.

Just holds her there for another second longer than usual.

Then lets her go. Closes the door gently. Walks around to the driver’s side.

When he gets in, he glances at her again. A small smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You sure it was nothing?” he asks.

She looks out the window, hiding her own smile.

“Yeah,” she says.

But her hand drifts to her backpack.

To the pencil case inside it. To the small yellow note folded carefully between colored pencils and a worn eraser.

And she thinks—

Not nothing. Not even close.

Something she’ll keep.

Longer than she understands yet. Longer than she needs a reason for.

Just because it’s his. And because he thought of her. In the middle of everything else. And wrote it down.

Like it mattered. Like she mattered. Like that was enough.

taglist: @heytherebabycakes @okiegal68 @jo1818 @sesdeuxyeux @indiegirlunited @jothenurse91

[foxtrology]

could you do prompt 61 please🥹🥹

dad! harry castillo

prompt 61: adella, a little older now in her teen years, asks harry why he’s not like the other dads—why his hair is grayer, why his hands look different, why he moves a little slower in the mornings. she doesn’t mean to make him sad, but she’s been thinking about time, and it scares her.

prompt list

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The house does not wake the way it used to.

There is no sudden cry in the night anymore, no frantic fumbling for bottles or the soft panic of new parenthood humming beneath every movement. Instead, the mornings arrive slowly, like light spilling across a floor that already knows the shape of the day.

The floors don’t creak the same way either.

Time has settled into the bones of this place. Into the furniture, into the walls, into the quiet rituals that have replaced the chaos.

You notice it first in the kitchen.

There are no high chairs anymore.

No plastic spoons drying on paper towels. No sippy cups lined along the counter like a small army. Instead, there are three mugs, mismatched, one chipped at the rim. A stack of school papers held down by a ceramic bowl. A pair of ballet shoes draped over the back of a chair that no longer belongs to a child small enough to be carried.

You stand at the sink, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, and watch the morning unfold through the window.

The yard is different too.

Smaller, somehow.

Or maybe it’s just that the children who once filled it have grown.

Behind you, you hear the low murmur of a voice.

Harry.

He’s in the living room, and you don’t have to turn to know what it looks like. You’ve seen this version of him a thousand times now, worn soft by years in a way that has nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with love.

“Careful,” he says, voice calm, steady.

There’s a small thud.

Then a giggle.

“I am being careful,” Estelle insists.

She’s ten now.

Ten, and tall in that in-between way, all elbows and knees and bright, serious eyes. She stands in the doorway with a book tucked under her arm and a braid half finished down her back, the bottom unraveling because she never quite has the patience to finish what she starts.

“You’re climbing the couch,” Harry says.

“I’m leaning,” she corrects.

“You’re leaning in a way that’s going to end with me calling your mother.”

You smile into your tea.

The youngest one is on the floor at Harry’s feet, surrounded by blocks he’s already knocked over twice. Three years old and built like a small storm, all movement and noise and stubborn determination.

“Daddy, look,” he says, holding up something that is vaguely a tower and mostly a mess.

Harry bends, slower than he used to.

That’s the thing.

You notice it in moments like this. The way he moves. Not weak. Never that. But careful. Measured. Like his body is something he listens to now instead of something he pushes through.

“I see it,” he says, crouching down, one hand braced against his knee. “That’s a strong structure.”

“It’s a rocket,” your son corrects.

“Of course it is.”

Estelle rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.

And then—

Footsteps.

Heavier. Slower. Certain.

Adella.

Sixteen now.

Sixteen and no longer something you can hold in your arms, though sometimes, when she leans into you just right, you still feel the echo of it. She’s taller than you expected she’d be at this age, taller than you were, her presence filling a room in a way that is both new and achingly familiar.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, just watching.

Watching her father on the floor.

Watching her sister on the couch.

Watching her brother knocking over his own creation and laughing about it.

There’s something in her face that doesn’t quite belong to the morning.

You notice it immediately.

“Mama,” she says softly.

You turn. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

She hesitates.

That hesitation is new too.

“I… can I talk to Dad?”

You glance toward Harry.

He’s already looking at her.

Of course he is.

“Yeah,” you say gently. “Go ahead.”

She nods, then turns back toward the living room.

“Dad?”

Harry looks up, one hand still resting on the floor beside your son’s blocks. “Yeah, bug?”

“I need to talk to you. Like… alone.”

Estelle perks up instantly. “That sounds serious.”

“It’s not,” Adella says quickly.

“It sounds serious,” Estelle repeats, delighted.

Harry pushes himself up slowly, one hand pressing into his thigh as he stands. He doesn’t hide it. He never has. But Adella notices.

She always notices.

“Hey,” he says, brushing a hand over your son’s hair. “Give me a minute, okay?”

Your son nods, already distracted again.

Harry gestures toward the back porch. “Come on.”

Adella follows him outside.

The door slides shut behind them.

And for a moment, the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

—

The porch is quiet.

The ocean is just visible through the trees, a strip of pale blue under the morning sky. The air smells like salt and something faintly floral from the garden you planted years ago.

Harry lowers himself into one of the chairs.

Adella doesn’t sit right away.

She leans against the railing, arms folded, looking out instead of at him.

He watches her.

Waits.

He learned that a long time ago.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “What’s going on?”

She exhales slowly.

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

“That’s usually how these start.”

She huffs a small laugh, but it doesn’t stick.

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know you,” he says.

That quiets her.

She looks down at her hands, picking at her sleeve the way she used to when she was little, when she didn’t have the words yet for what she was feeling.

And then—

“Why are you different?”

He doesn’t react immediately.

“Different how?”

She finally looks at him.

And there it is.

Not accusation. Not embarrassment.

Fear.

“You just are,” she says. “Like… compared to other dads.”

He leans back slightly in the chair. “Okay.”

“You’re older,” she says, the words coming out too fast now, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “Your hair is grayer. And your hands—”

She stops, swallows.

“My hands?” he prompts gently.

“They look different,” she says, softer now. “And you… you move slower in the mornings. And when you stand up sometimes you make that face like it hurts.”

Harry lets out a small breath through his nose.

Not annoyed.

Not offended.

Just… aware.

“And I know it’s not a big deal,” she rushes on. “I know people get older and that’s normal and I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, I just—”

She stops again.

Her voice cracks.

And that’s when it shifts.

That’s when he understands.

“It scares you,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t have to.

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Come here,” he says.

She hesitates for half a second.

Then she walks over.

Not like a little kid.

Not like she used to.

But still… coming to him.

He reaches for her hand.

Her hand is bigger now. Longer fingers. Stronger. But it still fits in his the same way.

He turns it over gently.

“You’re looking at the outside of things,” he says. “That’s what you’re noticing.”

She nods, barely.

“I am older,” he continues. “That’s true. I’ve lived a long time before you came along.”

She swallows. “I know.”

“My hair’s gray because of that,” he says. “My hands look like this because I’ve used them. A lot.”

She traces the lines on his knuckles without thinking.

“And yeah,” he adds, a little quieter, “I move slower sometimes. My body’s not the same as it was when I was your age.”

Her chest tightens. You can see it even from inside, through the glass.

“I don’t like it,” she admits.

He squeezes her hand gently.

“I figured.”

“I just—” She shakes her head. “I look at other dads and they’re… younger. They run faster. They don’t look tired when they wake up.”

He studies her face.

“You think I’m tired of you?”

Her head snaps up. “No. That’s not what I—”

“Because I’m not,” he says, steady.

“I know you’re not,” she says quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Her eyes fill, just slightly.

“I’m scared you won’t be here as long.”

And there it is.

Not vanity.

Not comparison.

Time.

Harry goes still.

Not frozen.

Just… present in a way that feels almost heavy.

“Hey,” he says softly.

She shakes her head, frustrated with herself now. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I shouldn’t be thinking about stuff like that.”

“You’re sixteen,” he says. “You’re supposed to think about things like that.”

She looks at him, eyes shining. “It just hit me. Like… really hit me. That you’re not like the other dads. That you were already older when I was born and now you’re—”

“Older now,” he finishes for her.

She nods.

“And that means… less time,” she whispers.

Harry inhales slowly.

The ocean moves behind them.

The house stays quiet.

And then he reaches up, cupping the side of her face.

“Look at me,” he says.

She does.

“I was older when I had you,” he says. “That’s true. But you know what that also means?”

She shakes her head.

“It means I knew exactly what I was doing when I chose this life.”

Her brows knit.

“I wasn’t guessing,” he says. “I wasn’t figuring it out as I went along. I knew what mattered. I knew what I wanted. And I chose you. I chose your mother. I chose this.”

Her lip trembles.

“I don’t get to control time,” he continues, voice steady but softer now. “Nobody does. But I do get to decide what I do with it.”

She nods, barely.

“And I’ve spent every second I can with you,” he says. “Every morning. Every night. Every stupid little moment in between.”

Her eyes close for a second.

“You think those other dads love their kids more because they run faster?” he asks gently.

She lets out a small, broken laugh. “No.”

“You think I’d trade a single second of being yours for younger knees?”

Her eyes snap open.

“No,” she says, stronger now.

“Then don’t measure me like that,” he says. “Don’t measure me against something that doesn’t matter.”

A tear slips down her cheek.

He wipes it away with his thumb.

“I’m here,” he says. “Right now. With you.”

She nods again.

“And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” he adds, a little firmer. “You hear me?”

She nods harder this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

She leans into him then.

Not small.

Not fragile.

But still his.

And he wraps his arms around her, holding her close in a way that doesn’t try to stop time, doesn’t try to fix it, just… meets it where it is.

Inside, Estelle watches through the glass.

She tilts her head.

“Are they crying?” she asks.

You glance out, your chest tight.

“I think,” you say.

“Why?”

You look at them again.

At your oldest, wrapped around her father.

At the man who has lived long enough to understand exactly what that means.

“Because they love each other,” you say quietly.

Your youngest looks up from the floor. “I love Daddy.”

You smile.

“I know.”

And outside, on the porch, Harry holds his daughter like time is something you don’t fight.

Just something you fill.

Together.

[foxtrology]

re-reading this and now i’m emotional… adella and harry are actually too precious for me…

[foxtrology]

posting a bunch of sweet sweet baby prompts tomorrow… who wants in on the taglist so you don’t miss anything?

[foxtrology]

reader clocking ted’s tea when she said he’s gonna die alone with his shitty political career OOOP

he needed to hear that omg. he needs to MAN UP and publicly claim his girl

[foxtrology]

i tapped into those dad harry prompts….#exactly thank you to my goat alana

love writing for you guys… truly the best people ever

[foxtrology]

FOXTROLOGY IS BACK BABY ❤️👅🍆👏🤭

Are we gonna learn Adella and Estelle’s baby brother’s name soon? 🫣

soon babe… very VERY soon. i’ve been going crazy on sweet sweet baby extras. drafts will be ready to post soon.

[foxtrology]

new chapter of velvet horseshoe out tomorrow @ 1pm (ET)…..

PREPARE YOURSELVES

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me:

TED GARCIA IS BACKKKKK

[foxtrology]

Ted hiding the fact he voted against Reader’s strip club re-opening….get the gun

reader to ted LOLLL

[foxtrology]

THAT GUY KNOWS ABOJT READER AND TED NOOOO HE’S GONNA TELL THE ENTIRE TOWN WHAT

that town does NOTTTT deserve ted or reader :(

[foxtrology]

i just finished sweet sweet baby on ao3 and i just had to come on here and tell you how amazing it is !!!!!!!!

i love saturated and i knew i had to read every other fic you have ever written even if it was for a different character. the way you write just gets me in the feels man.

ugh!! i love you!! please never stop writing you are so gifted!!💗💗💗💗

oh wow this is so incredibly sweet 😭 thank you so much for reading it and then coming all the way over here to tell me that, that means more to me than you know!!!!

[foxtrology]

Can’t help myself but think these are the type of portraits that would be on the walls of the Castillo household. They exude casual pre-wedding photos so well 👁️🫦👁️

oh this is SICK actually like you’re so right 😭 these would 100% be framed somewhere in their house and everyone who walks in just has to deal with it

[foxtrology]

what if reader never worked the event and never met harry..

then harry would probably hate his life and die alone