When your daughter's psychiatrist suggests you get in touch with your abusive ex-husband in prison for her sake, you're not thrilled. Fortunately for you, he's dead. Unfortunately for you, someone else is alive and very keen on playing the part of a doting father. wc: 3.1k
Anyone who saw the way you were glaring at the red envelope sitting on your kitchen counter would assume you were trying to vaporize it through thought alone.
When your daughter's recuring nightmares had made you consult a children's psychiatrist, she'd come to the conclusion that your daughter missed her deadbeat of a father.
"He's in jail" You'd deadpanned.
"Perhaps, she could visit?"
"Thank you"
You weren't interested in any suggestions the psychiatrist had to make that revolved around getting your daughter involved with your criminal of a husband. Not that you could even if you wanted to.
Hell didn't really have a visitors' policy.
As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.
Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.
You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.
"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"
Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."
"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.
You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.
"Would you like to write him a letter?"
Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.
Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!
If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.
It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"
You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.
"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"
When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.
My dearest Princess,
Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.
P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.
Love,
Daddy
You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.
Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?
The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.
So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.
When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.
I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.
I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:
I will not be telling her anything of the sort.
So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.
Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.
She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?
You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.
Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.
Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.
He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.
One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.
Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?
You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.
If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.
That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.
The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.
You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.
The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.
Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.
You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.
The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.
Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.
By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.
You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.
You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.
I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.
You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.
But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.
In sickness and in health,
Daddy
You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.
As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.
"Mail!"
Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.
Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.
The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.
When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.
He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"
The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"
But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.
For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.
Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.
The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.
This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.
He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"
The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.
Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.
He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.
He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.
Like always, she'd signed it
Luv u forehver
Princess Bunny
He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.
Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.
I've attached a picture of her.
He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.
Beautiful, isn't she?
She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.
In happiness and in sorrow,
Mommy
Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.
As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.
Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?
To have and to hold,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Do you want my ultrasound too?
For better or for worse,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.
For richer or for poorer,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.
To love and to cherish,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.
Till' death do us part,
Daddy
A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3
a/n: i had no idea dogs were allergic to lily of the valley (and other flowers)
can you tell i've never had a pet in my life :<
anyway my googling inspired this, hope you enjoy!
"What's so funny?" you asked for about the fourth time as Valko's laughter filled the room.
"You really are so precious. Although, I don't know whether to be offended or endeared."
"About what?
"About you, sweets!"
You folded your arms. "Oh, so it's me you've been laughing at," you said, frowning.
"Don't get all pouty on me now." Valko's grin was wide, light glinting off sharp teeth. The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.
If he was here with you now, you would've put two fingers to his forehead and pushed his smug face away. But alas, he was miles away on a business trip and the only thing you could do was threaten to hang up.
Your fingers were seconds away from ending the call when Valko finally relented. "Okay, okay I'll tell you."
"Yeah?"
"Let me know if any of this sounds familiar."
"Alright."
He cleared his throat, made a big show of pushing up his glasses, and began to speak.
"Dog care for beginners."
"Tips for first time pet owners."
Oh no. You could feel the heat crawl up your neck, burning your cheeks.
"How do you know if a wolf likes you?" Valko continued to rattle off. "Wolf distribution system, question mark?"
"Stop it."
"Took in a stray dog now what."
"Valko!"
"Is chocolate good for dogs? Is chocolate milk good for dogs?"
"And my personal favourites," his voice softened a tad, "how do you show affection to a wolf? How can I show my dog I love them?"
You groaned and hid your face in your palms. "Okay this time I'm really hanging up," you warned.
You only had a few moments of recovery time before your phone was ringing again and the screen was lit up with Valko's contact info.
"What is it now?" You grumbled, answering the call.
"C'mon pup, don't be like that. You know I'm only teasing you."
"If that's all you have to say I'll be-"
"For the record," he cut in, "I think it's really sweet that you're doing your research. But you can just ask me any questions you've got. I'm a primary source."
"It's embarrassing though," you whined.
"It's not." Valko countered, serious now. His features gentled, eyes warm with sincerity. "You're too good to me. I'm lucky to have such a lovely mate that wants to take care of me."
"Yeah, I guess. When you put it that way," you mumbled. "How did you even find my search history anyway?"
"You borrowed my tablet a couple of days ago. You forgot to clear your search history."
"Ah." You made a mental note to never make the same mistake.
"Yeah. And now that I'm thinking about it, there were a couple of other interesting searches in the mix."
"Oh yeah?" you asked, not thinking too much of it. Seeing as Valko's silly expression had returned you really should have realised not to bite. Another mistake.
"According to what I've got here, the words heat and rut have come up quite a bit."
"Oh gods."
"It appears you're also really curious about knotting and I'm guessing this isn't about crochet this time, huh?"
A/n: R.i.p Valko, I’ll never get to hear your voice in secret times 😔
A/n 2: Just a lil smut i wrote last night. Woke up to cancel my surgery, and found out about this devastating news 💔
2 hours, 15 minutes, 43 seconds.
That’s how long it’s been since you’ve been folded and bounded to the headboard.
Valko was rutting vigorously into your used pussy, groaning loudly after each clench your walls gave his dick. His cum had long since dripped out your hole, and seeped into the blanket before puddling beneath you. You can’t count how many times you’ve squirted on him, and he gave you that wolfish grin.
“Your body’s so responsive to my touch, doll…” he teases against your nipple.
The cloth around your mouth had saliva dripping from it, due to having absorbed most of it. You whine when his thick fingers rub circles against your clit then side to side rapidly. Your urethra shot clear liquid out, and coated his sculpted stomach.
“You can’t even hide how bad you actually want this,” he kissed your top lip with a smirk on his face.
His eyes fill with mirth as he slip his fingers into you, next to his cock.
“Tu fool!” Your words muffle, and eyes roll back.
He pulled out abruptly, and your legs shook harshly.
“God, look at this gorgeous body…” his large hand roam your parts gently, as if letting the texture of your skin sink into his palms.
“Wanna make you mine… no… I need to make sure you know you’re mine.” He wraps his arms around your waist, and slides his thick cock back in, causing you to let out a loud noise — almost like a cry and moan mixed together.
He groans in your ear, and hugs you tightly, before setting his pace at high speed, just like earlier.
“Can’t stop… fucking you…!” But you’re already filled to the max with his seed. What more could he possibly want?
To get you pregnant?
That was a given with how heavy and copious his loads were. You weren’t even sure anymore if birth control could save you.
His sculpted thighs smack against yours, and the sound they exude makes his tail wag happily. The squelching of his length moving his cum inside you, grows thicker in sound. If anyone were to hear, they could tell he was fucking you real good.
It’s too much, but it feels so good at the same time. You don’t want to think anymore.
All you need is him and his dick in this moment, and forever. <3
3 hours prior
You walked into the cozy home, after the door sat open, letting the air from outside come in. Valko had sent you the address earlier when you were coming back from a mission. How he got your number, you still have no clue.
You looked around the place, not seeing the man, and stay near the front door.
“I see you got my text.” A familiar voice came from your left side.
You saw him standing there in a suit with glasses on.
“Did you just come back from somewhere?”
He took big strides towards you, and sat on a high chair next to the kitchen island.
“I was in a meeting.” He nodded a bit.
You took a moment to analyze him. You didn’t see his ears or tail, and asked about them.
“They come out when I feel like letting them out. I usually keep them hidden during business meetings and stuff.” He leaned against the flat surface.
You hummed, and took three steps forward. “Why did you ask me to come by? And how did you get my number?”
His hand dug in his pant pocket for something as he spoke. “I have something I think you need. Also, when you’re in this kind of work, it isn’t hard to retrieve personal information.”
He stood up, reminding you of the height difference, and you subtly swallowed. He walked over to you and handed you the small box. You glanced at it, up at him, then back at the square before carefully taking it. He focused on you, watching your expression as you opened it.
A protocore. But not just a regular or modified one.
It was the raw protocore of a Wanderer you had fought the other day. It was too strong to defeat, even with the team you were with.
“How did you get this…?” You looked up at him.
He shrugged like it was no big deal, and looked at your fingers enclosed around the box. “I fought that Wanderer. It wasn’t hard, it just got in my way while I was… doing stuff.”
You looked at his chest then back at the crystal, rolling it around in your fingers. You licked your dry lips, and he notices, feeling his heart speed up at the gesture.
“I can’t take this.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re gonna want something in return, and I don’t really like paying people back.”
“I haven’t asked for anything, though.” He shrugs.
“Yet.” You add in.
He chuckles, and sits down on the arm rest. “Okay, okay. All I want is for you to spend some time with me.”
“Spend some time with you…?” Your face scrunched in confusion.
“Mhm. I… think we have a lot in common. And I’m… intrigued by you, your ambitions and character.” His voice softened.
Your eyes widened, and you looked away. Now it was your heart’s turn to race.
“Ahem… I don’t think I can do that…” his teasing smile falters just a bit.
“Hm?”
You feel awkward, suddenly, and put the protocore back in the box. You set it next to him, and turned to leave, but his hands dart out and grab your waist.
“Hang on a second.” He stood and you turned to look up at him.
He got close, real close, and you panicked a bit. “Um…?”
“Did I do something to scare you?” He blurted out.
You blinked, and noticed something moving in your peripheral view. You looked, and saw his tail swaying slowly.
“Um not… exactly?” You cupped your bicep, turning your head away.
He pulled you close, and you could smell his cologne. You clenched your jaw, and swallowed, feeling something warm forming in your pelvic area.
“You seem flustered about something… talk to me.” His voice softened more.
“I’m not used to hanging out with people. I don’t have a lot of friends, and I only talk to my coworkers for business… so you asking me to spend time with you just… caught me off guard, I guess.”
His hands cupped your face, making it squished a little as he made you look up at him. “I know I’m… coming off strong, but… if I said I felt something since I met you last month, would you… reconsider how you’re feeling?”
You unintentionally pout, and his heart melts. His tail curled forward, and rubbed against your arm, making you jump as you forgot it was there.
“I-I don’t know, Valko—”
He leaned down and kissed you. Your pouty lips pressed firmly against his, and his tail slowly brushed up and down your side. You turn your head away, and pant a little.
“H-Hey, why did—” your words cut off when you look at him, and see his eyes glowing.
“I don’t know if you can feel it…” he took your hand, and sat it on the noticeable tent in his pants, “but I need you… we need you.”
You blinked, and were confused. “S-So suddenly…?”
There was no time to talk, as all he could think about was having you— bare and moaning just for him.
Now
You writhe beneath him, and sob as you’re forced to watch him eat you out. Your soft whimpers and mewls only fuel his twitchy, leaking cock more.
“Ngh!! Fuck!!” Your tears soak the fabric around your mouth.
Your toes clench as his tongue flicks your sensitive pearl over and over while his fingers penetrate your sticky walls.
“My sweet mate… your scent’s covered with mine now.” He whispers, taking your clit in between his lips.
He hums at your flavor, and licks his cum that’s leaking out your used hole. Your head tilts back with you wanting to melt into nothingness. He finally pulls away, and pats your puffy wet folds. His hand rubs the area like he’s trying to sink all the essence into your skin. You tilt your head to the side, and are dazed by the strenuous activity.
You can’t feel your legs anymore, and the cramp in your back grows numb. He’s kept you in this folded position for so long, it feels like your body’s just used it now.
He finally unbinds your ankles and wrists, letting them gently fall near you, and you let out a much needed exhale. Your thighs convulse every now and then, with random spurts of cum splashing out of you. You’re exhausted, wanting nothing more than to sleep for the rest of the day.
More like the week. Not even the hunter training and missions wear you out this much. You feel like your lifeforce has drained significantly while he’s breathing like he did a light jog.
He’s talking to you, but you don’t understand what he’s saying because your hearing’s buzzed out by the sleepiness quickly consuming you. He gets off the bed, walks to the bathroom, grabs a hand towel and wets it, then walks back into the room and gently cleans you off. He leaves kisses along your inner thighs, giving the spot just above your clit a kiss. He makes his way up your pelvis, to your stomach, and kisses your womb.
He speaks quietly, hoping his seed will stick and you’ll carry his pups. But for now, you just need to stay and let him do the rest.
WOO i suck at build up. I just thought of this on the spot 🍅
✩ synopsis: you run to reddit for advice when it comes to your unsteady relationship with zayne.
✩ pairing: zayne x non!mc reader / wc: 4034
✩ cw/tags: slight angst, hurt/comfort, misunderstanding
✩ crossposted in my ao3
✩ a/n: written in second pov but will be in first pov with the reddit posts. not proofread, first time writing in a while pls be kind !
r/relationship_advice
u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 12h
I (25F) feel like my boyfriend (27M) is falling out of love with me, and I don’t know what to do.
As the title states. For additional context, I (25F) am your average girl. I work at a fairly well-known company in the personnel division, doing the most mundane tasks you could think of. Aside from that, I am often one of the faces of the division as I deal with the people in our company everyday so I’ve memorized all of their quirks and personalities–but that’s about it when it comes to me. On the other hand, my boyfriend (27M) is a profound professional in the medical field. He (quite literally) saves lives every day, and he is very well-known in his line of work. If I add more context as to his career, you would immediately find out who he is–the stark difference between us already says a lot.
We met a few years back through a common friend who is also a professional in the medical field and his close colleague at the hospital where he works. Throughout the relationship, he has been everything that I asked for. However, all of this started when last month, I was notified by my boss that I wasn’t promoted to the position I was vying for. It was heartbreaking. And naturally, I thought of seeking refuge with my boyfriend. When I messaged him, asking him to meet later that evening, he turned it down, saying he was finally meeting with his childhood best friend (24F). If it were any other day, I would’ve been ecstatic, as this was the same friend he mentioned to me that he had lost contact with. But that night, I felt as though it was the cruelest timing of the universe, especially how he described to me with earnest fervor everything about his best friend. How she was a rising hunter, and she found contact with him through a magazine article about him (yes, he’s that famous). However, I couldn’t bring myself to ruin his evening. And so, initially, I understood the situation since I don’t want to seem an overbearing, controlling partner. And so, I thought it would be best if I instead sat with my feelings first and sought comfort from him in the following days.
But those days did not come. Instead, I was always greeted by his cold exterior, oftentimes he would be too busy to respond to me as he was in the midst of his hospital shifts, and once he did become free, he either was too exhausted to converse properly or would spend his time with anyone else other than me. Mostly, his best friend too.
While I am aware that his best friend is also in a relationship (with their other childhood friend, it seems), I still can’t help but feel uneasy about the situation.
It has been a month since I noticed this behavior, and I’m not sure whether this was already occurring before, as my boyfriend could come off as nonchalant at times and stoic.
Usually, I’m not the one to jump to conclusions, but from the situation itself, it seems that my boyfriend has been drifting apart from me. I really love him and adore him, but with each day that we spend apart, it further breaks my heart as it feels like he no longer acknowledges our relationship. Is this worth fighting for, or is our relationship beyond saving at this point?
EDIT: Please do not post this on other social media sites, I’m afraid he might see.
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u/linkonsfinest ∙ 12h
first off, i’m so sorry to hear about your career rejection. i’m sure it will redirect you to greener pastures, OP. anyway, about your relationship, this sounds like a classic case of sitting down and talking about your feelings with him. have you tried that, OP?
also, whether you like it or not, he is bound to see this post since it’s public, after all.
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u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 12h
Thank you for your kind words. But I would have if he had given me just a few minutes of his time.
EDIT: What’s with the downvotes?
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u/starbunny ∙ 11h
Ignore them, OP. It’s reddit after all lol. My advice is that U try and think abt what what matters most for U. Ur relationship with him or ur peace. The meeting with the bestfriend part may seem sketchy but U know ur boyfriend best than compared to us strangers on the internet.
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u/fishie_painter307 ∙ 11h
Seems to me that you have hidden insecurities, OP. There was a tendency to look down on yourself in the paragraphs you have written, while you write about your boyfriend as if he had discovered the cure to the protocore syndrome. But it sounds like you’re just as amazing and as hardworking as he is. But I didn’t come here to give you free therapy sessions lol. I fear the only way we can find an end to this is to sit down with him and talk about the icky, uncomfortable thing called feelings. For now, try assessing what you have right now, and consider talking with him as soon as his schedule clears up. Better yet, just barge into his office and demand some answers lol, since he seems like he isn’t the type to care until the last minute.
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u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 10h
The last comment seemed unnecessary, but it felt like cold water splashing me. Maybe it’s the truth. Thanks.
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u/evil_overlord901 ∙ 10h
Since he’s a doctor, you should just pretend you’re on the verge of death to make him worry and as revenge for his neglect, hahaha.
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u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 10h
I’m not that crazy enough.
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Zayne has been staring at his phone for what seems like hours. But really, it has only been twenty minutes since Greyson hurled open his office doors with a frown etched unusually on his face.
“What have you done to my friend?” Greyson asked, brows knit together. “Pardon?” Zayne could only reply.
Greyson scoffs, running a hand through his hair, “They were right, you really don’t seem to care.”
“What is going on?” Zayne asks, finally setting down the pen he has in between his fingers. “Is there something the matter?”
The younger man holds back a grumble under his breath, “Just see for yourself.” He then set his phone across Zayne as the latter read the title.
I (25F) feel like my boyfriend (27M) is falling out of love with me, and I don’t know what to do.
“What is this supposed to be, Greyson?” Zayne asks, “Is this what the staff are gossiping about in the hallway today?”
He recalls the way the nurses and doctors hushed murmurs in the hallways, sneaking glances towards Zayne as he waltzes through the bleak corridors. He paid no mind to it as he knew it wasn’t his business to pry into whatever they were gossiping about.
“They were gossiping about you, Dr. Zayne.”
“What?”
The conversation seemed like it was going nowhere, so Greyson just sighed defeatedly while retrieving his phone. A resounding ping! echoed from Zayne’s phone.
“I sent you the link to the post. Make sure to read every single word and tell me that isn’t you.”
That was twenty minutes ago, and Zayne was sure that every word was tattooed on the crevices of his brain at this point. But what else should he do now that he’s memorized it? He’s sure at this point that user cheesecake_plushie73 is most definitely you. There’s no denying it, with the way you described the circumstances and your impeccable writing style that mimics his. Yes, he’s certain it’s you.
But now what?
Smoke curls from the teacup you’ve set down seconds ago as you inhale the autumn breeze from your balcony. Your phone is on temporary do not disturb from the hundreds of Reddit notifications you received since last night. You observe the sky-high buildings and rigid architecture of the city, eyes fixated on nothing and everything all at once. It has been a month since you received the news, the words of your boss linger at the back of your mind, and the rejection email sits heavily on your phone, tucked away from the thousands of junk mail you receive. The nonacceptance of your promotion still gnaws at your chest despite the long time you’ve spent trying to accept it. Nevertheless, you have slowly come to terms with the rejection, chanting the line that the redditor told you in your post–that it’s just redirection. However, you can’t help but feel that the redirection that the rejection launched in your way also involved your relationship with Zayne.
You’re sure you’ve told Zayne about the promotion, how you applied for it, and how the chances of getting in seemed highly possible. And yet, you can’t seem to recall whether Zayne was supportive of it or if he had said anything at all. Your mind has been all muddled and cloudy with all of the heartbreaking scenarios you’ve made up since you received his message that he was meeting his childhood friend.
It was silly, and since then, you’ve felt perpetually stupid for thinking horrendously of your boyfriend. You know he wouldn’t cause such a scene like that, to see another woman behind your back–it was preposterous! The thought still makes you gag to the point where you couldn’t believe you actually went and logged into an online forum just to seek advice. The idea alone was enough to make you physically convulse and cringe because you knew that if he wanted out of your relationship, he would’ve already done so.
Which somehow makes you hurt more.
You’ve gone uncharacteristically by posting at an online forum just to seek advice from some stranger on the internet to tell you what to do. But how could you blame yourself? You’re just trying to make the situation better for you. But what is it going to take just to feel okay? Is it hope? Is it love? Do you talk? Or is it therapy?
You sigh for the umpteenth time of the day, watching the glow of the sun turn orange and pink as it continues to slowly illuminate your space. For some reason, despite being on a (fake) sick leave, you couldn’t bring yourself to stay inside your house.
It just felt… emptier.
The doom and gloom of the space makes the apartment stuffier than usual, and no matter how much you’ve dusted the space, you’ve felt like going through different stages of your chest tightening. Perhaps it’s because of the memories that it carries, the way the air permeates Zayne’s faint perfume, or his touch that lingers in your skin when you settle on the couch, remembering how he used to tightly hold you on Friday evenings while watching something.
You just couldn’t take it.
The apartment feels heavier, and you couldn’t bring yourself to go back inside. And so, as a remedy, you find yourself tucked away on the balcony with a book you’ve forgotten the plot to, sitting idly on the table beside you. Your mind races a thousand thoughts, all of which contain the same wish. How you wish that everything would just end soon and that tomorrow the sun will rise again, and you can try again.
But what could be said for a new day when your chest is unwillingly clenching every time you think of Zayne? You want to be angry at him for neglecting you just like that one Reddit user said. You want to do something impulsive, irrational, and unmistakably stupid just to see him come running and say what you’ve been wanting to hear for the past month.
And yet, what is that something that you want to hear from him?
How are you?
I missed you?
I’m sorry?
…Let’s break up?
And what were you going to respond anyway?
I’m okay?
I missed you, too?
I understand?
…Is it her?
Oh dear heavens. You think to yourself, burying your face in your hands. You feel ridiculous and helpless. The Reddit users were right. You should talk to him soon, lest you lose your mind over all of this.
Succumbing to the most vile thoughts you have ever conceived, you didn’t notice the indisputable beeps of your keypad door lock echoing in your apartment. Neither the loud swinging of the door nor the frantic removing of shoes by the doorway, nor the heavy padding throughout the dim space.
Your head only whips in attention when you hear the door frame to the balcony rattling behind you.
“There you are.”
Oh.
“I’ve gone to your work, and they told me you were sick… Are you okay?”
Oh.
You sit upright, smiling meekly at Zayne. “You surprised me.”
Zayne closes the glass door behind him and carefully takes the vacant seat beside the table. You dart your gaze from him and settle on your now cold tea, “Would you like some tea?” You offered. To which he shakes his head.
Silence envelops the two of you. And for once, after all the daydreaming of possibilities of when he will arrive, you don’t know what to do.
“Why would I surprise you?” He asks.
“I dunno… It’s been a while since you’ve come here. And it’s unlike you to drop by unannounced,” you say with a faint chuckle.
“Oh. I’ve left a text. But your notifications were silenced.”
“Oh.”
You picked up your phone and went to your messages, and lo and behold, he did send a message just twenty minutes ago.
“Twenty minutes ago?” You say out loud before you can even stop yourself.
“...Is there a problem?”
You sheepishly rub the back of your head before setting your phone back down, “Nothing…” You begin hesitantly, “You usually just give me a heads up at least hours prior. But it’s no big deal. I’m not complaining!” You defend.
Zayne nods at you promptly, and once again, silence wraps the two of you. You refuse to look at Zayne for a second longer than you should, afraid that the waterworks might come unwarranted.
“I see.”
You only let out a grunt of approval, eyes drifting back to the buildings across from you two. Your refusal to look at him for a second longer warranted you to miss two things:
Zayne’s usually perfect hair seemed unkempt, like he had been running his fingers through it numerous times.
He refuses to look away from you even for a second.
And yet now that he occupies your space, you don’t know how to act. Why was he here anyway? You couldn’t bring yourself to act. Not when you caught a whiff of his perfume once again, making you want to both hurl in anxiety and lunge forward at him, wrapping your arms around his waist and just burying yourself in the comforts of his chest.
Zayne wasn’t doing much better either. The moment he read the comment from user evil_overlord901, he thought about how you’d go to terrifying lengths just to gather his attention. While he knows you won’t go that far, the thought still gnaws at his brain like a pesky pest. To the point where he might’ve broken a few traffic rules just to get to your place.
The silence hangs in the air, and Zayne doesn’t seem to know what to do now that he’s seen you all safe and sound. A thousand questions were running around in his brain, but he didn’t know where to start.
Nevertheless, he kept his eyes locked on your figure. Your elbow is propped on the table, your chin resting on the palm of your hand, and your glassy eyes sporting that distant look. He didn’t miss the swell of your eyelids nor the heavy bags starting to form. And for some reason, he hates himself for it. He hates how he barely noticed anything about you for the past month, how he felt utterly selfish for casting you aside.
He loathes it.
And yet, he couldn’t throw himself a pity party when all he wants right now is to take you within his comfort.
After a couple more minutes of silence between you two, Zayne inhales. “...Cheesecake_plushie73?”
“...What?” You turn your head towards him mechanically, blinking slowly at his words.
“Does that…phrase ring a bell to you?”
You chuckle nervously in response, “...I suppose?”
You see Zayne and his usual pensive expression written across his features. “You suppose…” He parrots.
“Why? What’s that about?” You ask, your voice a bit smaller.
“Nothing… Greyson just showed me this post from a forum that seems eerily like you.”
Like us.
“Oh. I see.”
“...Have I been neglecting you?”
“What?”
“I have, haven’t I?”
You attempt to school your expression into something neutral, but you couldn’t deny the wild thumping of your chest when you see the way his eyes bore into yours with such intensity that you were certain you could melt from it. Zayne reaches out from his seat, clasping both of your hands with his much bigger ones. You hold back a flinch, startled from the sudden contact after being deprived of one for way too long. His hands were warm, you note, much warmer than your freezing ones.
Before you could even respond, he abruptly stands up, which makes the chair almost tilt back, and immediately, he kneels across you. Your eyes widen, wanting to scramble and make him rise from the cramped space of your balcony, but before you could even do anything, his lips ghost over your fingers, and you feel electricity coursing through your veins.
“I’m sorry,” was all Zayne could murmur, “Your heart must be heavy from the weight of carrying our burdens.”
Your breathing constricts, and you feel your eyes well from his words alone. “It was foolish of me not to notice how you were going through such a terrible time, and I am so sorry for letting you go through that without me,” he continues, pressing chaste kisses on each of your fingers.
“Zayne, it’s nothing–”
“Please do not belittle yourself any further. I can’t stand seeing you speak so lowly of yourself, my love,” he says with finality that makes you clamp your mouth shut. He then turns his gaze back to you, his eyes soft and glassy, and you don’t miss the way his lips tremble. He then tightens his hold on your hands, pressing them onto his chest, “Do you feel how my heart only beats for you? How its pace quickens when I catch just a sight of your silhouette in the crowd?”
And you do.
The way his heart rapidly pounds in his chest, even when you lie on top of him as you snuggle, or even as mundane as fleeting embraces, when it’s time to say goodbye.
You always feel it.
“Only you have that effect on me, my love. And I despise myself for having you doubt my love for you. I have done poorly recently, so it seems,” Zayne continues, his hands still clutched tightly against yours. “There’s absolutely no one else that could make me feel this way. Only you.”
“Zayne…” Your lips wobble from the declaration of his love.
“Please forgive me for being such a terrible lover, my dear. There was no excuse to it,” he says, almost pleadingly.
You feel a lump forming in your throat, and before you know it, Zayne already unclasps his hand from yours, and you feel his warm thumb gently caressing the salty tears from your cheeks.
“It was just unfair, Zayne. How… how I felt so alone and miserable without having you by my side, while it felt like you were doing more than okay,” you mumble through fits of your tears.
“I was a fool, my love. Please don’t cry, it hurts me more than you know,” he whispers, inching closer to you.
You shake your head, “I’ve soon come to terms with the rejection, but I couldn’t accept how I was so lonely throughout the process. I just wanted you. But you had other plans. Other people to meet. Other people who seemed more important than I am, and I h-hated that…!”
The knot in your chest tightens as you finally let the damn burst wide open.
With no words left to say, Zayne rises from the floor and engulfs you in his tight embrace, letting your tears damp his shirt. He strokes your head carefully, humming to you as he tries his damndest not to cry with you.
The sight alone makes him physically ache as he continues to wallow in his regret and pity. For the first time in his life, Zayne feels helpless. He could only bring himself to hush you with comforting words like, “It’s okay, my love. I’m here now.” Or “I was an idiot. I didn’t love you properly when you needed it the most.”
And across you two, the sun slowly began to finally set, casting the last golden glow onto your skin. You claw tightly onto his back, desperate to feel that he is there with you and nowhere else.
“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, your tears slowly dissipating. “I felt so terrible that I posted our relationship on an online forum.”
“It’s okay, my love. You didn’t know what else to do, and that’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry too for neglecting you and hurting you in the process. I never desired for you to hurt because of me.”
You shake your head, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say that it’s okay. You swallowed thickly, “I forgive you,” was all you could say.
“And I don’t deserve such forgiveness from the sweetest girl in the world.”
You chuckled half-heartedly, digging yourself closer to his chest and inhaling his scent much further, memorizing the warmth of his body, and how he holds you.
“Am not,” you retort jokingly.
“Yes, you are, miss cheesecake_plushie73.”
You weakly punch his stomach in response, laughing softly at his attempt to lighten the situation. He sighs contentedly, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head.
“I love you, my dear.”
r/relationship_advice
u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 12 mins ago
UPDATE: I (25F) feel like my boyfriend (27M) is falling out of love with me, and I don’t know what to do.
I think I owe everyone an update here. My boyfriend and I had finally talked things through, and all my worries had vanished. Apparently, he was meeting up with all his childhood best friends, and it had been a decade since they last saw each other. He also apologized for the neglect, and he took two weeks off from his work to go on a short trip with me to make up for lost time. I felt silly for being worried, but he assured me that it was not silly to feel valid emotions and that we would work things through. I also apologized for closing myself off and for making up bad assumptions about his bestfriend. Anyway, I’m off to pack for our trip. Thank you all for all the advice and comments.
P.S. He also saw my post here which prompted our conversation T___T
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u/linkonsfinest ∙ 5 mins ago
see! all you need is a good ol’ conversation and everything’s okay! glad you fixed it, OP! despite him seeing the post and prompting the conversation lol. still, congrats!
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u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 3 mins ago
Thank you.
u/starbunny ∙ 5 mins ago
Nice. Glad U worked it out.
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u/fishie_painter307 ∙ 5 mins ago
Finally some good news in my feed! Congrats, OP! Bring us some souvenir from the trip, will ya? ;)
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u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 2 mins ago
Thank you! Also, my boyfriend said your comment was one of the reasonable ones including u/linkonsfinest. Except he didn’t like how you called me insecure lmao T__T
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u/evil_overlord901 ∙ 3 mins ago
Aw, no fake deaths?
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u/cheesecake_plushie73 ∙ 1 min ago
Please get off the internet.
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a/n: heavily inspired by empty house by neck deep and is it over now by taylor swift !! also, i saw this reddit style format writing somewhere in tumblr and thought i had to give it a try!! comments r very much appreciated :)
"I hope you won't mind if I think of you as a friend."
thinking about Hatchling discovering Grace & Rocky's story hundreds of thousands of years after it happened when there are no more Eridians or humans to tell it :')
When Stratt opens her eyes to the achingly, depressingly familiar Hail Mary crew coma bag, when she becomes aware of tubes and medical equipment and robotic arms, she should be confused, or angry, or terrified. Instead, the only thought she can manage is yes, this seems fair.
Stratt wakes up on the Hail Mary in Ilyukhina's spot.
all the people that i thought i knew - Chapter 1 - cedardivine - Project Hail Mary - Andy Weir [Archive of Our Own]
Tags: slow burn, eventual smut, explicit language, dirty talk, established relationship, fluff, domestic moments, unrequited love (temporarily), reader falls first but Leon falls harder, one-liners, awkward dates, told over a frame of time (RE2 to RE9), Leon is kinda dense when it comes to your affections - at first
Summary: A look at the complicated romance between you and Leon. From your initial meeting, through your pining, your first date, and eventually marriage. All the times Leon never recognized your affections, until he finally did.
Word Count: 2.2k
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
“September 30th you said?” You had written the month down in the date section of the report you were filing.
“Time sure is flying, isn’t it,” the officer in front of you replied, shuffling through papers on his desk, “it’s already 1998, we are about to enter the 21st century.”
You hummed, acknowledging the officer’s awe concerning the upcoming century. It had been the talk of Racoon City as of late, how the city planned to celebrate was the biggest news of the decade. You, personally, could care less. At your age, the welcoming of a new year was hardly your biggest concern.
In terms of the local police department, it seemed their festivities revolved around a new recruit. You were certainly no detective, but the string hanging from the ceiling harbored blue circles with yellow letters, indicating the person to arrive was named Leon.
“New recruit?” You made conversation, now filling out the account section of the report, detailing what you had witnessed.
“Yeah,” he smiled, “it will be nice to have a Rookie around here, them young ones are always so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Us old folks could use that energy.”
The officer on your case didn’t seem that old. But, you didn’t bother to comment, solely aiming to be in and out of the establishment. The longer you remained, the higher the chance there was of getting innocent involved. You weren’t supposed to be there. You weren’t supposed to be relaying classified information.
Your pen scratched the last sentence, then you signed your name, including your contact information.
“Great,” the officer grabbed the sheet, giving it a look over before stashing it in a file drawer, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting by the entrance, we can get you in touch with the detective who will be handling your case.”
You nodded, gripping your purse as you sat in a chair near the front desk. Your heel bobbed, knee shaking while nerves commandeered your being. Any colleague of yours could be onto you, currently on their way to reprimand your decision.
A colleague wouldn’t reach you, neither would the detective on staff.
A shout would ring out from the upper floors, feet stomping in quick repetitions as officers fled. A gunshot would penetrate the air, and instead of fleeing with others, you ran towards the commotion.
There, you would meet blood and commotion, snarls from individuals you would have considered human. Their walk would be off kilter, crimson spilling from their mouths to drip from the curves of their chins. You wouldn’t panic, no, because this was what you had feared, what you had come to report.
As a chemist, the misuse of any chemical or biological data was strictly prohibited.
You had only seen the evidence when glancing at your mentor’s confidential reports. You hadn't meant to, but key words had stuck out like neon lights, ultimately revealing a bioweapon many would aim to capitalize.
Your stomach had dropped, your mind whirring.
Which was how you found yourself at the Racoon City Police Department.
But all of it had been in vain, you were far too late. Judging by the sickening shade of skin upon the infected, nothing could be done. A discarded pair of scissors was your nearest option, and as you plunged the sharp point into the neck of a woman you had seen enter earlier, tears dripped down your cheeks.
One jab wouldn’t be enough, you’d have to retreat then slam the blade back in, this time, deeper.
It would be your first kill, and not your last.
Chaos swarmed the building within minutes. You had trust in the system implemented, yet you would find out it had nothing in place for zombies. Which, in hindsight, made sense. Zombies were creatures you found in books, movies, and video games. If you were to call anyone and say zombies were running rampant down halls, they would laugh.
The electricity failed first. Lights flickered before submerging the halls in darkness. Another screech echoed, this one emanating pain. Shots fired, growls from something otherworldly, pierced the turmoil. Panic seized your being, but you pushed through, navigating pitch black halls.
You found a door, and jiggled the handle, finding it was unlocked. The room you would enter would be your safe haven - a supply room. You hid beneath a spare desk, tucking your knees to your chest. A ruby light was stationed where a wall met the ceiling, an emergency light. You would stare at it for what felt like hours, hands stiff on the floor. They were sticky, weighted with drying blood.
Something told you not to exit the room. It was probably the seemingly endless gunshots. Voices commanded others, separation evident as those orders were far and few between. Then, it became eerily quiet, aside from the occasional grunt of an infected.
The clock on the wall ticked. Your teeth gritted, molars compressing. The damn thing was too loud. But it would create more of a racket to drag a chair over and clamber to reach it. This, you realized, was where you would perish.
If you didn’t do anything.
When the clock struck ten you’d move - that was your decision. Fifteen minutes to collect yourself.
You scanned the room, scouting for any item that might be of use. Boxes of papers, pens, and clipboards were prominent. An odd green plant was located atop a cabinet, potted and ripe with leaves. If the thing was to be displayed, this was not the room to do it.
“Hello! Is anyone here?”
A door slammed down the hall, alerting a few stragglers. A weapon discharged, a comforting sound.
“Shit,” the man hissed, “damned things won’t die.”
He sounded young, almost boyish. Upheaval followed, bodies falling to the ground after a few more bullets exited the chamber. The newcomer’s footsteps were calculated, his breathing shallow. The handle turned, and you winced as a flashlight blanketed your form.
“Hey,” the man rushed forward, kneeling in front of you. The door shut behind him with a thump loud enough to prompt the others. If you were in any other situation, you would have considered his excitement somewhat adorable. “Are you okay?”
Blonde hair framed his forehead in a split making his bangs uneven. Beneath the strands, cobalt eyes were trained on you, pure, overflowing with compassion. His attire revealed he was an officer, one who belonged to this particular precinct.
The banner from earlier flashed through your mind.
“Leon?” You guessed.
“Yeah,” his eyebrows pinched, “you know me?”
You shook your head, “the others were expecting you.”
“I know,” he sank further so his rear met his heels. Defeated, he appeared ashamed. “It’s my first day, and I’m late.”
“Leon,” you stole his attention, “can you get us out of here?”
“I can try.”
He rose, allotting you the space to crawl out from beneath the desk. His gaze checked you over from top to bottom before confirming you were free of any injury.
Or bite, you would later realize.
Your first encounter with Leon was not worth writing home about. It was rather mundane, nothing noteworthy. Later questions would consist of a similar tone.
“Are there other survivors?” He would inquire.
“Not that I’m aware of,” was your honest answer.
“Can you shoot?”
“I’m a quick learner.”
To hear his voice settled your nerves. Leon, at his young age and Rookie status, did not fulfill an image of a Knight in shining armor. He had his moments of uncertainty and doubt, sometimes naive in his optimism. Years down the road, you would regret not savoring this side of him, a side you would rarely ever see again.
You rounded a corner, Leon’s flashlight causing you distress. You didn’t want to see what had been done, how others have been harmed. You belonged in a pristine lab, studying cures to diseases that caused suffering.
Blood, gore, and the stench of decay slithered over your skin. That persistent sense of panic tightened your throat.
A weight hauled into you, and you fell, your chin knocking hard against the floor. Your front teeth dug into your lip, the metallic taste of blood flooding your tastebuds.
“Don’t move!” Leon shouted.
Saliva dripped down your neck, breath harsh over your skin. Leon was confident in his aim, a bullet whizzing past your ear, the initial discharge sharp like the crack of a whip. The zombie who had barreled into you from behind rolled off your back, absent of a head.
You attempted to scramble away only to falter. Excruciating pain spiraled up your calf, through your hip, the back of your neck - your body answering with a cry out.
“Wait, not so fast,” Leon was by your side, helping you to rotate onto your back. He cursed beneath his breath, rummaging through a pouch at his hip. Gauze materialized in his palm, his jaw clenching as he analyzed your leg.
“How bad is it?” You ventured
“It’s going to be okay,” he deflected, squishing the flashlight between his shoulder and cheek, wrapping your leg. “You were pushed on top of a broken chair leg . . . a piece of it - well, you know.”
Before you could protest, strong arms were supporting you: one scooping beneath your legs, the other cradling your upper spine. He lifted you with ease.
Survival instinct should have led him to leave you. At this point, you were nothing but a burden. There were no equations, tubes, or instruments where you could prove your worth.
“We are going to leave together, got it?”
Watching his profile, determination steeled his expression. It was as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. This might have been the moment you fell for him, subconsciously. Risking his life, he carried you to the entrance of the precinct. Each step he took was a double-edged sword.
He was carrying you to potential safety. But, the more steps he took, the shorter your journey together became.
Leon’s warmth seeped through his uniform, the tense muscles sustaining both of your bodies were rigid against you. He trembled slightly, you felt it in the hands that grasped different portions of your frame. And his scent, rich with sweat, was sweetened with a cologne popular among adults your age.
You two had to be near, if not the same, age.
Months after this incident, it would be revealed that in fact you two were merely a year apart.
Leon would drop you off on a bench at the entrance. He would promise he’d right whatever wrongs took place. He would leave you there for hours, and you’d be rescued by government agents who rammed the front doors.
Paramedics would assess your injury while you were wrapped in blankets. Once you were identified, you would be asked to comply with further questioning.
You didn’t have a choice, really. And on your first date with Leon, you two would recognize for once the government had provided you with a positive outcome.
But, your first date with Leon would be close to two decades away.
So, in the moment, you despised the idea.
It was during your questioning of recent events the government would offer you a position as a researcher to combat bio organic weapons. You wanted to help, to prevent the horrors you had witnessed in Racoon City. That, and a kernel of curiosity had begun to expand. If you played your cards right, there was a slim chance you’d encounter Leon again.
You hadn’t had the opportunity to thank him.
Through your new position, you’d discover Leon was recruited as an agent for the D.S.O. His missions had him engaging with the T-virus more often than not, which would become your area of expertise. You’d pass him in the halls, in the cafeteria, and brief him on certain intel.
Your journey was one laden with obstacles, detours, and unknown roads. How you ended up as his wife still baffled you to this day.
You stifled a laugh behind a hand.
“What’s so funny?”
Leon sat at the kitchen island in your home, the stem of his spoon twirling between his thumb and forefinger.
“Nothing,” you quipped, turning so your rear cushioned you as you reclined against the counter.
“It’s not nothing, gorgeous,” he smirked.
Leon and the rasp of his voice always had arousal blossoming between your hips.
You walked on over to stand next to him, your slight limp due to the injury all those years ago never healing correctly.
His arm slid around your waist, hauling you onto his lap. As he had aged, Leon maintained his physique, somehow gaining muscle despite all the wear and tear the government had put him through. Your husband was adamant he still spend the majority of his time in the gym. Matter of fact, the breakfast you had procured had an extra dose of protein in it, just for him.
“Tell me,” he urged, “secrets have never done anyone good.”
“Thinking back,” you whispered, “to the day we first met.”
“September 30, 1998.”
“It’s a day I’ll never forget.”
If anyone is interested - I am open to creating a taglist
Which is proving to make Christmas wrapping quite difficult.
"Sylus, please, I have like ten more things to wrap I need to focus!" But your lover is still at your back, nose nuzzling into the nape of your neck. You can feel his smile in the way his lips struggle to kiss your sensitive skin.
"The twins aren't going to care if their presents are wrapped." It's a gentle murmur, barely heard over the crackling fire place and the soft Christmas songs you have playing on his record player. "You know damn well that's a lie, Sylus."
He's chuckling behind you, hands sliding up under your shirt to splay across the warm skin of your stomach. "Christmas isn't for a few more hours." He reasons again, teeth scraping your neck and nearly making you drop the tape dispenser.
"Why are you so needy right now?" You hiss, but despite it all, there is a smile pulling at your lips. One that nearly falters all together when his hands inch up a little further. "No bra?" You bite your cheek, glaring at him over your shoulder. "Don't deflect."
"Fine, I just want one of my Christmas presents a little early." You set the tape down, flipping the box to start securing the paper on the other side. Trying desperately to ignore his fingers inching ever closer to your bare chest under your sweater. "What present, exactly? We agreed no exchanging until the morning."
Sylus is silent for a moment, hands staying on your ribs to add to the growing suspense. He notices the slight tremble in your fingers as you try and rip off more tape, he's got your attention alright.
"You." Simple, but this time you really do drop the tape. "In front of my fireplace." He continues softly, hands moving up to cup your breasts. "Naked, of course. Spread all pretty for me."
You give in so easily to him, putty in his large, warm hands as he tenderly massages your breasts. "Sylus... the presents..." but he's clicking his tongue, biting at your neck as he pulls you flush to his front. "They can wait, I'll be quick."
But Sylus is never quick with you, he always takes his sweet time. "You're such a liar." His laugh is breathless. "is that a yes?"
There’s this funny misconception that when a character walks into a room, the important part is the room. Writers start scrambling to describe the walls, the wallpaper, the lighting, the color of the rug that no one asked for. And sure, you can do that. But the room doesn’t matter until your character touches it with their thoughts.
And I’m saying this with love, because I’ve written those “character enters room, now here’s a paragraph about the furniture” scenes too. We all have. They’re basically a rite of passage.
But the more you write (and the more drafts you survive) the more you realize something important: the room is NEVER the point.
The PERSON entering it is.
When someone walks into a room in real life, they don’t float in like a neutral non-entity. They bring whatever emotional chaos they’ve been dealing with. They bring the argument they just had in the hallway. They bring the secret they’re not ready to tell anyone. They bring the memory the smell of the room just stabbed them with. People don’t arrive clean. They arrive mid-story, even if they pretend they’re fine. So instead of focusing on the chair in the corner, try starting with the emotional “temperature” your character walks in with.
Are they anxious and trying to hide it?
Are they exhausted and hoping nobody notices?
Are they excited but scared they’ll ruin everything the moment they open their mouth?
You don’t have to spell it out like a weather report, just let it tint the way they see the space. Plus, a room changes depending on who’s looking at it. If your character is confident, the space might feel open, manageable, almost welcoming. If they’re overwhelmed, the same room can feel too loud, too bright, too filled with people who suddenly seem to know exactly where they’re going and what they’re doing. If they’re guilty, every shadow becomes suspicious. If they’re sad, the room might seem bigger than it really is.
It doesn’t matter how the room “objectively” looks. What matters is what they see first.
And please let your characters enter rooms in realistically messy ways. Not every entrance needs to be cinematic or in the Hollywood style. Not every character glides. Some fumble the door handle. Some hesitate in the doorway because they suddenly can’t remember why they came in. Some scan the room too fast because they’re nervous and then pretend they weren’t scanning the room at all. Some try way too hard to appear casual and end up bumping into a table they didn’t even notice was there.
That kind of stuff makes your characters feel like a real person and not because the action is interesting, but because it’s familiar. It’s that tiny, “oh god, same” moment between the reader and the character, even if they never consciously notice it.
So REMEMBER: an entrance is a doorway for change, not just a physical movement. You’re not writing, “They walked into the room.” You’re writing, “They stepped into a moment.” And that’s a gamechanger.
When you're looking to replace said, think about why. You'll generally want to do this when you need the following:
when the tone of the line needs more context.
when you want to show emotion instead of telling it.
when your character’s body language, action, or expression can do the talking instead.
Take a look at the scene you're writing, is the character saying their line? Or are they yelling it? Screaming it? Are they enraged, or perhaps is their voice a broken whisper from grief?
That being said, you shouldn't always avoid using 'said.' It's easy to read in long sentences, and it keeps the focus on the dialogue rather than the rest of the scenes. That may be beneficial and a key component to parts of your story.
“You lasted eight seconds on that bull...and I’m wondering if you can last longer.”
“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.
His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”
synopsis: you think conquering a bull looks easy, so rodeo champion sylus decides you need a lesson in riding—in the backseat of his pickup truck
tags: nsfw, explicit sexual content, cowboy!sylus x city girl!reader, lust at first sight, riding, teaching, kissing, car sex, size difference, cowgirl position, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, sexual overstimulation, creampie, fluff + smut
wc: 13.2k / ao3
a/n: save a horse, ride a qin che ;)
The rodeo smells like dirt and beer and bad decisions.
You’re wedged between Tara and some guy in an absurdly oversized cowboy hat who keeps whooping like he’s personally invested in watching men get concussed by livestock. The stands are packed, the sun is setting, and you are profoundly, deeply bored.
“Isn’t this AMAZING?” Tara shouts over the announcer’s voice.
“It’s definitely something,” you say, taking another sip of overpriced beer.
“Come on! Live a little!” Tara hits your arm playfully. “You said you wanted adventure, didn’t you?”
What you actually said three days ago was that you needed a weekend away from your suffocating corporate job and your mother’s passive-aggressive texts about your biological clock. Tara—your chaotic, impulsive, rodeo-obsessed friend and coworker—interpreted that as “drive three hours into the middle of nowhere to watch men cosplay as cowboys.”
“I said I wanted a spa weekend. With wine. And no animals.”
“This is way better than a spa!”
“Tara, I’m watching a man get thrown off of a bull into a literal pile of shit.”
“That’s the best part!”
You’re starting to regret every choice you made that led you here, mentally drafting escape strategies: sudden vague illness, a family emergency of unclear nature, alien abduction—
“Next up,” the announcer booms, “give it up for Sylus Qin, folks! Undefeated this season, riding Wild Cherry—”
The crowd absolutely loses their minds. Apparently this guy is famous. Or infamous. It’s hard to tell.
Tara is suddenly sitting up straighter. “Oh my god, it’s him.”
“Him who?”
“SYLUS. The Sylus Qin. He’s only the best bull rider in the circuit right now. Undefeated. Gorgeous. Thighs that could crush your skull and you’d say thank you.” She’s practically vibrating. “This is why we came.”
“We came all the way out here for one specific cowboy?”
“We came for THE cowboy.” She looks at you like you have brain damage. “He has entire fan accounts dedicated to him, y’know. Sychos, we call ourselves. Get it, like psych—”
“Yeah, I got it,” you cut in. “Naming yourselves after men who sit on angry animals for prize money. Very adult behavior.”
“Adult behavior is overrated.” Tara waves you off. “And just you wait, babe. You’ll be calling yourself one by the end of the night.”
You snort. “If that happens, I give you permission to euthanize me.”
“Fine, but I get your closet.” She bumps your hip with hers. “I’d grieve, obviously. But in designer.”
A group of girls in tight denim shorts and matching red bandanas suddenly flock to the rail below you, phones out, glitter letters spelling STAY ON, SYLUS across posterboard. One of them whispers something to the girl beside her that makes her giggle and bite her lip.
“Those are the Sychos, huh?” you say, like you’re confirming a wildlife sighting. “You count yourself among the faithful?”
“Please. Me? I’m not here to worship him.” She tips her chin toward the girls, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. “I’m here for his disciples.”
You shoot her a look. To Tara, men sit in the same category as traffic cones—loud and in the way, only tolerable when directing her somewhere else.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably efficient, you mean.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and checks her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. “They convert easily.”
Before you can respond, the PA system crackles in a sharp burst of static that jolts the arena to attention. Everyone shifts at once, boots scraping against metal as the crowd angles to catch a glimpse of the rider. Someone whistles. Dust stirs around the chute like it’s coming alive.
The girls below you erupt first, phones snapping up, posterboards rattling against the rail.
The announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers—a slow country drawl that buzzes through the bleachers, through your ribs, through the stupid can of beer in your hand:
“Competitor twenty-two…Sylus Qin.”
Tara exhales like she’s been waiting hours for this exact moment. “Showtime.”
“—ain’t nobody lasted more than six seconds on this beast all year—”
“That’s what she said,” you mutter into your drink.
Tara doesn’t hear you. She’s too busy screaming with the rest of the crowd as the gate slams open.
The bull explodes into the ring—twisting, bucking, trying to murder its rider with pure muscle and chaos. The man on top is already locked in, one hand high, the other on the rope, body rolling with each violent buck like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he probably has.
You’ll admit—objectively, technically, it’s impressive. In the same way watching someone juggle chainsaws is impressive. Impressive and dangerous and stupid.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t even seem winded. Just rides the beast like it was born to be beneath him.
Six seconds. Seven. Eight.
The buzzer sounds. He dismounts smoothly, landing on his feet while the bull handlers rush in. The girls below you are shrieking like someone won the lottery.
You finish off your beer.
“...That’s it?” you mutter.
“That’s it?” Tara whips her head toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly fly. “He just survived a demon with horns and you’re bored?”
“Looked like…balance,” you say with a shrug. “Core strength. Decent stance.”
Tara opens her mouth, ready to annihilate you, but the crowd erupts again as the rider approaches the bleachers—a frenzy of camera flashes, dads slapping shoulders, girls crying.
You glance up just in time to see him.
Sylus Qin. Helmet off, silver hair tousled, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. A handler says something to him, but he barely responds. His red eyes scan the bleachers, not searching the crowd—hunting through it.
And then they find you.
Not the screaming girls pressed against the rail. Not the sign glittering under the fluorescent floodlights.
You.
His gaze flicks over you once, slow, like he’s taking note of every inch. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, just assesses you in a way that makes your pulse jump.
Tara gasps like she’s witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god,” she hisses, shaking your arm. “He’s looking at you!”
“He’s looking in this general direction,” you correct, throat suddenly dry.
“General direction, my ass.” Tara’s voice is wild with victory. “He’s staring at you like you just spit in his drink. And he liked it.”
You’re about to argue when Sylus drags the back of his glove across his mouth—still looking up at you, the stranger with crossed arms and a steady, blank stare. His eyes narrow, heat flicking to life behind them. Interest. Curiosity. Challenge.
You tilt your head, like you’re still trying to figure out what the fuss is about.
The gesture lands like an insult.
He holds your gaze for a beat too long, tips his hat directly at you with what can only be described as spite, and saunters out of the arena.
Tara explodes beside you the second he disappears through the gate.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Tara is practically screaming in your ear. “What just happened? Did you see that? He looked at you like—like—”
“Like nothing.”
“Like EVERYTHING.” She grabs your face, turning it toward hers. “Do you understand what just happened? Sylus Qin just acknowledged you. Personally. In front of everyone.”
“He probably does that for lots of people—”
“He doesn’t.” A girl in front of you turns around, and she looks furious. “He literally never does that.”
She’s wearing a crop top with “Qin” bedazzled across the chest and more makeup than seems practical for an outdoor event. Her friends beside her look equally angry.
“Excuse me?” you say.
“You heard me.” She looks you up and down with obvious disdain. “We’ve been coming to his rides for months. Months. And you—you didn’t even cheer! You just sat there like you were bored!”
“I mean...I was?”
Tara makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh.
“This is bullshit.” Bedazzled stands up, and her whole group follows. “Come on. We’re going to the back. Maybe if we’re there when he comes out—”
They file out of the row, shooting you looks that range from annoyed to homicidal.
The moment they’re gone, Tara turns to you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
“You made enemies in under eight seconds. I’m so proud.” She’s bouncing on her heels now. “Did you see their faces? They looked like you personally victimized them.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“You existed while looking unimpressed. Apparently that’s a crime here.” She glances toward where the group disappeared, then back at you with a gleam in her eye. “God, they’re going to be so upset when they find out he—”
“When they find out he what? Looked at me for two seconds?”
“That man tipped his hat at you like a declaration of war. That’s not nothing.” Tara is still grinning. “Anyway, I need to pee. Come with?”
“Yeah, sure.”
You both head toward the bathrooms, navigating through the crowd. The line is mercifully short.
“I’m calling it now,” Tara says as you wait. “Something’s going to happen.”
“Nothing is going to happen. He probably tips his hat at people all the time.”
“Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”
You roll your eyes and head into a stall. When you come out to wash your hands, Tara is leaning against the sink, scrolling her phone.
“You go ahead,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the seats.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m going to fix my hair. I look like I’ve been at a rodeo.”
“You have been at a rodeo,” she confirms, already heading out. “Don’t take too long! Next round starts in ten!”
You’re willing your last few flyaways into place when your phone buzzes in your back pocket.
Unknown Number: Tell me.
Unknown Number: Did I disappoint you, or are you always like that?
Your stomach drops.
You: who is this?
Unknown Number: Take a wild guess, sweetie.
Unknown Number: Here’s a hint: silver hair, red eyes, just gave the performance of the night to the most unimpressed audience member in rodeo history.
Fuck.
You: how did you get my number?
Sylus: Your friend. The enthusiastic one in the seat next to you.
Sylus: I asked one of the staff to track down “the girl in section B who looked like she’d rather be getting a root canal.” She was very helpful.
You’re going to murder Tara.
You: that’s borderline stalking
Sylus: It’s resourceful.
Sylus: Also, your friend gave me your number with the promise that I would “show you a good time.” Her words, not mine.
Sylus: Though I’m not opposed to the prospect.
You: you’re insane
Sylus: You’re texting back awfully quickly for someone who thinks I’m insane.
Sylus: So. What’s your damage?
You: excuse me?
Sylus: I just rode 2000 pounds of rage that hospitalized four people this season. People are losing their minds. There are women in this crowd who would commit felonies for my autograph.
Sylus: And you looked like you were waiting for a bus.
Sylus: I need to know what your problem is.
The audacity of this man…
You: maybe i’m just not impressed by men showing off
Sylus: Showing off implies I did it for attention. I did it because it’s my job and I’m good at it.
You: i don’t cheer for men who do their jobs. sets a bad precedent
Sylus: You’re cruel.
Sylus: I like you.
Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes.
You stare at your phone. This cannot be happening.
You: why would i do that?
Sylus: Because you’re curious. Because I’m curious. Because you clearly have opinions about my performance that you’re dying to share.
Sylus: Or are you scared?
You: of what? you?
Sylus: Of admitting I was more impressive than you’re letting on.
You: you’re delusional
Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes. Prove me wrong.
You should block this number. Should go back to Tara. Should absolutely not go to Gate 7.
You: ...i’ll think about it
Sylus: Clock’s ticking, sweetie. Gate 7. Don’t make me come find you.
You pocket your phone and find your seat beside Tara in the stands, heart racing.
“Your cowboy texted me,” you inform her flatly.
“HE DID?!”
You wave your phone in her face as evidence.
“When were you planning on telling me you gave out my phone number to the man who looked ready to challenge me to a duel?!”
“He was asking around for it! What was I supposed to do, say no?” She looks absolutely delighted with herself. “Shit, what did he say? Is he asking you out? Please tell me he’s asking you out.”
“He wants me to meet him at Gate 7.”
Tara screams. Actually screams as she rips your phone out of your hand. Several people turn to look.
“YOU HAVE TO GO.” She’s reading the messages, scrolling rapidly. “He’s obsessed. He’s one hundred percent obsessed with you.”
“He’s not—”
“‘Don’t make me come find you’?” She looks at you with her jaw dropped. “That’s obsessed behavior. When are you going?”
“I’m not going—”
“You ARE going. This is Sylus Qin. Do you understand how many people would kill for this opportunity?” She’s already pointing you to the aisle. “Those girls down there are going to lose their minds. This is the best night of my life.”
“You’re a little too excited about this.”
“Are you kidding? You’re about to go meet the hottest bull rider in the circuit, and his entire fan club is going to implode when they find out. This is peak hurt-comfort material.” She pauses, eyes lighting up with realization. “I’m gonna try to console them afterward. The blonde one is kind of cute when she’s angry.”
“Tara.”
“What? You get the hot cowboy, I get to make the heartbroken rodeo girls feel better. Everybody wins.” She grins. “Especially me.”
You roll your eyes. She physically shoves you toward the exit.
“Now go. Before he changes his mind.” Tara looks down toward the rail where Bedazzled and her friends are still trying to get Sylus’s attention. “I’m going to go offer emotional support. Wish me luck.”
You’re going to strangle her. After you maybe, possibly go to Gate 7.
Just to tell off the cowboy.
Obviously.
—
Gate 7 leads to a restricted area—trailers, practice equipment, and cowboys in various states of undress. You’re about to turn back when you see Sylus.
He’s leaning against a fence, hat tilted back, stripped down to a white t-shirt that clings to his muscled frame in ways that should be illegal. There’s dirt on his jeans, and a dark bruise blooming on his pale forearm that he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by.
He’s taller up close. Broader. And those eyes are definitely, unnaturally red.
“You came.” He sounds genuinely pleased.
You nod, keeping a careful distance. “You’re very pushy for a stranger.”
“Sylus.” He pushes off the fence, extending a hand toward you. “Now I’m not a stranger.”
You take his hand, large and calloused and scarred along the knuckles. His grip is warm and firm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary.
“And you are?”
You tell him your name, and he repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it feels.
“Pretty. Doesn’t match the attitude, though.”
Your eyes narrow immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You looked miserable up there. Bored. Like you were mentally filing your taxes.” He tilts his head, studying you. “City girl?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Sweetie, everything about you screams ‘I don’t belong here.’” His eyes drag over you slowly—your designer boots, your expensive jeans, the way you’re standing like you’re afraid of getting dirty. “Your boots cost more than most people make in a month. You’re holding yourself like someone might brush against you the wrong way. And you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one people get when they’re critiquing something they’ve never done themselves.”
“I don’t need to ride a bull to recognize—”
“Recognize what?” He’s close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Go on. Tell me, princess. What did I do wrong?”
Princess.
He says it like he’s daring you to get offended. You want to hate it. But your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo.
“Second buck,” you say before you can stop yourself. “You held center. But you should’ve leaned into it.”
His eyebrows raise slightly. “Should I?”
“The bull was digging left. You stayed neutral. If you’d shifted your weight—”
“Show me.”
You blink. “What?”
“Show me.” He gestures to the fence rail beside him. “Up. Show me what I should’ve done.”
“I’m not getting on a fence—”
“Ah.” He crosses his arms, stance relaxed like he’s already won. “All that mouth was just for show. My mistake.”
Your jaw tightens. You step forward and grab the top rail.
His hand closes around your wrist before you’ve even set your weight.
“You’ll slip like that.” He adjusts your grip, thumb dragging across your palm. “Fingers here. Wrist locked. Unless you want to fall.”
“I wasn’t going to fall—”
“Show me, then.” He steps back, waiting.
You haul yourself up onto the rail, boots wedging between the crossbars, steadying your weight to keep your balance. You settle there, stable, and you know you’ve done it well because he pauses in that particular way men do when they realize you’re more capable than they assumed.
He moves closer slowly, until he’s standing right there, palm coming to rest lightly on your ankle.
“Your eyes weren’t on the rider,” he says.
“They were on the bull," you tell him. “The rider’s posture only matters relative to momentum. The animal is the variable. You were just—compensating.”
His thumb shifts against your ankle bone, pressure increasing the slightest fraction.
“Compensating for a thousand pounds of rage isn't ‘just’ anything.”
You meet his eyes. “It is when you’re supposed to be good at it.”
He doesn’t smile. He steps between your legs, looking up at you with that unreadable expression.
“Show me,” he says, unhurried. “Show me where you think I should’ve shifted.”
You swallow. “I’m not a professional—”
“That didn’t stop you from having an opinion, did it?” He tilts his head. “You’ve been judging me since I got off that bull. So judge. Show me what I did wrong.”
You lift your hand, pointing to where you’d seen the bull dig in. “Second buck. Right there. If you’d leaned into it instead of holding straight—”
His hand comes to your knee. Not grabbing, just setting the angle. “Like this?”
Your breath catches.
His other hand settles light on your hip—the kind of touch that’s functional, yet makes your skin burn through your jeans.
“Or here,” he asks, voice dropping lower, “if you want to keep your spine neutral?”
The air shifts between you.
“You’re—” You have to clear your throat. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m learning.” His thumb brushes a slow circle against your knee. “You sat above me for eight seconds looking unimpressed. Now you’re above me again.” His eyes hold yours. “So teach me. What should I have done differently?”
It’s not about the bull anymore. You both know it.
“You should’ve—” Your voice is unsteady. “Weight forward. Hips angled—”
“Show me.” His hands are still on you, patient and sure. “Don’t tell me. Show me where.”
You shift your hips forward slightly to demonstrate and his grip tightens, subtle yet unmistakable.
“Like that?” His words are rougher now. “That’s what you wanted to see?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” He steps back finally, hands dropping away, and you hate that you immediately miss the contact. “Get down.”
“What—”
“Get off the rail. I’m going to teach you something.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do.” He’s already walking toward the practice area. “You know the theory. Now let’s see if you can execute. Come on, city girl. Time to back up all that criticism.”
You should refuse. Should go back to the stands. Instead, you climb down from the fence and follow him.
Because he’s right. You’ve been judging from a distance. And something about the challenge in his voice makes you want to prove him wrong.
Or maybe prove him right.
You’re not sure which would be more satisfying.
—
The mechanical bull sits in the empty practice area like a challenge.
“Absolutely not.”
“You just spent ten minutes telling me what I did wrong.” Sylus is already at the control panel, adjusting settings with casual confidence. “Now you get to prove you understand what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t need to ride it to understand—”
“Talk is easy. Execution’s different.” He doesn’t look up. “You can critique all you want, but until you feel it, you don’t actually know anything.”
The dismissiveness in his tone makes you tense. “Fine. Start it up.”
“Not yet.” Now he looks at you. “Get on first.”
You approach the bull, eyeing it skeptically. It’s wider than it looked from a distance.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“Then stop stalling.”
You grab the rail and try to pull yourself up. Your boots slip on the metal and you barely catch yourself.
“Easy, princess.” He’s beside you instantly, hands on your waist. “Step on the platform. I’ll lift.”
“I can do it myself—”
“I know you can.” His grip is firm. “But this is faster. Up.”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly you're straddling the barrel, thighs spread wide, hands scrambling for the rope.
“Don’t.” His voice stops you cold. “Hands off.”
“Then how—”
“You were very confident about hip positioning a minute ago.” He walks around you slowly, assessing your form. “So use your hips. Thighs tight. Core engaged. That’s all you need.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.” He stops in front of you. “You’re trying to hold on because you don’t trust your body. But I watched you on that fence. You’ve got the strength. You just don’t know how to use it yet.”
His hand slides up your outer thigh—not suggestive, testing muscle tension. Your body doesn’t seem to know the difference.
“Squeeze.”
You do, and his hand presses back, checking your stance.
“Harder. You’re holding back.” His thumb digs into your quad. “I can feel it. You’re stronger than this. Show me.”
You squeeze harder, and he makes an approving sound.
“There. That’s what I want to feel.” His hand stays on your thigh, warm and grounding. “When this starts moving, that tension doesn’t drop. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see.” He moves behind you, his hands settling on your hips. “Lean forward. Hips first.”
He guides your position—forward, tilted, adjusted until you’re perched in a way that feels both vulnerable and powerful.
“This feel unstable?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. It should.” His hands don’t leave your hips. “That instability is what you work with, not against. The bull moves, you move. Simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple—”
“It is when you stop overthinking.” His breath is warm against your ear now. “I’m starting it slow. Just feel it. Don’t try to predict or control. Just respond.”
The bull lurches to life.
Your instinct is to grab, to tense, to fight it.
“Breathe.” His voice cuts through your panic. “Hips loose. Let them move.”
You try to focus on your hips, on moving with the gentle rocking.
“Better. But you’re still thinking too much.” The bull bucks slightly harder, and you gasp. “Stop planning your next move. There is no next move. There’s only now.”
“That’s not helpful—”
"No?" He kills the power suddenly. “You want helpful?”
Before you can process, he’s swinging up behind you.
The barrel was already small. With him on it, there’s no space left. His chest is solid against your back, his thighs bracketing yours, his presence overwhelming every sense.
“What are you—”
“Teaching you the difference between knowing and understanding,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this was inevitable. “You can tell me what I should’ve done. Now I’m going to show you why it works.”
His hands settle on your hips again—firmer this time, fingers splayed wide.
“This is your center.” His fingers press into your hip bones. “Everything starts here. When I move, you’ll feel it here first. Pay attention.”
You can’t do anything besides pay attention. Can’t think about anything except the heat of him, the firm weight pressed against you, the way his voice seems to resonate through your entire body.
“Ready?”
You nod because words are impossible.
The bull starts again, and this time it’s completely different. You feel how his body moves—the subtle shift of his hips, the roll of his spine, the way he absorbs each movement and redirects it. His hands guide you through it, showing you without words how to respond.
“Feel that?” His voice is low against your ear. “That’s what you were trying to describe. The lean, the shift, the weight distribution. It’s not about thinking. It's about feeling.”
His hips roll against yours, demonstrating, and your brain short-circuits.
“Breathe.” His hand spreads across your lower stomach, steadying you. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t. Breathe with the movement.”
You try to breathe, but it’s difficult when you’re this aware of every point of contact.
“Now you.” His hands loosen slightly. “Match my rhythm. Show me you understand.”
You focus on his movement, on the way his body guides yours, and you start to match it. Your hips roll with his, following his lead, and suddenly the movement makes sense.
“There she is.” The satisfaction in his voice goes straight to your core. “Knew you could do it. You just needed to stop thinking you knew better than your body.”
The bull bucks harder and you move with it, your hips rolling, your thighs squeezing, and his hands tighten on you.
“Atta girl.” The words come out rougher. “That’s exactly right. Keep it up.”
You do, and you feel the moment something shifts—the moment it clicks, the moment you stop fighting and start responding.
“You feel that, sweetie?” His voice is strained now. “That’s what eight seconds feels like. That’s what I feel when I ride.”
“Sylus—”
“I know.” His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady as the bull spins. “You’re feeling it now.”
The intimacy of the statement, combined with the movement, the heat, the way his body fits against yours—it’s overwhelming.
“This is—”
“Intense.” He finishes for you. “That’s the point. That's what you were watching from the stands and didn’t understand. The rush. The focus. The way everything else disappears and it’s just you and the movement and eight seconds of pure instinct.”
The bull bucks hard and you gasp, but his grip keeps you stable.
“I’ve got you, princess. You’re not falling. Just stay with me.”
And you do. You stay with him through every twist and buck, your body learning the rhythm, responding to his guidance, until you're not sure where your movement ends and his begins.
When he finally kills the power, you’re both breathing heavily.
“You got it. Eight seconds,” he announces after glancing at his watch. “Not bad for someone who’d never done it before.”
“You were helping—”
“I was teaching. You were learning.” His hands are still on your waist, and he hasn’t moved away. “Big difference. That was all you at the end.”
You’re painfully aware that you don’t want him to let go.
“So.” His thumbs stroke once across your sides. “Still think a city girl knows better than a cowboy?”
Your mouth is dry. “Maybe we’re even.”
His laugh is low and pleased. “Maybe.” He dismounts finally, fluid and controlled, then reaches up for you. “Come here.”
He lifts you down and your legs immediately betray you, shaking and unstable.
His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall. “Easy. Adrenaline drop. Give it a minute.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” His hand finds your pulse at your neck, pressing lightly. “Heart rate’s still elevated. You’re shaking. When’s the last time you ate?”
“Lunch. Around noon, I think.”
“Hours ago.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “You need food. There’s a diner close by. Best pie in the state.”
“I don’t need you to feed me—”
“Maybe not. But I’m doing it anyway.” He pockets his phone, arm still around your waist. “You just burned through all your energy, and I’m not letting you back out there until I know you’re steady. So. Diner. My treat.”
“This feels like a scheme to keep me around longer.”
“Is it working?” He holds you tighter against him, almost automatically—like his body recognized you before his mind caught up. “Because if it is, I’ve got a whole list of other places I could take you. Hardware store. Feed supply. This town is full of exciting places I could take my time with you.”
Something in the way he says it sends heat down your spine.
“You’re not subtle, you know.”
“Never claimed to be, sweetie.”
Before you can respond, your phone vibrates.
Tara: where ARE u???
Tara: DID SYLUS THE STALLION KIDNAP U???
Tara: if u are in danger pls respond
Tara: if u are having a good time ignore this
You swipe the notifications away.
Sylus watches your thumb move, red eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Emergency?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.” You slide the phone into your pocket. “But if you murder me, my friend knows your name. And your face.”
His laugh echoes across the arena. “Noted.”
You try to step out of his hold, but your legs have other ideas—immediately crumpling under you like two pieces of wet spaghetti.
Before you can hit the dirt, his hand flashes out, hooking a finger through your belt loop and yanking you back against him.
“Careful, city girl. Told you. Adrenaline crash.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just scoops you up with one arm and settles you against his side.
“Sylus, I can walk—”
“Clearly not,” he counters, but he’s grinning as he starts toward the parking lot, carrying you with ease. “Stop squirming. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
You’re acutely aware of several things at once: his arm banded around you, the heat of him, the way his shoulder is right there. And—
Oh god.
The group of girls from earlier. Bedazzled and her friends—minus the blonde. All staring as Sylus walks right past them, carrying you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even glance their way, completely oblivious. But they notice. Oh, they notice. If the looks they shot you were bullets, you'd already be bleeding out on the dirt.
You bury your face against his shoulder, trying to make yourself smaller.
“Cold, sweetie?” His voice rumbles through his chest.
“No,” you mutter into his shirt. “I’m trying not to get shanked.”
He pauses mid-step. “What?”
“Your fan club. They look like they want to murder me.”
He glances back, finally noticing the group of glaring fans, and laughs like you told him a bad joke.
“Oh, them.” He adjusts his grip on you, hauling you higher. In one smooth motion, he tosses you over his shoulder.
You shriek. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”
He dips you, slow, like he’s genuinely about to release you. “If you insist."
Your legs are dangling, the Sychos are staring, and you’re suddenly very aware of the distance between your boots and the ground.
“No—no, I don’t insist—!” You clutch at his shirt, holding onto him for dear life. “Don’t you dare put me down—”
“Thought so.” He straightens, one arm locking securely against you as he keeps walking. “See? Now they can’t reach you. Problem solved.”
“Sylus!”
“You’re the one who said they looked dangerous. I’m just being practical.” His hand settles firmly on the back of your thigh, patting it gently. “Now stop wiggling before you fall.”
“I’m going to fall because you just—you can’t just throw people over your shoulder—”
“Just did.” He heads straight for a massive black pickup, tall enough you’d need a running start to climb in. He pops the door open with one hand and deposits you in the passenger seat. “And you’re still in one piece. I’d say it all worked out.”
Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, arms locked around his shoulders. He notices immediately.
“You can let go now, sweetie,” he says, amused.
Your brain registers that you’re sitting. That you’re safe. That there’s no reason to still be holding on.
Your hands don’t get the message.
“I—” You look down at where your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “My hands aren't listening.”
“I can see that.” He’s trying not to smile. “You need a minute?”
“Shut up.” You force your fingers to uncurl, releasing him. You sink into the leather, groaning into your hands. “My dignity is destroyed.”
“Your dignity was already questionable after that bull ride.” He leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting with mischief. “Besides, it could've been worse.”
“How could that have possibly been worse?”
“I could’ve set you down and let them watch you try to stand on your own.” He’s smirking now. “Would’ve made my point even clearer.”
Your cheeks burn at the implication. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that.” He closes your door and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding in with easy grace. “But you’re still here.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment to escape.”
“Good luck with that. Your legs still work about as well as a newborn calf’s.” He starts the engine, eyes flicking to you with amusement. “Give it another ten minutes. Then you can make your dramatic exit.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m enjoying you. The entertainment is just a bonus.” He shifts into drive. “Seatbelt. Then you're going to tell me what possessed a city girl to spend her hard-earned money watching idiots wrestle with livestock for sport.”
—
The diner is exactly what you’d expect—vinyl booths, checkered floors, jukebox blasting something twangy, and a waitress who looks like she’s been working here since the dawn of time.
“Sylus, honey!” She’s got a thick drawl and a smile that crinkles her whole face. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be celebratin’ with the boys.”
“Had better plans, Dolores.” He gestures to you.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Her eyebrows shoot up, looking between you both with obvious interest. “The usual for you, sugar?”
“Please. And whatever she wants.”
You order coffee and pie because apparently that’s what you do now. Follow strange cowboys to diners and eat pie at ten PM.
“I’ll get that right out.” Dolores pats Sylus on the shoulder as she leaves, but not before giving you a very obvious once-over that feels almost approving.
“So,” Sylus says once the waitress leaves. “Eight seconds.”
“Are we really doing this?”
“We’re absolutely doing this.” He leans back in the booth, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. With my help, admittedly, but still. Eight seconds.”
“And?”
“And I’m wondering if you can last longer.”
The way he says it makes heat crawl up your neck.
“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.
His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”
Dolores brings pie—massive slices that look homemade. You take a bite and it’s unfairly delicious.
“Okay,” you admit. “This is really good pie.”
“Told you. Dolores doesn’t mess around.” He takes a bite of his own, watching you. “So. What do you do? When you’re not being dragged to rodeos, that is.”
“Marketing. Corporate.” You make a sour face. “It’s as boring as it sounds.”
“Can’t be that boring if it pays for those boots.”
“The boots are the only good thing about it.” You take another bite. “What about you? Is bull riding actually lucrative, or do you just like getting thrown around for fun?”
“I don’t get thrown, sweetie. That’s the whole point,” he corrects you with a grin. “And yeah, it pays well. If you’re good at it.”
“Which you are.”
“Which I am.” There’s no false modesty to it, just fact. “Been doing it since I was seventeen. Worked my way up. Now I’m ranked second in the country.”
“Second?”
“For now. I’ll be first by the end of the season.” He says it with absolute certainty.
“Confident.”
“Realistic. I know what I’m capable of.” His eyes meet yours. “And I know what I want.”
The weight of that statement sits between you.
“And what do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Right now? To figure out what it takes to actually impress you.” He leans forward slightly. “Because I don’t think anyone’s managed it in a while.”
You open your mouth to respond when Sylus’s phone rings. He glances at it and sighs.
“Give me a minute. I need to take this.” He slides out of the booth. “Stay put.”
You blink up at him, chin tilted just a little. “Yes, sir.”
He stops, eyebrows lifting, then gives a soft, incredulous shake of his head.
“Cute.” He’s walking backward toward the bathroom, phone angled away from his mouth, still looking at you. “But if you’re trying to draw blood, sweetie, you’re going to have to put your jaw into it.”
You’re left alone with your pie, trying very hard to pretend your heartbeat isn’t pounding in places it has no business reaching.
“Can I top off that coffee, sugar?” Dolores appears almost immediately, like she was waiting for him to leave.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She pours slowly, then glances toward the bathroom. “He’s a good one, that Sylus.”
“I just met him like, two hours ago.”
“I know.” She’s smiling. “That’s what makes this excitin'.”
“What do you mean?”
Dolores leans in conspiratorially. “Honey, I’ve been workin’ here for fifteen years. This is the spot all them rodeo fellas flock to after. I’ve seen Sylus in ‘ere dozens of times—always with the boys, always alone. Never once brought a girl here. Not one time.”
Your heart flips. “Maybe he just—”
“Trust me, them buckle bunnies try. Lord, do they try. That boy has more women throwin’ themselves at him than I have napkins in this diner.” She shakes her head. “He’s always polite about it, that sweetheart. But he never takes ‘em up on it. Too focused on riding, he always says.”
“Then why—”
“That’s what I’m wonderin’, honey.” Dolores sets the coffee pot back on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “But whatever you did, you got his attention. Really got it. I can tell.”
You notice his hat sitting on the seat beside you—the black cowboy hat he’d tossed there when he sat down. On impulse, you pick it up and settle it on your head. It’s too big, sliding down slightly, and you have to tilt it back to see properly.
Dolores notices and her eyes go wide. Then she grins. “Oh, honey. Do y’know what that means?”
“What?”
“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” She’s trying not to laugh. “That’s the rule ‘round here.”
Your face heats. “That’s not a real—”
“Realer than them nails on your hand.” She eyes your manicure with a shake of her head, still grinning. “Cowboys don’t play pretend.”
She walks away, leaving you sitting there in his hat, suddenly very aware of what you’ve just done. You consider taking it off. Handing it back when he returns. Playing it safe. But something stubborn and reckless in you keeps it on.
You take a sip of coffee, trying to look casual, when the bathroom door opens.
Sylus walks back toward the booth, phone in his hand, looking slightly annoyed. “Sponsors. Kept going on about—”
He sees you and stops dead in his tracks.
His eyes go dark—pupils blown wide, that red almost glowing in the diner lighting. His jaw tightens, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.
“What do you think you’re doing, city girl?” His voice has dropped at least half an octave.
“Drinking coffee.” You take another sip, holding his gaze, heart hammering. “Why?”
“You know why.” He slides back into the booth, but there’s tension in every line of his body now. “Take it off.”
“Why?” You rest your chin on your hand and blink up at him. “Does it not look good on me?”
He goes quiet for a moment, just looking at you. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, almost laughing. “It looks perfect on you. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t see a problem.”
“Of course you don’t, princess.” He leans back, arms spreading across the back of the booth. “You put on a man’s hat and think it’s just a fashion statement.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” He’s studying you now, that intense focus that makes you feel pinned in place. “It’s a claim. One I don’t think you intended to make.”
You adjust the hat on your head, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better.
“That depends on what I’m claiming.”
His gaze traces your mouth, your throat, the line of brim shading your eyes. When his attention finally returns to yours, he drops the word between you like a coin:
“Me.”
You open your mouth, but nothing actually comes out. He smiles like he knew that would happen.
“You publicly claimed a cowboy. Impressively reckless move, by the way.” He leans back, legs stretching under the table like he’s getting comfortable. “So now I have two choices: ignore you, or teach you what you started.”
“And which are you choosing?”
“What do you think?”
Your eyes narrow. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”
“I am. You’ve been pushing me all night. Looking unimpressed, critiquing my ride, now stealing my hat.” His eyes scan your face. “Now you’re sitting there wearing it like you’re innocent."
“Maybe I just like the style.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you wanted to see what I’d do. How I’d react. Whether I’d actually follow through.” He cocks his head. “So. How am I doing? Meeting expectations?”
Your mouth is dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” His voice drops lower. “You’ve been testing me since the moment I met you. Before that, even. Every word, every look.” He leans forward slightly. “This is just you pushing harder. Seeing if I’ll push back.”
“And will you?”
“Absolutely.” He doesn’t waste a breath. “Question is whether you’re ready for it.”
“I can handle it.”
His laugh is quiet. “Can you, sweetie? Because that hat says you want something specific from me. Something I’ve been holding back on all night.” His red eyes are dark now. “And once I stop holding back, I don’t do things halfway.”
The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in your stomach.
“You’re very confident.”
“I know what I'm looking at. Someone who’s been playing it safe. Someone who wants to stop overthinking.” He pauses. “Someone who put on my hat because she wanted me to do something about it.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“Then take it off.” He gestures to the hat. “Right now. Prove me wrong.”
Your lap with a single shake of your head—no.
His smile is absolutely feral.
“We’re leaving.”
You blink up at him. “Maybe I’m not finished.”
He tosses way too much cash onto the table—enough to pay for the coffee, the pie, Dolores’s retirement, and the entire county fair.
“Yes, you are.” He stands, extending his hand. “Come on, city girl. Time to see if you can back up what that hat is promising."
You look at his hand. At the challenge in his eyes. At the way he’s smiling like he already knows exactly how this is going to end.
And you take it.
His palm is warm against yours as he guides you to the door. As you pass the counter, Dolores calls out: “You take good care of her now, y’hear?”
Sylus doesn’t break stride. “Oh, I intend to.”
Outside, the night air hits you, cool and dusty. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you approach his pickup parked at the edge of the lot. He opens the passenger door, but before you can climb in, his hands are on either side of you, caging you in. One is pressed beside your head against the metal, the other settling on the open door, his body a wall of heat that’s too close to ignore.
“Last chance,” he says, like a warning. His fingers toy lazily with the hat. “You take this off, I drive you back to your hotel. Wish you good night like a gentleman.” His thumb pauses at the curve of the brim. “And the next time we see each other, we’re back to being strangers.”
It’s a terrible idea. You know it’s a terrible idea. But he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining you in his lap, and you’re looking at him like you want to see how good he is without the bull.
You reach up and adjust the hat, making sure it’s secure.
“I don’t want to be strangers.”
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands settle on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, taking his time settling you into the passenger seat. He reaches for your seatbelt, pulling it across your body slowly. The click echoes in the quiet of the cab.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I couldn’t forget this—”
Only then does he lean in, forearm braced against the doorframe, his face inches from yours. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with an affection so unexpected you forget how to breathe. For a second, you think he might kiss you.
Instead, he flicks the spot he cleared on your forehead.
“—if I tried.”
—
Sylus doesn’t drive back toward town. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction—away from the arena, away from the lights, into the dark stretch of highway that leads to nothing but open land.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“You’ll see.”
His hand rests on the gear shift, close enough to your thigh that you’re acutely aware of it. The radio plays something slow and country that you don’t recognize, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—just charged. Waiting.
You watch the landscape change outside your window, buildings giving way to fields, streetlights disappearing until there’s nothing but darkness.
“This is very serial killer of you,” you say finally.
He glances over, amused. “Having second thoughts?”
“Just making an observation.”
“For the record, if I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t take you somewhere this obvious.” He’s smiling now, thumb tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. “Besides, you're still wearing my hat. That implies a certain level of trust.”
Your hand goes to the brim automatically. You’d almost forgotten it was there.
“Or a certain level of stupidity.”
“Maybe both.” He turns off the highway onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing slightly over the uneven ground. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“Patience.”
The road winds upward, climbing steadily. Trees give way to open sky, and then suddenly you’re at the top of a hill and he's pulling over, killing the engine. The entire valley spreads out below—a sea of twinkling lights in the distance, small towns and scattered ranches creating constellations on the dark earth. Above, the sky is filled with stars, more than you’ve ever been able to see in the city.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” He’s watching you instead of the view. “I like to come up here after a ride. Bulls fight back, fans scream—up here, no one asks anything of you.”
You tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” he agrees. But he’s still looking at you, not the landscape.
“Pretty stars,” you say, but there's a challenge in the words. “Shame you haven’t looked at them once.”
“If you want to talk constellations, sweetie, I’ll play along.” He shifts in his seat, angling toward you. “Or you can admit you didn’t climb in my truck because you're fond of astronomy.”
“First of all, I didn’t climb in your truck.” You manage to find your voice. “You picked me up and put me in it.”
“Correct.” His mouth curves slow. “And then you latched onto me like a kitten falling out of a tree and said, and I quote, ‘don’t you dare put me down.’”
Your face heats. “My legs weren’t working—”
“Your legs were working just fine once we got to the truck.” His eyes hold yours. “You just didn’t want me to stop touching you.”
The tension in the truck is suffocating.
“Get in the back,” he says quietly.
Your stomach flips. “What?”
“The backseat.” He says it simply, nodding toward the leather bench seat behind you. “Go on. I’ll give you a head start.”
“A head start for what—”
“For getting comfortable before I join you.” His eyes are dark now, heated. “Unless you’d rather stay up here and stare out the windshield?”
You should probably ask more questions. Should probably think this through. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward the back.
The console is in the way, making you climb over the seat awkwardly. You brace one hand on the seat back, getting one knee up on the console—
“Keep it moving, sweetie.”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Make me.”
The crack of his palm against your ass is immediate, sharp enough to make you gasp. Then his hand is rubbing the spot gently, soothing.
“Consider it done."
“You just—”
“Helped you along. You asked for it.” He sounds completely unrepentant. “Would’ve been inconsiderate of me not to oblige.”
Your face is burning as you scramble the rest of the way into the backseat. You turn to glare at him through the gap between the seats.
“Comfortable back there?” he asks smugly.
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you like it.”
You settle into the backseat, heart pounding, very aware of how spacious it is. How the tinted windows make it feel private despite being parked on a hilltop. How he’s still in the front seat, just watching you squirm.
“Are you coming back here or not?”
“Depends.” He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard. “Are you going to keep that attitude when I do?”
“Probably.”
“Excellent.” He shifts, and you hear the driver’s door open. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
He gets out and you hear his boots on the ground, coming around to the back door. It opens and suddenly he’s there—too big for the space, filling the entire doorway as he climbs in with easy confidence.
The door closes behind him, and suddenly the truck feels very small.
He takes a seat, legs spread, one arm along the back of the headrest, and just looks at you.
“Come here.”
You move toward him and he guides you with hands on your waist until you’re straddling his lap exactly like you straddled the bull earlier. The position is familiar now, but infinitely more intimate. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Still wearing my hat, I see.”
“You told me to keep it on.”
“I did.” His hands slide up your waist, then back down. “Looks good on you. Better than I imagined.”
“You imagined this?”
“From the second you put it on.” His eyes hold yours. “Imagined you exactly like this. In my lap, in my hat, in the back of my truck. Reality’s better, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand comes up to adjust the hat again, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better. “Because now I get to see if you can follow through on what you started.”
You swallow. “And what did I start?”
“Everything.” His hand moves to cup your face, turning it toward his. “You sat up in those stands looking at me like eight seconds was nothing. Critiqued my form to my face. Then had the goddamn nerve to put on my hat in front of witnesses.” His other hand presses against your ribs, palm warm and steady through the thin cotton. “And for someone so unimpressed, your heart’s about to beat right through your shirt.”
You glance down at his hand on your ribs, then back up at him, tilting your head with mock innocence. “If you wanted to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked nicely.”
“Is that right? Then allow me to ask you nicely.” His fingers curve around your jaw, thumb skimming your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you? Can I put my hands on you? Can I make you forget every reason you think this is a bad idea?”
The directness of it steals your breath.
“That's a lot of questions.”
“One word answers all of them.” His eyes search yours, glowing a deep red that’s almost otherworldly even in the dark. “So what's it going to be, sweetie? Yes or no?”
You want to make him work for it more. Tease him, push back, see how far you can take this.
Instead, you hear yourself say: “Yes.”
His smile is devastating. “Say it again.”
"Yes."
Then his mouth is on yours, and every thought evaporates.
The kiss isn’t tentative or testing—it’s all-consuming. His tongue slides against yours with clear intent, his hand tightening in your hair to angle you exactly how he wants you. You make a sound that’s embarrassingly desperate and feel his mouth curve against your lips.
“There it is,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Knew you’d make those pretty sounds.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You kiss him harder, fisting your hands in his shirt, and his laugh vibrates through you. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race under his palm.
“You taste even better than I thought you would,” he says against your mouth, kissing you again before you can respond. “Been thinking about this since you looked at me like I was wasting your time in those stands.”
“That was barely three hours ago—”
“Three hours too long.” His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently. “Could’ve done this in the parking lot. In the diner. Hell, I thought about it on the practice bull when you were sitting in my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”
You roll your hips like you did on the bull, teasing, feeling exactly how hard he is through the denim.
He hisses through his teeth.
“That's how we’re doing this, hm?” His hand slides from your throat to your hip, holding you still with effortless strength. “You want to play, princess? Fine. Let’s play.”
His mouth finds your neck and you gasp at the heat of it, at the scrape of teeth followed by the soothing stroke of his tongue. He’s marking you, and you both know it—intentional, claiming, leaving evidence that you were here, that you let him do this.
“Sylus—”
“I know. I can feel you shaking. You want more.” His hand slips under your shirt, settling at your low back. “You’ve been worked up since the bull, haven’t you?”
Heat runs up your spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “I felt how you were shaking. Saw how flushed you got. And I’d bet my prize money that if I touched you right now, I’d find you soaked.”
Heat floods through you at the accusation. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Am I wrong?”
You don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Thought so. You want something? Then ask nicely.” His smile presses against your throat. “You made such a point of it earlier. So ask.”
Your pride wars with your need. “I don’t beg—”
“I didn’t ask you to beg. I asked you to ask.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s heat in his eyes, but something patient, too. “What do you want?”
The way he’s looking at you—like he’ll wait all night if that’s what it takes, like he’ll give you anything you ask for as long as you just ask—makes something in you soften.
“Touch me, Sylus,” you say quietly. “Please.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His hand slides higher up your shirt, fingers tracing your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. “And since you asked so nicely…”
His thumb brushes across your nipple and you gasp, arching into the touch.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” His voice has gone dark, satisfied. “You, letting go. Not thinking so hard about your next smart comment. Just feeling.”
His thumb circles again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from making another embarrassing noise.
“Don’t.” His other hand finds your chin, pulling your lip free with his thumb. “I want to hear it. Every sound. Every breath. No one can hear you out here but me. So let me hear what I do to you.”
He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes.
“Perfect.” He sounds wrecked. “Do that again.”
“Sylus, please—”
“Please, what?” His mouth finds your jaw, kissing a path to your ear. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
“More—I need more—”
“More of this?” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. “Or more of me?”
“Both—” Your hips rock forward on instinct, and this time he doesn’t stop you. Sylus lets you grind against him, his free hand at your hip guiding the movement.
“That’s it, pretty girl. Take what you need.” His breathing has gone rough. “Show me how badly you want this.”
You rock against him again and feel him twitch beneath you, hard and hot even through all the layers of clothing.
“Fuck.” The curse slips out raw and unfiltered. “You feel what you do to me? How hard you make me when you move like that?”
“Yes—”
“Good. Because I’d like to return the favor.” His hand slides from your breast down your stomach, fingers playing at the button of your jeans. “Say yes.”
“Yes—god, yes—”
Your yes barely lands before his mouth is back on yours, hot and wet and relentless as he flicks the button open and slides the zipper down with ease. “Lift up for me.”
You do, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he helps you shimmy out of your jeans and underwear. They get stuck on your boots, and you both fumble with them, laughing breathlessly until you’re finally naked from the waist down.
“Leave them. Boots and hat stay on,” he decides, eyes dragging over you. “I like the look.”
“Of course you do.”
“City girl spread out like a cowgirl in the back of my truck?” His hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider. “That’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had until right now.”
He’s still fully clothed, and there’s something obscene about it that makes you squirm—you half-naked in his lap while he’s still in his jeans and t-shirt.
“Don’t get shy on me now.” His thumb brushes your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. “You’ve been pushing me all night. Testing me. And you’ve been so damn good at it, too.”
He glides a single finger through your center and you gasp at the contact, your body curving into his touch involuntarily.
“Christ,” he groans. “All this for me?”
You can’t form words.
“Since the bull?” His fingers trace through your wetness, maddeningly light. “Since I had my hands on your hips? Or before that—since you watched me ride?”
“All of it,” you manage.
“All of it.” He sounds way too satisfied with himself. “So you were impressed. You were just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Your ego—”
“Is about to get a lot bigger.” He finds your clit and circles it slowly. “Because I’m going to make you come for me at least twice before you even think about taking my cock. Understand?”
Your breath catches. “Twice?”
“Minimum.” His hand slides higher, cupping you fully now. “You’ve been wound up all night. I’m not rushing this on account of your impatience.”
“Don’t—ah—” Your protest dies when his finger circles slowly. “Don’t be smug about it—”
“Too late.” He watches your face with wicked eyes as he touches you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you grind down against his hand. “But I like that you’re still trying to tell me what to do. Keep it up. See where it gets you.”
His finger slides inside and you cry out, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder.
“That’s it. Take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
He works you slowly, adding another finger when you’re ready, his thumb finding your clit with devastating pressure. And all the while he’s murmuring praise against your temple—telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel, how beautiful you look falling apart for him.
“Sylus—I’m gonna—”
“I know. I can feel it.” His fingers move faster. “There. Right there. Come on, princess. Let me see what happens when you finally stop fighting it. Make it count. I've got you.”
The command combined with his fingers and his voice and the heat of him beneath you—it’s all too much. Your orgasm hits with a cry, clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, and only then does he slowly withdraw his hand.
You’re still catching your breath when he brings his fingers to his mouth.
Your eyes go wide. “Sylus—”
“Shh.”
His own eyes close as he tastes you, tongue dragging over the pads of his fingers. When his lashes lift again, he looks wrecked in a way you've never seen.
“That,” he murmurs, lips closing around his knuckle, “is going to be a problem.”
You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare at his mouth.
“A...problem?”
“For me. And now for you,” he says, hand already sliding up your thigh once more. “That’s one. Now let’s get you the second one before I lose my mind.”
You shake your head. “I can’t—I’m too—”
“You can. You will.” His two fingers slip inside with little resistance, fucking you slowly but without mercy. “I need you ready for me. Need to make sure your body can handle what it’s begging for. Understand?”
Your hand flies to his wrist—not to stop him, just to hold on.
He looks down where you're holding him, lips brushing your cheek. "Oh? That bad already?"
Your head falls to his shoulder. “This is torture—”
"Maybe." His thumb presses against your clit again and you jerk. “But you’ll thank me for it later.”
His fingers work you back up, and despite the oversensitivity, despite thinking you couldn’t possibly—
“That's it.” His forehead presses against yours, breath hot against your lips. “Feel that? Let it build. Don't rush. I want all of it.”
You’re climbing again impossibly, every nerve ending screaming, and when his fingers curl just right—
“Fuck—already?” He increases the pressure, and you cry out. “Greedy little thing. Go ahead. Give me another one.”
You do, less intense than the first but somehow deeper, clenching around his fingers while he murmurs approval.
“That’s two.” He slowly withdraws his hand, and your breath hitches at the loss. Before you can process the movement, his fingers are at your lips. “Open.”
You do, and he slides them into your mouth—the same fingers that were just inside you. The taste is foreign and intimate and when you automatically close your lips around them, his breathing goes ragged.
“Look at that.” His eyes are locked on your mouth. “So obedient when it suits you, hm?”
You swirl your tongue around his fingers deliberately, and his hips jerk beneath you. Then you bite down lightly and he laughs.
“There she is.” He pulls his hand away, already working his belt. “Now help me with this before I lose what’s left of my patience.”
Your fingers join his at the buckle. “Didn’t know you had any patience to begin with.”
“I’m a very patient man.” He gets his jeans open just enough to free himself. “Just not when it comes to you.”
There’s a moment where your brain can’t connect the visual to reality.
His cock sits in his palm, thick and heavy, already flushed and glistening with precum that's slowly swelling under his thumb. A single vein runs along the shaft, steady and pulsing with each heartbeat you can feel through your own.
You felt him earlier—broad and unforgiving, even through denim, against the curve of your ass every time your hips rolled back into him on the practice bull. You’d convinced yourself it was just the momentum. Coincidence. Adrenaline.
You look up at him. Then down. Then up again.
“Show-off,” you scoff, but it comes out thinner than intended.
He huffs out a laugh, low and disbelieving. "Sweetie, if you're going to bluff to my face, at least don't drool while you do it."
You try for nonchalant, rolling your eyes and straightening your spine. It does nothing to hide the tremor in your knees.
“You’re shaking. Relax.” Before you can protest, he’s already cupping your jaw, kissing you slowly, deeply, thoroughly, in a way that says slow down, you’re okay, I’m right here. He pulls away only when he’s sure you’re not trembling anymore. “You can handle it.”
He positions you over him, hands on your hips, guiding you onto the blunt head of his cock.
“Slow,” he instructs. “Take your time. Let your body adjust.”
You sink down slowly and the stretch makes you gasp. He’s patient—letting you control the pace, hands steady on your waist.
“That’s it. Breathe. You’re taking me so well.” His voice is strained. “Almost there. Just a little more.”
When you're fully seated, you’re both breathless.
“There,” he says roughly. “That’s one.”
Understanding hits you through the haze.
“You’re counting,” you say.
“I’m counting.” His hands squeeze your hips. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. Let’s see if you can make it to nine on me.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then we keep trying until you do.” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “I’ve got all night.”
You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips the way he taught you earlier.
“There you go. Just like that. Find your rhythm.”
You do, and his hands help guide you, help you find the perfect angle.
“That’s two,” he says when you rock down particularly hard.
When you really start to ride him it’s not pretty, not practiced, but instinctive and desperate. The stretch, the fullness—it's almost too much, the way every shift of your hips makes him groan beneath you. His hands slide up your back, threading into your hair when your rhythm stutters.
“Three.”
You’re already nearing the edge of release again—oversensitized and overwhelmed but chasing that feeling anyway.
“Four.”
“Sylus, it’s—too—too much—”
“You can take it. I know you can.” His fingers circle your clit slowly, and you can't help the way you clench around him. His jaw flexes, eyes closing for half a second. “Not yet, sweetie. Give me five more. I know you’ve got it in you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. You’re tougher than you think.” You slam down hard, chasing that feeling, and his control visibly cracks. “Five—fuck—”
Your thighs are burning, your breath coming in gasps, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. You sink onto him once more, inch by inch.
“Six.”
“Sylus—”
“I know. I can feel it. The way you’re clenching around me.” His other hand tightens in your hair. “But you don’t get to come until we hit nine. Think you can hold it?”
It’s torture. Exquisite torture.
You ride him in one long stride, hips lifting until just the tip holds you, then sinking back down until he fills you to the base.
“Christ—Seven—”
Your thighs are shaking now, barely holding on, and he knows it.
“That's it. Take it.” The words are hot against your throat. Everything else fades. “Eight.”
“I can’t hold it—”
“Yes you can. Give me one more." His hands tighten around your hips, holding you steady. "One more, and it's all yours.”
You slam down hard, and he groans your name into your mouth.
“Nine.”
You shatter, clenching around him, and suddenly he’s moving—flipping you both so you’re on your back across the seat, legs spread, boots planted on either side of him as he looms over you.
“My turn.” He pulls almost all the way out, your walls still fluttering around him as you chase the end of your third orgasm. "Unless you want me to stop?"
“Sylus—please—I need—”
He pushes back in, driving deep into you in one motion. You wait for the rhythm, the thrust, the relief. He doesn't give it to you.
“I know what you need.” Your hips twitch once, and his fingers tighten around them in gentle warning. “But I need to hear you say it.”
You clutch at his forearms, nails digging into the taut muscle. "Sylus—move—"
"Move how?" He stays infuriatingly still. "Faster? Harder? You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetie."
"Harder—I need you to—god, just fuck me, Sylus, please—"
"Finally."
It sounds like relief, like hunger, like he's been holding himself back as much as he's made you wait.
Then he moves—hard and fast and exactly what you asked for—and your back arches off the seat. His hands shift to your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open at an angle that hits deeper, more intense in all the places you’re already trembling from before.
"Is this what you needed? This what you've been trying to say?"
"Yes—ah—yes—"
One hand slides between you, finding your oversensitive clit, and you nearly sob.
“Wanted this since I saw you—” His hips snap forward harder. “That bored look on your pretty face—wanted to fuck it right off you—”
He’s not counting anymore. Not teasing. Just taking what he needs, and something about the raw desperation in it makes you clench around him.
“Jesus—” he groans, head dropping forward. “—do that again.”
You do, and he’s on you, mouth on your shoulder, teeth catching skin—not to mark you this time, but to survive you. His hand leaves your thigh to brace against the window behind you, giving him more leverage. The truck rocks with the force of his thrusts and you don’t care, can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside you.
“Too much—”
“Not enough. One more,” he says, and it’s not a request. “Give me one more and I’ll give you everything.”
You’re wound up impossibly again, every inch of you too sensitive, his fingers and his cock and his voice still pushing you higher, higher, higher—
“That’s it. You feel that?” His thrusts get harder, more erratic, fingers circling your aching clit as he pounds into you. “You've got me. Fuck—I'm right there with you, okay? Right there—stay with me. Take me with you. Now.”
You clench around him helplessly, so tight that Sylus feels every pulse, every aftershock, every sensation of your orgasm wrapped around his cock. He follows immediately after, burying himself deep with a sound that’s almost pained, spilling the heat of his release inside you, holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear. His hand grips the leather seat like he might rip it out of the truck, and you feel the way his whole body goes taut before collapsing against yours.
For a moment he stays frozen like that, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out, and you both wince. His hands are immediately around you, pulling you up and gathering you against his chest as he shifts to sit back against the seat.
You end up curled in his lap, dazed and spent, his arms wrapped around you like he's not quite ready to let go yet.
His mouth finds your temple in a single, unhurried kiss. Another follows just under your jaw, then another on your shoulder. He doesn't speak, just holds you while your breathing slowly evens out.
“Holy shit," you finally manage.
“Yeah.” His laugh is breathless against your neck. “Holy shit.”
He shifts you carefully in his lap, pulling you tighter against his chest so you're tucked under his chin, legs draped over his thighs. Your body feels like liquid, every muscle completely melted, nerve endings still firing in aftershocks. His hands are gentle now—one rubbing slow circles on your back, the other reaching for tissues from the center console. He takes care of you with surprising tenderness, his touch soft where moments ago it was demanding.
“You with me, city girl?” He speaks quietly into your hair, pressing a kiss on top of your head. “How are you feeling?”
You lift your head to look at him. “Like I just got thrown off a bull. Except better.”
“Mission accomplished.” His smile is relieved, then turns knowing. “You’re going to feel this tomorrow. Fair warning.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It’s supposed to prepare you.” He glances down at you, hand tracing patterns against your hip. “Every time you sit down in those bleachers tomorrow, you’re going to remember exactly what happened in this truck.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll be in the bleachers.”
“You will be. Front row, sweetie.” His voice is confident but not cocky. “So I can see the moment you stop pretending I don’t impress you.”
You could play it cool. Noncomittal. Hedge your bets. But the way he’s looking at you—hopeful and honest and maybe a little uncertain underneath all that confidence—makes you want to be honest with him, too.
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He goes still for half a second, just long enough for you to catch the spark in his eyes. He looks at you for a long moment like he's trying to memorize something, then clears his throat.
“That's good. Really good,” he says it low, fighting a smile and losing. One hand squeezes your hip while the other reaches for your jeans. “Here. Lift up. Let's get you dressed before I say something that makes you reconsider.”
You do, and he helps you shimmy them back on. They get stuck on your boots—again—and you’re both laughing together like a shared secret by the time you finally get them past your ankles.
“These damn boots,” you mutter.
“Careful." His tone is almost protective. "Those boots are innocent. They stayed on like they were supposed to. That's what matters.” He helps work your jeans over them carefully. "In fact, they're the only thing that behaved." His eyes land on something near his feet as he's tucking his shirt back in. He picks up his hat, holding it between two fingers. "This one apparently couldn't handle the ride."
“When did that happen?”
“No idea. I was distracted.” He settles it back on your head like it belongs there, adjusting the brim. “There. That’s better. That’s the look I wanted.”
“What look?”
“City girl in a cowboy hat looking like she just got thoroughly ruined by a bull rider.” His smile is pure satisfaction. “It’s a good look on you.”
“Your ego is showing again.”
“Can you blame me?” He cups your face, eyes warm as he leans in to kiss you, softer now, but no less intense. “Now. Where are you staying? I should get you back before your friend calls the cavalry.”
While he’s focused on finding the location on his phone, you glance around the fogged interior. The windows are completely opaque—condensation covering every surface, hiding the world outside. On impulse, you reach back and trace your name in the moisture on the back window.
You’re halfway through when you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.
“Hold on.” He sets his phone in the cupholder and twists around, reaching back to add his name right next to yours in the condensation, then draws a heart connecting them.
“There.” He settles back into his seat, looking pleased. “Now we match.”
Your heart does something complicated behind your ribs. Before you can respond, your phone erupts with buzzing from somewhere in the passenger seat.
Tara: GIRL WHERE ARE U
Tara: are u ALIVE
Tara: send proof of life IMMEDIATELY!!!
“Your friend thinks I've got you hogtied behind the barn,” Sylus says, reading the texts over your shoulder. “Funny. I haven't even gotten my rope out.”
"Yet?" The word slips out before you can stop it.
His laugh rumbles through his chest as he pulls you back against him, like the sound is something you're meant to feel, not hear. “You're unbelievable. Now give me the phone.”
“Why—”
“Proof of life. Come here.”
He pulls you against him with one arm, holding your phone up with the other. You’re both completely disheveled—his silver hair a mess, your face flushed, his hat crooked on your head—both grinning like idiots.
He takes the photo and hands your phone back.
“There. Send that. Should ease her concerns.”
You send it.
The response is instantaneous.
Tara: OH MY GOD
Tara: OH MY GOD
Tara: U LOOK SO HAPPY
Tara: IS THAT HIS TRUCK???
Tara: THATS MY GIRLLLLL
Then another message pops through. A photo.
It’s Tara—equally disheveled, equally pleased—with her arm around a blonde girl. The blonde girl, the one who'd been glaring daggers at you earlier. Both of them look extremely satisfied with themselves.
You stare at your phone. “Oh my god.”
Sylus leans over to look, and his laugh is genuine.
“Looks like you and your friend both got your money's worth out of the rodeo.” He starts the engine, hand immediately returning to rest on your thigh. “You ready, sweetie?”
“For what?”
“The twenty-minute drive where I try very hard not to think about pulling over and seeing if you can make it to ten.”
“Ten?” You blink at him. “That’s…ambitious.”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Tomorrow, then.” He says it with such certainty, like it's already decided. Like there's no question you'll both end up here again.
He shifts into drive, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your leg. The radio plays quiet jazz. The world outside is dark except for passing streetlights and the occasional glow of distant houses. You settle back into your seat, watching the open road unfold ahead of you.
Then you catch it in the side mirror—the back window of his truck, still fogged from the heat you created together. And there, illuminated by the moonlight, you can just make out the shapes: your name and his, connected by that careful heart he drew.
Your heart stumbles in that way that always means trouble.
His hand squeezes your thigh once, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.
You look over at him—at his profile in the dim light, at the small smile playing at his lips, at the way he glances over at you like he can't help himself—and cover his hand with yours.
