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MASTERLIST

REAL PERSON - PEDRO PASCAL STILL

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female reader.

Summary: In stillness, truth shows its face. Where others see scenes, she sees soul. Where others capture light, she captures presence.

No one on set knows her real name — not the directors, not the PAs, not even the actors. She signs her work simply as Still. Clean. Final. Like the last moment before cut.

A year in the set of such a big production like the Last of Us can change everything.

Tags: age gap (reader is 29, Pedro is 46), fluff, mentions of alcohol, mental health issues, pandemic times, no use of y/n, eventual smut MDNI. slow burn. Based on the production of the first season of the show, but it's a fanfic after all, so some stuff won't be 100% accurate. Translation of an on-going fanfic (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix)

THE WALKING DEAD TROUBLE

Pairing: Rick Grimes x Original Character x Daryl Dixon eventually.

Summary: Trouble… Sam Walsh don't know her life without that word. It was always one trouble, after another, after another. And her only certainty and security was that her brother would always do everything for her.

Even if "everything" meant more trouble.

Tags: Parental neglect, eventual smut MDNI. slow burn. Dad with alcohol problems, maternal abandonment, the first part takes place before the outbreak, small town, drug use, violence due to alcohol use, cheating (if this is not something you like, just dont read it?), small age gap (Sam is 23, Rick is 29), Brother's Best-Friend. I'll tag each chapter if there's more stuff. This will be a two part of multiple chapters. Starts around a year before the outbreak, and the second part will hopefully cover seasons 1 and 2 of the show. This is a Translation of an on-going fanfic (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix)

PEAKY BLINDERS A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: Margaret Allen has already lived through more than most people twice her age.

A nurse who served on the front lines of the Great War, she returns to England with steady hands and a fractured heart. Her fiancé never made it home. The trenches did. The silence did. The memories did. When London begins to feel too small for her grief, Margaret accepts a position at a reputable hospital in Birmingham—hoping distance might quiet what the war left behind.

It doesn’t.

Birmingham is smoke, steel, and secrets. And at the center of it stands Thomas Shelby.

She smokes when her hands start to shake. He lights cigarettes when the ghosts get too loud.

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE | CHAPTER 01

W: DESCRIPTION OF INJURIES, GRIEF, MENTION OF THE GREAT WAR, PTSD, ANXIETY ATTACK, SMOKING, EARLY 20'S VIBES.

12.1K WORDS

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CHAPTER 01 - GHOSTS THAT FOLLOW

The first thing Birmingham did was swallow me whole.

The station was not so much a building as a living thing with a filthy mouth. Steam breathed from the engines in great white clouds, rolling over the platform and dampening everything it touched. Men pushed through it with bags over their shoulders and newspapers tucked beneath their arms. Women gathered children by the collars. Porters shouted over the shriek of brakes. Somewhere close, a horse gave a miserable snort, and the smell of coal, wet wool, iron, and bodies pressed in on me with such force I stopped with one foot on the platform and one still inside the train.

Behind me, someone cleared his throat.

“Miss?”

I looked back. The coughing man from the compartment stood with his handkerchief crushed in one fist, his face grey around the mouth.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping down properly before I could hold up the queue of passengers any longer.

My suitcase nearly pulled my shoulder from its socket when I lifted it. I had packed as if I owned nothing, which was mostly true, and still it felt as heavy as a dead man. The handle bit through my glove. I shifted it from one hand to the other and moved with the crowd because there was little choice in the matter. Birmingham had no patience for a woman who needed a moment to gather herself.

The platform trembled beneath my boots.

That was what unsettled me first. London stations were loud, yes, and full of people rushing as though God himself had given them a schedule. But this place had a different sort of movement. Harder. Meaner at the edges. Everything seemed to scrape against everything else. Metal on metal. Voices on smoke. Boots against stone.

I made it as far as a pillar near the exit before I stopped again.

A boy ran past me carrying a crate of newspapers, his cap too big for his head, shouting something about King and country and another factory-strike somewhere north. A woman beside me cursed after him when he nearly took her ankle out. Two soldiers stood near the wall with their backs to the brick, one missing a hand, the other with half his face turned away from the world. Neither of them spoke.

I tried not to stare. Afraid of them being the ghosts inside my head. I looked for a sign instead. Any sign. Something pointing toward the street, the city, the hospital, a place where one could stand without being shoved aside by men who smelled of tobacco and rain.

There were signs, of course. Too many. None of them useful.

“Come on, Margaret,” I muttered under my breath.

My voice sounded small here.

I had the address written in my pocket. Birmingham City Hospital. I had read the letter so many times I could see the paper in my sleep, the black ink, the neat signature, the promise of work and lodging arrangements to be discussed upon arrival. It had seemed straightforward in London. Just one train, one station, a single hospital. A new life, if one was inclined toward dramatic thinking.

Standing in the middle of that platform with smoke dampening the hair at the nape of my neck, it felt rather less straightforward.

I set the suitcase down for a moment and reached into my coat pocket for the folded paper.

A shoulder knocked mine.

“Watch it,” a man snapped.

I looked up. “You walked into me.”

He turned, surprised perhaps that I had a voice. His eyes moved over my coat, my hat, my suitcase, and the gloves I wore even though the day was not cold enough to justify them. Then his mouth twitched.

“London girl,” he said, as if it were an insult.

I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

He gave a short laugh and disappeared into the crowd.

I hated him at once., then hated myself a little for being glad he had guessed it so quickly, because at least someone seemed to know where I was from.

The paper had softened along the folds from too much handling. I smoothed it against my palm and looked down at the address again as though it might have changed since the last time.

Birmingham City Hospital.

Right.

I could ask someone for directions.

That was the sensible thing to do. Nurses were sensible by necessity. We asked for instruments before we needed them. We counted pulse, checked pupils, watched the colour drain from lips and learned to move before panic had a chance to enter the room. Asking a stranger for directions was hardly a battlefield procedure.

Still, my feet remained where they were.

There were too many men. Too many eyes. Too many ways for a simple question to become an invitation I had not meant to give. I had learned that in London before the war and learned it again in France, where a woman in uniform was either a saint, a mother, or something men thought they could grab if the pain was bad enough and the morphine had not come yet.

My thumb pressed against the inside of my wrist.

Steady.

I folded the paper and pushed it back into my pocket.

“Lost, are you?”

The voice came from my left. Male, young and amused in a way that immediately made me want to be difficult.

I turned.

He was leaning against the pillar as though he owned it. Flat cap pulled low. His coat was dark, with his hands in his pockets. Younger than I expected from the confidence in his voice, though not a boy. There was something quick about his face, something bright and restless in the eyes. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth unlit.

He looked at my suitcase, then at my gloves, then at my face.

I stared back. “No.”

His mouth curved. “No?”

“No.”

“You’re standing in the middle of the station reading the same bit of paper like it owes you money.”

“I enjoy reading.”

“At a train station?”

“It’s a thrilling hobby.”

That made him laugh. A real laugh, short and warm, and I found that more irritating than if he had sneered.

He pushed himself off the pillar. “Where you headed?”

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my way.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You implied it.” I went in completely defensive.

“I implied you looked lost.”

“I am not.”

His eyes flicked toward the exit, then back to me. “Right. Then you’ll be wanting that way.”

He pointed with his chin toward a passage half-hidden behind a knot of passengers and porters.

I looked despite myself.

His grin widened.

Damn him.

I picked up my suitcase again. The handle had warmed where my palm had been. “Thank you.”

“That all you’re carrying?”

“Yes.”

“Moving light.”

“Moving privately.”

Another laugh, softer this time. “Fair enough.”

I started toward the passage without waiting for him to say anything else. If I walked with enough purpose, perhaps Birmingham would be fooled into thinking I belonged to it already.

I managed six steps before he fell into stride beside me.

I stopped. “Are you following me?”

“Walking the same way.”

“Convenient.”

“It is, yeah.”

I studied him properly then. He had that look men in rough districts often wore after the war, whether they’d gone to France or only watched others come back from it. A face trained to make a joke before anyone noticed the bruising. Not actual bruising in his case, though there was a small healing cut near his brow and a faint swelling along one knuckle. His coat was good enough to mean money of some kind, worn carelessly enough to mean he did not have to beg for it.

“Do you make a habit of approaching women at stations?” I asked.

“Only ones who look ready to stab somebody with a hatpin.”

“I don’t own a hatpin sharp enough.”

“Pity.”

“I could improvise.”

He looked pleased by that, which told me he was either foolish or very used to women threatening him.

“John,” he said.

I did not answer.

He waited a second. “That’s usually where you tell me your name.”

“Is it?”

“In polite places, I hear that’s how it goes.”

“This is a polite place?”

He glanced around the station: the shouting men, the crying baby, the porter arguing over a trunk, the blackened glass overhead. “No. Suppose not.”

I began walking again.

He kept pace as if my refusal had been an invitation written in gold.

“I know the city,” he said. “You don’t.”

“You’ve gathered that from my accent?”

“That and the way you’re looking at everything like it might bite.”

“Will it?”

“Some of it.”

I hated that I wanted to ask which parts.

We reached the main concourse where the crowd widened and split toward the exits. A gust of colder air rolled through whenever the doors opened, carrying the stink of horses and smoke from the street beyond. I could see it now, Birmingham proper, waiting outside with its soot-dark buildings and narrow faces. The sky above the station was the colour of dirty dishwater.

John nodded toward my suitcase. “Hospital?”

I stopped again.

His expression changed before he could hide it. Only a little, but enough. His teasing eased back., and his gaze went to the cuff of my coat, where the sleeve had shifted and shown a glimpse of white beneath.

Nurse’s uniform.

He had not guessed. He had seen.

“That obvious?” I asked.

“Not to everyone.”

“Then you’ve had practice.”

His jaw moved once, like he had bitten down on a thought. “Birmingham’s got plenty of need for nurses.”

“Everywhere does.”

“Aye.”

Something passed through his face then, too fast to name. France, perhaps. Or a room where someone had died badly and no one had known what to do with the blood.

I had seen that look in London. In train compartments, or in pubs, on men who laughed too loudly and women who flinched at dropped plates.

The war had ended, according to newspapers.

No one had informed England.

“I need Birmingham City Hospital,” I said, because it was easier than standing there with the ghosts between us.

John nodded. “I can show you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.”

“I don’t take walks with strange men.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

“And yet.”

“And yet I’m going that way, and you’ve got a suitcase that looks heavier than you.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“I carried wounded men heavier than this.”

The words came out sharper than I intended.

John’s face stilled. He did not make a joke, and that was something, at least.

“Then you can carry it,” he said quietly. “And I’ll walk beside you so nobody bothers you.”

I looked at him.

He held my gaze without pushing. There was no noble look on his face, no grand display of gentlemanly sacrifice. He seemed, if anything, mildly uncomfortable with having said something decent.

I let out a slow breath through my nose. “Fine.”

His grin came back, though smaller. “Fine?”

“You may walk beside me.”

“Generous.”

“You may also refrain from speaking.”

“That’ll be harder.”

“I suspected as much.”

We stepped out of the station into Birmingham.

The city hit me with both hands.

London had fog, but this was different. This was industry thick enough to taste. Smoke dragged low between buildings and clung to window ledges, faces, washing lines, the backs of horses. The street outside the station was churned with mud and black water. Carts moved alongside motorcars, boys darted through gaps with the desperate confidence of children who had learned early that wheels rarely stopped for them. Men in caps stood in clusters outside shops and public houses, smoking, watching, saying very little.

Everything looked as if it had been rubbed with coal.

John noticed me taking it in. “Welcome to Birmingham.”

“It’s cheerful.”

“That’s the sunniest bit.”

“Splendid.”

He laughed again and moved to the outside of the pavement, closer to the road. I noticed that without wanting to. Men did that sometimes when they wished to appear protective. Men did it sometimes because they understood roads better than women’s fear. John did it with the distracted ease of someone who had been taught by women and trouble.

“You’ll want to learn the streets quick,” he said. “Main ones first. Don’t cut through alleys unless you know where they come out.”

“I’m from London, Mr. John. Alleys are not a Birmingham invention.”

“No, but ours have more personality.”

“By personality, do you mean knives?”

“Sometimes.”

I glanced at him.

He smiled around the unlit cigarette. “Sometimes fists. Depends on the day.”

“Useful distinction.”

“You’ll also want to keep your bag close in the markets. Don’t look too interested in anything unless you want the price doubled. And if a man offers to carry that for a penny, he’ll run with it before you’ve finished saying thank you.”

“I would never pay a stranger to steal from me.”

“You’d be surprised how many do.”

We passed a row of shops with grimy windows. A butcher was hosing blood from the front step into the gutter. A girl no older than twelve stood outside with a basket over one arm, her cheeks red from the wind, watching us with open curiosity. Across the street, a man came out of a public house though it was barely afternoon. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette with hands that shook worse than mine.

I looked away before he caught me seeing him.

The suitcase pulled at my arm again. I adjusted my grip.

John noticed. Of course he did.

“You sure you don’t want me to take it?”

“Quite sure.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re observant.”

“My aunt says that as though it’s an illness.”

“She may be right.”

That earned a quick look from him, amused and bright. “You talk posh, but you’ve got a bite.”

“I’ll write to my mother. She’ll be relieved.”

“She worried about you coming here?”

“Everyone is worried about everything nowadays.”

“That’s true enough.”

A cart rolled past close enough to splash dirty water over the hem of my coat. I stepped back too late and looked down at the black spots blooming in the wool.

John winced. “There’s your first bit of Birmingham.”

“I shall treasure it.”

“Don’t worry. By next week the whole coat’ll match.”

“Comforting.”

He pointed ahead with two fingers. “Hospital’s past there. Another few streets.”

I followed the line of his hand and saw taller buildings rising beyond the roofs. Red brick with long windows and a shape that looked stern even from a distance.

Something inside me tightened.

Not panic this time, though panic stood nearby, waiting for permission. This was the edge of arriving. The last few minutes before a person became whoever she had claimed she was going to be.

A nurse, twenty-three years of age, and somehow capable.

My throat went dry.

John slowed half a step. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“That was quick.”

“What was?”

“You saying fine before I’d properly asked.”

I looked at him. “Do people in Birmingham make a habit of examining every word?”

“Only when they’re interesting.”

“I’m not interesting.”

“You’re a London nurse with war medals, a suitcase, and a temper. That’s interesting enough.”

I stopped walking and he stopped too, a few feet ahead, then turned back.

“I didn’t say medals,” I said.

“You did at the station.”

“No. I said I carried wounded men.”

He looked at me for a second, and there it was again, that flicker of something more careful beneath the grin.

“Your posture said the rest.”

“My posture?”

“Yeah.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard today.”

“You stand like a soldier pretending not to be one.”

I had no answer for that.

A woman pushed past us with a basket of laundry, muttering about fools blocking the path. I moved aside automatically, cheeks warming in the cold air. John waited until she had gone.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.

People always said that after meaning enough.

I started walking again. “I trained as a nurse during the war. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.”

“It is all I’m telling you.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

We continued in silence for a while.

I preferred him that way, or told myself I did. It gave me room to listen to the city: Hooves, wheels, a factory whistle in the distance, a baby crying somewhere behind a closed door. The low rumble of men coming out of a building in work clothes, shoulders bent from labour and lungs filled with whatever made this city rich enough for some and hungry enough for the rest.

There were women everywhere too. Women with cracked hands and tired backs. Women in dark coats holding children by the wrist. Women who looked at me and saw the stranger in my boots, my London coat, my suitcase. Some glanced away. Some did not.

The hospital grew larger with each street.

By the time we reached the gates, my hand ached from the suitcase handle and my lungs felt lined with soot.

Birmingham City Hospital stood behind iron railings, broad and severe, its brick darkened by weather and smoke. The windows were tall, many of them open a crack despite the cold. Somewhere inside, a bell rang. A motor ambulance waited near the entrance, its paint scratched, one wheel splashed with mud. Two orderlies carried a stretcher through the doors at a brisk walk. The patient on it was covered to the chest with a grey blanket, one hand dangling over the side.

The sight steadied me more than anything else had.

A hospital was a hospital. Even an unfamiliar one.

Blood had the same smell in Birmingham. Pain made the same sounds. Fever flushed skin the same way. A frightened man was a frightened man no matter the city.

I could work with that.

John watched me instead of the building. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re about to fight it.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“The hospital?”

“The future.”

He looked at the building then. His expression softened in a way that made him look younger for half a second. “Well, give it a hard one for me.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

It surprised us both.

John pointed at the main doors. “Ask for the matron when you get in. If she scares you, don’t show it.”

“Does she scare you?”

“I avoid hospitals when I can.”

“That’s usually what men say before turning up half-dead and bleeding on the floor.”

“Then you’ll see me soon enough.”

“I hope not.”

He tapped the side of his cap. “That almost sounded kind.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Course.”

I shifted the suitcase to my other hand and looked at him properly. “Name’s Margaret. Thank you for walking me.”

“You’re welcome, Margaret.” He replied grinning.

“Mr. John,” I said slowly, “are you always this pleased with yourself?”

“Most days.”

“That must be exhausting for everyone around you.”

“My brothers say worse.”

“Then your brothers sound sensible.”

He scoffed “That’d be news to them.”

A shout came from farther down the street. John turned his head toward it, attention catching like a match strike. For the first time since he had appeared beside that pillar, I saw the restlessness in him sharpen into something harder. Recognition, perhaps. Duty, or trouble calling a familiar name.

He looked back at me.

“You’ll be all right from here?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I’m standing in front of a hospital, not the mouth of hell.”

“You haven’t met the matron yet.”

“I have survived surgeons with God complexes and soldiers biting through leather straps. I can manage a matron.”

His smile returned, quieter now. “I believe you.”

I was not used to strangers believing me.

He stepped back from the gate. “Careful in the city, Margaret.”

Before I could say something else, he nodded once and began walking backward down the pavement, hands in his pockets again.

“Welcome to Birmingham.” John said over his shoulder and disappeared into the moving street as if the city had folded around him.

I stood by the gate for a few seconds after he left.

The iron was cold beneath my gloved hand when I touched it. Behind me, Birmingham went on shouting. Ahead of me, the hospital waited with its tall windows and open doors. I felt suddenly aware of my coat hem stained with street water, my hair loosened by the walk, my mouth dry from nerves and cigarette smoke.

I wanted to light another one.

Instead I lifted my suitcase and walked through the gates.

Inside, the air changed.

The entrance hall smelled of carbolic soap, boiled linen, damp coats, and that sour scent of sickness. It was unpleasant enough to be comforting. My boots struck the tiled floor with a sound that seemed too loud at first. A clerk behind a desk looked up over his spectacles, took in my suitcase, then returned to his papers as though women carrying their whole lives through hospital doors were a daily inconvenience.

Perhaps they were.

“I’m here to report for nursing staff,” I said.

He did not look up. “Name?”

“Margaret Allen.”

He dipped his pen into ink. “From London?”

“Yes.”

“Matron’s expecting you.”

The word matron landed with more weight than it had outside.

The clerk pointed down the corridor without lifting his head. “Straight through. First left. Office at the end. Don’t wander.”

“I wasn’t planning on sightseeing.”

That made his pen pause. Only for a moment.

Then he wrote something down. “First left.”

I followed his directions.

The hospital corridors were wide but busy. Nurses passed in pairs, aprons clean, faces set in that particular expression women wore when they had too much to do and no intention of being interrupted by men pretending urgency was competence. A porter carried a stack of folded blankets high enough to hide his face. Somewhere beyond the walls came the sharp cry of a child, followed by a woman’s soothing voice. A bell rang twice.

My shoulders loosened one inch.

Work had a rhythm and rules. Even chaos behaved differently in a hospital than it did on a train platform. People could still die, and often did, but there were basins, charts, bandages, routines. Pain could be given a name and written in ink.

At the end of the corridor, a frosted glass door bore painted letters.

MATRON E. HAWTHORNE.

I set the suitcase down, smoothed my coat, and knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice on the other side was crisp enough to cut bread.

I entered.

Matron Hawthorne stood behind her desk rather than sitting at it. She was tall, narrow, and built from discipline. Her grey hair was pinned beneath her cap with military precision, and her uniform looked so exact it seemed less worn than enforced. She held my letter in one hand.

“Miss Allen.”

“Yes, Matron.”

Her eyes moved over me with swift assessment. Coat. Gloves. Boots. Face. She missed nothing, which meant I disliked and respected her within the same breath.

“You’re late.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “By seven minutes.”

“Late is not measured by how much one prefers it to be excused.”

“No, Matron.”

A silence. Then her mouth twitched so faintly I wondered if I had imagined it.

“Your train?”

“Crowded.”

“They usually are.”

“Yes, Matron.”

She set the letter down and lifted another sheet. “You served in France.”

“I trained in London first, then volunteered with a medical unit attached to casualty clearing work.”

“I did not ask for modesty, Miss Allen. I asked for confirmation.”

I held her gaze. “Yes, Matron. I served in France.”

“Experience with surgical cases?”

“Yes.”

“Amputations?”

“Yes.”

“Gas injuries?”

“Yes.”

“Abdominal trauma?”

My fingers tightened inside my gloves. “Yes.”

“Shell shock?”

The room grew smaller for half a second.

“Yes.”

She watched me closely.

I gave her nothing else.

Matron Hawthorne nodded once and placed the sheet on her desk. “Then you will find Birmingham less dramatic and more relentless. We have industrial injuries, infections, births, beatings, burns, men who drink away their wages and women who pay the consequence. We have children with lungs ruined before they learn to read. We have former soldiers who will not call themselves patients until they collapse in the street.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t. But you will.”

Fair enough.

She moved around the desk and opened the door. “Your lodging has been arranged temporarily at a nurses’ boarding house two streets over. Respectable enough. Cold in the mornings. You’ll be given directions after supper. Until then, you’ll meet the staff, receive your schedule, and change into uniform.”

“I start today?”

“You arrived today.”

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant. We are short-staffed.”

Of course they were.

Every hospital in England had been short-staffed since the war, and before that too, though men only noticed shortages when they were the ones needing care.

Matron Hawthorne stepped into the corridor, and I followed with my suitcase.

“You’ll begin on women’s surgical for the remainder of the afternoon. Tomorrow you’ll rotate through receiving. After that, we’ll see where you’re useful.”

Useful.

I liked the word more than I should have.

She led me down another corridor and into a small room where two nurses stood near a cupboard, arguing in low voices over a missing apron.

One of them was tall and fair, with a sharp chin and tired blue eyes. The other was shorter, dark-haired, with a rounder face and a mouth that looked as if it smiled often despite the hospital’s best attempts to prevent it.

Both turned when we entered.

“Nurse Clarke,” Matron said. “Nurse Doyle. This is Nurse Allen from London. She’ll be joining us.”

The fair one, Nurse Clarke, looked me over without warmth and without cruelty. A practical assessment.

The dark-haired one smiled at once.

“London?” she said. “Well, that’s fancy.”

“Mary,” Matron warned.

“What? I’m welcoming.”

“You are commenting.”

“That too.”

Nurse Clarke stepped forward and gave me a small nod. “Edith Clarke.”

“Margaret Allen.”

Her handshake was dry and firm.

Nurse Doyle took my hand next with both of hers, warmer than expected. “Mary. Don’t mind Edith’s face. She was born disappointed.”

Edith sighed. “I was born quiet. You mistake the two because you’ve never tried it.”

Mary looked at me. “See? Friendly already.”

A laugh almost left me. It caught somewhere near my ribs and turned into a breath instead.

Matron Hawthorne pointed to the cupboard. “Find Nurse Allen an official uniform and show her where to change. She’ll be on women’s surgical.”

Mary’s brows lifted. “Today?”

“She has experience.”

Edith looked at me again, this time more directly. “War?”

“Yes.”

Something shifted in her face. Recognition without pity.

Mary’s smile softened but did not disappear. “Right then. We’ll keep the worst of ourselves hidden until tomorrow.”

“Speak for yourself,” Edith said.

Matron Hawthorne gave them both a look capable of sterilising instruments. “I expect her on the ward in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, Matron,” they said together.

Matron turned to me. “Miss Allen.”

“Yes, Matron?”

“Birmingham does not reward softness. Do your work. Keep your head down. Ask when you don’t know. Don’t pretend around our patients.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

She left.

The room seemed to breathe again once she was gone.

Mary leaned closer to me and whispered, “She likes you.”

I looked toward the closed door. “That was liking me?”

“For her, yes.”

Edith opened a cupboard and moved a stack of linens. “She didn’t send you home crying. Practically a kiss on the cheek.”

“I can still hear you, Nurse Clarke,” Matron’s voice called from the corridor.

Edith closed her eyes.

Mary pressed her lips together so hard her whole face trembled.

Despite the ache in my arm, the soot in my lungs, and despite Charles folded somewhere inside my suitcase with my old life, I laughed.

Only once and quietly.

But it happened.

Mary looked delighted. Edith looked less disappointed than advertised.

“There she is,” Mary said. “We were beginning to worry London had sent us a statue.”

“I’m too tired to be made of stone.”

“That’ll fit in well here.”

Edith handed me a folded apron and pointed toward a screen in the corner. “You can change there. Keep your purse on you. Don’t leave cigarettes in the common room unless you mean to share.”

Mary gasped. “Edith Clarke, accusing nurses of theft?”

“I’m accusing nurses of being nurses.”

I set my suitcase down beside the screen. “I only smoke when my hands shake.”

The words came out before I had measured them.

Both women went a little quiet.

I hated the quiet more than I hated the mistake.

Then Mary reached into her own apron pocket and pulled out a cigarette case, scratched silver, clearly lived. She flipped it open, showed me three crooked cigarettes inside, and winked.

“Then you’ll never be without company.”

Edith shook her head, but there was something kind in the movement. “Change quickly. Women’s surgical waits for no one.”

I stepped behind the screen and began to unbutton my coat.

I folded my coat over the back of a chair and reached for the clean uniform. Changed fast. Women’s surgical smelled of boiled linen and old pain.

That was my first thought when Nurse Clarke pushed open the ward door with her hip and gestured for me to follow. There were sixteen beds, eight on each side, with narrow walkways between them and windows tall enough to let in a grey wash of afternoon light. The glass looked clean, which surprised me, until I noticed how the soot gathered thick around the frames where fingers could not easily reach.

A coal fire burned low at the far end. It gave off more smoke than warmth.

“Beds one through six are post-operative,” Edith said, walking with the brisk pace of a woman who did not waste steps. “Seven is waiting on Dr. Whitcomb to remember he’s got a patient with an abdomen hard as a board. Eight is Mrs. Barlow. You’ll know her because she shouts before she needs anything. Nine through thirteen are dressings, observation, infection watch. Fourteen is dying.”

She said the last part the same way one might say it was raining.

I looked toward bed fourteen before I could stop myself.

An older woman lay there with her face turned toward the window, cheeks hollow, skin stretched too thin over bone. Her breathing lifted the blanket in small, uneven movements. Beside her sat a girl of perhaps seventeen, twisting a handkerchief between red fingers.

“How long?” I asked quietly.

Edith paused near the medicine trolley. “Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning. Depends whether her heart is stubborn.”

“Is family informed?”

“The daughter knows. Sons haven’t come.”

There was a bitterness in her voice that made me wonder how many times she had said those words before.

Mary came in behind us carrying a tray with fresh bandages stacked high enough to hide the lower half of her face. “Mrs. Barlow threw a slipper at Dr. Whitcomb while you were gone.”

Edith did not look surprised. “Did she hit him?”

“Missed by inches.”

“Shame.”

Mary set the tray down and gave me a quick smile. “Welcome to women’s surgical.”

I thought of Matron Hawthorne’s words. Less dramatic and more relentless.

Already, I believed her.

There was no time for ceremony after that. No gentle introduction, no careful placement of the new nurse where she might watch before being trusted. Edith handed me a basin, Mary gave me a stack of clean cloths, and the afternoon opened its mouth.

I changed dressings on a woman with an infected incision below her ribs while Edith watched my hands for the first few moments, then moved away when she saw I knew what I was doing. The woman’s name was Clara Evans, twenty-eight years old, mother of four, husband working at one of the factories with a cough he refused to name. She apologized every time she winced.

“You don’t need to apologize for pain,” I told her, unwinding the old bandage slowly.

“I feel foolish.”

“Pain makes fools of everyone. You’re in good company.”

That made her smile for half a second before the dressing pulled at the dried edge and took the smile with it.

The wound was angry, red around the stitches with a thin seepage that had soaked the gauze yellow. I asked Mary for carbolic and kept my face steady as I cleaned it. Clara watched my expression more than my hands, as patients always did. They searched a nurse’s face for the truth doctors refused to give them.

“You’ve seen worse?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Am I meant to be comforted by that?”

“Only if it helps.”

She gave a small laugh, breathless. “Does it?”

“Sometimes.”

Mary looked at me over the tray, eyes softer than her mouth allowed.

After Clara came Mrs. Barlow, who had indeed been the slipper-thrower. She was a large woman with iron-grey hair, a sharp tongue, and an operation scar along her thigh that needed inspecting.

“You’re new,” she said the second I came near.

“Yes.”

“London?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. You’re pale enough.”

“I’ll try to develop a Birmingham complexion by supper.”

Mary coughed into her shoulder to hide a laugh.

Mrs. Barlow narrowed her eyes at me, then decided I would do. “That doctor’s a fool.”

“Many are.”

“You can say that?”

“I can think it.”

She barked a laugh loud enough for the woman in the next bed to stir. “Oh, I like this one.”

“She’s been here twenty minutes,” Edith said from the foot of another bed. “Don’t encourage her.”

The afternoon went on like that. Bed to bed. Name to name. Pain moving from one body to another until the ward became less a room and more a collection of small wars nobody wrote medals for.

A girl with burns along her forearm from a kitchen accident bit down on her lip until it bled while I changed the dressing. A seamstress recovering from a fever asked me twice if her employer had sent word, and when I told her no, her eyes turned to the ceiling. Mrs. Barlow complained about her tea. Clara Evans asked if infection meant she was dying, and I answered carefully because there were cruel ways to be honest and cowardly ways to be kind.

“No,” I told her, adjusting the blanket at her waist. “It means we watch it closely.”

“That’s what nurses say when they don’t know.”

“That is what nurses say when they intend to keep watching.”

She studied me with tired eyes. “You talk funny.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“London funny.”

“Tragic condition.”

That earned another small smile. I tucked it away as if I had done something useful.

Near four o’clock, Dr. Whitcomb appeared with a harassed expression and ink on his cuff. He was younger than I expected for the authority in his voice, perhaps late thirties, with thinning hair and the kind of confidence often given to men before competence had a chance to catch up. He examined bed seven, finally, and did not like what he found. The woman’s abdomen was rigid, skin shining with fever sweat, pulse too fast beneath my fingers.

“Prepare for theatre,” he said.

I moved before anyone told me to.

For a moment, the ward narrowed to the width of a stretcher and the sound of wheels rattling over tile. Mary went ahead to clear the corridor. Edith spoke to the patient in a low, firm voice while I helped secure the blanket around her. The woman gripped my wrist.

“Am I dying?” she whispered.

Her fingers were hot. Too hot.

“No,” Dr. Whitcomb said too quickly and too annoyingly from the foot of the bed.

I looked down at her. “You’re very ill, Mrs. Ellis. They’re taking you to surgery because waiting would be worse.”

Her eyes filled. “My boys—”

“We’ll send word,” Edith said.

Mrs. Ellis kept hold of my wrist until the doors to theatre took her.

Afterward, I stood in the corridor with the warmth of her hand still printed on my skin through my glove.

For a second I was back in France.

Canvas overhead. Mud beneath the boards. Men calling for mothers, wives, saints, water. A boy no older than seventeen catching my sleeve with half his hand gone, asking whether he would see Kent again. I had told him yes because he needed to hear it, and because I had been twenty-one and still foolish enough to believe God might forgive a lie told gently.

He died before morning.

“Margaret?”

Mary’s voice cut through before the memory could finish sinking its teeth into me.

I blinked.

The corridor came back. Brick walls. Hospital tiles. The smell of carbolic.

Mary stood beside me with an empty basin in her hands, her face no longer bright. “You with us?”

“Yes.” My voice sounded too flat. “Sorry.”

“No need.”

I flexed my fingers once. “What now?”

She looked at me for a second longer, then nodded toward the ward. “Now Mrs. Barlow wants to know why her tea is cold. Very serious matter.”

I followed her back.

By the time the afternoon began to loosen toward evening, my feet ached, my shoulders burned, and the clean white of my apron had taken on honest stains. Matron Hawthorne came through once, checked the ward, checked us, checked me with particular attention, and said nothing. Edith later informed me that silence from Matron after a first shift was practically applause.

I believed her only because Mary agreed.

At half past six, another nurse came to replace us. The ward settled into that strange evening quiet hospitals had, when pain did not lessen but became more private. Lamps were lit. Curtains were drawn around bed fourteen. The daughter still sat there, handkerchief twisted to threads.

I washed my hands longer than necessary.

Some blood came away first, then only soap, then nothing. But I kept scrubbing.

Mary leaned against the basin beside me. “You’ll take the skin off.”

I stopped.

My knuckles had gone pink.

“Bad habit,” I said.

“War habit?”

I reached for the towel. “A little, yeah.”

Mary did not argue, which I appreciated more than agreement.

Edith joined us in the small changing room, unpinning her cap with a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of her feet. “You did well.”

I glanced at her in the mirror. “That sounded painful.”

“It was.”

Mary grinned. “She means it, though. Edith doesn’t hand compliments out unless someone’s fever breaks or a doctor admits he’s wrong.”

“That ever happen?” I asked.

“Which one?”

“The doctor admitting he’s wrong.”

Mary pressed a hand to her chest. “We live in hope.”

Edith gave her a look. “Ignore her. She talks more when she’s hungry.”

“I talk the correct amount.”

“You talk enough for three wards.”

Mary turned to me. “See how cruel Birmingham makes a woman?”

I folded my apron carefully, buying myself a moment to enjoy them without showing it too openly. Their bickering had a rhythm worn smooth by familiarity. It made the room feel warmer than the small stove had managed.

Matron had said lodging would be at a nurses’ boarding house two streets over. I expected directions, perhaps a scribbled note with a map, and to be sent out into the dark with my suitcase and a stern reminder about punctuality.

Instead, Mary pulled on her coat and wrapped a knitted scarf twice around her neck. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“I can find it.”

“Probably. But you’re new, it’s getting dark, and Birmingham likes to introduce its rough self after sundown.”

Edith buttoned her own coat. “Let her walk you.”

I looked between them. “Is it that bad?”

Mary’s mouth tilted, though this time the smile did not quite reach her eyes. “Depends on the street.”

“Everything seems to depend on the street here.”

“That’s Birmingham.”

Edith took her gloves from the shelf. “And keep your cigarettes out of sight if you’re walking alone. Men will use any excuse to speak to you.”

“Men do that everywhere.”

“Yes, but here they’ll pretend it’s local charm.”

Mary laughed, then reached for my suitcase before I could stop her. “Come on. I know you can carry wounded men and your own luggage. Let me be useful before Edith calls me decorative.”

“I never called you decorative.”

“You thought it.”

“I thought noisy.”

“Same thing, in a nicer dress.”

I let Mary take the suitcase because my arm throbbed and pride was less useful than bone.

Outside, evening had settled over Birmingham with a blackened hand.

The lamps were lit along the street, their glow smeared by smoke and damp. Workmen moved in groups now, caps low, shoulders hunched against the cold. A woman dragged a child along by the sleeve while the child cried for bread. Somewhere down the road, a piano played badly through the open door of a public house, the notes staggering into the street as if drunk before any man inside had touched a glass.

Mary walked with purpose, suitcase in one hand, the other tucked into her coat pocket. She seemed smaller outside the hospital and somehow more alert. Her eyes moved constantly. Corners. Doorways. Men lingering near walls.

I noticed because I did the same.

“The boarding house is respectable,” she said. “Mrs. Hodge runs it. Widow, and sharp as a sewing needle. She’ll charge extra if you take hot water too often and scold you if you come in after ten, but she keeps clean sheets and doesn’t let men past the front room.”

“That’s better than London gave me.”

“She likes nurses. Her daughter died in the influenza. Had a nurse with her at the end.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mary nodded once. “Everyone is sorry for someone these days.”

We turned into a narrower street. The buildings leaned closer, their upper windows staring down with dark, blank faces. Washing hung between two houses, stiff in the cold. A group of boys scattered when Mary clicked her tongue at them, though one called something under his breath that made her stop and turn.

“Say it louder, Billy, and I’ll tell your mother where you hide the coins you nick off the bookies.”

The boy’s face went pale.

Mary kept walking.

I stared at her. “I’m beginning to think you’re dangerous.”

“Only to children and doctors.”

“That’s quite a range.”

She gave me a quick sideways smile, then her expression sobered as we approached another turn.

“Listen,” she said. “You’ll hear things about this part of the city. Half of it true, half of it told by men who like frightening women because it makes them feel tall.”

“I’m listening.”

“This isn’t the West End. It isn’t London respectable, either. People here mind their own business because their own business can get them killed if someone else minds it first.”

The street opened slightly ahead. More houses. More noise. A public house at the corner, windows glowing amber, men gathered outside with cigarettes and hard faces. One of them glanced at Mary, nodded once, then looked at me with interest.

Mary’s hand tightened on my suitcase handle.

“Watery Lane isn’t far,” she said quietly.

The name sounded familiar only because I had heard it in frightened versions of Birmingham before leaving London. My mother’s voice. Newspaper gossip. Women whispering while pretending not to enjoy the danger of it.

“That’s gang territory?” I asked.

Mary huffed a humourless laugh. “All of Birmingham is someone’s territory if you ask the right men.”

“And Watery Lane?”

“That belongs to the Shelbys.”

I looked at her. “Shelbys.”

“Family.”

“Criminals?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“That sounds like an answer from someone who doesn’t wish to be overheard.”

Mary’s mouth pressed thin.

We passed the public house. The men outside stopped speaking for the few seconds it took us to walk by. I kept my gaze forward, though my skin prickled with the effort.

Once we were a little farther on, Mary spoke again.

“They run the betting, protection, pubs. Some factories fear them, some pay them, some do both at the same time. Men around here don’t say their names too loudly unless they’re friendly with them or too stupid to live long.”

I swallowed.

“Peaky Blinders,” she said, testing the name on my tongue.

The words landed with a strange quiet despite the noise around us.

I had heard the name, of course. Everyone had, in the way everyone heard names of men who became more story than flesh. Razor blades sewn into caps, men blinded in alleys, bookmaking, policemen paid to look the other way. My mother had said Birmingham was rough. She had said gangs as though the word itself might snatch me off the pavement.

I looked toward a narrow lane disappearing between rows of houses. A man stood there smoking beneath a lamp, cap pulled low enough to hide his eyes.

“And the hospital treats them?” I asked the real question that concerned me.

Mary gave me a look. “The hospital treats anyone bleeding enough to be brought through the door.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No.”

We walked a few more steps.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Sometimes. Usually they’ve got their own people for smaller things. When it’s bad, they come to us. Or someone comes instead and pays in cash, asks no names, leaves before the constable can be fetched.”

“And Matron allows that?”

“Matron allows patients to live when she can manage it. She will only judge them afterward.”

I liked Matron Hawthorne a little more then.

Mary glanced at me, thoughtful. “You met one today, I think.”

“One what?”

“A Shelby.”

My feet slowed before I told them to.

Mary stopped with me beneath a streetlamp. Its weak light caught in the damp air between us.

“What do you mean?”

She adjusted the suitcase in her grip. “Word moves fast if you know who to hear it from. One of the porters said John Shelby walked some new London nurse to the hospital gates this afternoon. I thought he was making it up until I saw you.”

John.

Flat cap with a restless grin, hands in pockets… The way men had looked toward him in the street without quite looking at him.

My stomach tightened.

“He said his name was John.”

“Then he was feeling honest.”

“He didn’t say Shelby.”

Mary gave a small shrug. “They don’t need to.”

I looked back down the street as if he might appear there again, laughing at the fact that I had been walking beside danger and arguing with it about my suitcase.

“He didn’t do anything,” I said.

“I didn’t say he did.”

“He was... irritating.”

Mary’s lips twitched. “That sounds like John Shelby.”

“He walked me to the hospital.”

“That also sounds like John Shelby, if he liked you.”

“I don’t think he liked me.”

“Then he was bored.”

“That sounds more likely.”

Mary began walking again, slower now. “John’s one of the younger brothers. Arthur’s worse when he’s drunk, which is often enough. Tommy’s the one you keep your head down for.”

“Tommy.”

“Thomas Shelby.”

There it was. The name beneath the name. Spoken lower.

Even the smoke seemed to lean in.

“He owns the streets?” I asked.

Mary looked ahead. “He owns enough of the men walking them.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It’s the safer answer.”

I did not like that, but also understood it.

A group of boys ran past us, laughing too loudly, chased by another boy carrying half a loaf of bread. Life went on around the warning as if warnings were ordinary weather. Perhaps here they were.

Mary stopped outside a narrow brick house with lace curtains in the front window and a brass knocker polished to a dull shine. A small sign near the door read MRS. HODGE — ROOMS.

“This is you.”

The house looked better than I had expected. Tired, but clean. The step had been scrubbed. A potted plant sat by the door with more determination than health.

Mary set my suitcase down. “Mrs. Hodge’ll give you a room on the second floor if Matron wrote ahead proper.”

“Thank you for walking me.”

“You’ll learn the way quick.”

“I hope so.”

“You will.” She hesitated, then added, “And Margaret?”

It sounded strange hearing my name from her so soon. Kind, though. Practical kindness. The kind women offered one another without making a performance of it.

“Yes?”

“If you see Peaky Blinders in the hospital, treat them as patients. If you see them in the street, keep moving unless they speak to you first. If they do speak, answer plain. Don’t flirt unless you mean it, don’t insult them unless you’re ready for it to be remembered, and don’t ask questions about things that don’t want answering.”

I absorbed that slowly.

“What if I’ve already insulted one?”

Mary’s face changed. “Did you?”

“I may have been... brisk.”

“Brisk how?”

“I asked whether he made a habit of approaching women at stations. I also told him he was pleased with himself.”

Mary stared at me for one breath, then laughed so suddenly that a curtain twitched in the house next door.

I frowned. “That’s reassuring.”

“No, it is. Really.” She wiped the corner of her eye. “John’s survived worse than a London nurse calling him pleased with himself.”

“He now knows my name.”

“So they all do.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“Most things about them are.”

The door opened before either of us could say more.

A woman in her sixties stood inside with a candle in one hand and an expression sharp enough to make Matron Hawthorne seem warm. She wore a dark dress buttoned to the throat, hair pinned back, eyes pale and unsentimental.

“You must be Nurse Allen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mrs. Hodge. Wipe your feet.”

I did.

Mary leaned toward me. “Supper is usually bread, stew if she’s feeling generous, judgment either way.”

“I can hear you, Mary Doyle,” Mrs. Hodge said.

Mary straightened. “Good evening, Mrs. Hodge.”

“Go home before your mother sends your brother looking.”

“God forbid.”

Mrs. Hodge looked at me. “Inside. Heat goes out when doors stand open.”

I picked up my suitcase and turned to Mary one last time. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Too early and in a terrible mood.”

“Something to look forward to.”

Mary smiled. “Welcome to Birmingham, Margaret.”

Then she was gone, scarf tucked high around her chin, disappearing into the smoky evening with the same quick steps she had used in the ward.

Mrs. Hodge shut the door behind me.

The boarding house smelled of boiled cabbage, furniture polish, and damp wool drying too close to the fire. A narrow staircase climbed along the wall. Somewhere above, floorboards creaked under careful feet. Voices murmured from a room to the right, women’s voices, tired and low. The house had that particular quiet of shared lodging, where every person tried to own a private grief behind thin walls.

Mrs. Hodge held out her hand. “Letter.”

I gave her the paper from Matron.

She read it with the candle held close, lips moving slightly. “Second floor. Back room. Washstand, bed, wardrobe, small desk. No gentlemen upstairs. No hot water after nine unless arranged. No spirits. Smoking out the window only. Supper in twenty minutes if you want it.”

“I do.”

“Rent is deducted through hospital arrangement. Anything broken, you pay.”

“Of course.”

She looked at my gloves. “You’ll be wanting sleep.”

It was not a question.

“I’ll be wanting many things.”

For the first time, Mrs. Hodge’s mouth moved in something near approval. “Most of us do. Come on.”

She led me up the stairs with slow, heavy steps, the candlelight trembling over wallpaper faded by years of coal smoke. On the first landing, a door opened and a young woman peered out, hair loose over one shoulder. She saw Mrs. Hodge and vanished again.

“Factory girl,” Mrs. Hodge said. “Night shifts sometimes. Don’t lend her money.”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“Plans change when people cry.”

That, too, was fair.

My room sat at the back of the second floor.

Mrs. Hodge opened the door and stepped aside.

It was small. Smaller than the flat in London, though cleaner in certain ways. A narrow bed against one wall. A washstand with a chipped basin. A wardrobe with one crooked handle. A desk beneath the window, scarred with old ink marks and a burn in the corner where someone had left a candle too close. The curtains were thin, but washed. The blanket on the bed was grey and neatly folded.

The window looked out over the backs of houses and a strip of yard where laundry hung limp in the damp. Beyond the roofs, factory chimneys climbed into the evening sky.

No Charles. And specially, no bed with memories pressed into the mattress.

My chest tightened before I could prepare for it.

Mrs. Hodge placed the candle on the desk. “You’ll have quiet enough back here.”

“Thank you.”

She looked around the room as though checking that it had behaved in her absence. “Supper in twenty.”

Then she left, closing the door with a firm click.

I stood in the middle of the room and listened to the house settle around me.

A chair scraped somewhere below. Water moved through pipes. A woman coughed on the other side of the wall, a deep chest cough that made my nurse’s mind catalogue it before the rest of me could object. Outside, a cart rolled over uneven stones, wheels clattering until the sound faded into the distance.

I set my suitcase on the bed.

For a while, I did not open it.

Arriving felt different once nobody was watching. At the station, with John beside me, I could be sharp. At the hospital, with Edith and Mary and Matron measuring my usefulness, I could be capable. In this room, with only the candle and the soot-dark window for company, I was simply a woman with one suitcase and too many ghosts for the space allotted.

I removed my gloves finger by finger.

My hands were steady at first.

Then they were not.

The trembling started in the right hand, small enough to pretend away. Then the left joined it out of loyalty or spite. I flexed my fingers, pressed my palms flat against the lid of the suitcase, and waited.

“Stop,” I whispered.

They did not.

I reached for my cigarette case.

The metal was cool against my palm. Familiar. I opened the window before lighting one, as Mrs. Hodge had ordered. Cold air slid into the room and touched the sweat at the back of my neck. I struck the match on the side of the case. The flare of flame made the window glass show my reflection for a second.

Pale face. Dark eyes. Hair loosening from its pins. A nurse’s collar still fastened neatly at my throat as if neatness could hide exhaustion.

I inhaled.

Smoke burned its way down. The first pull always hurt a little after a long day. I liked that too much.

Below, someone laughed in the yard, then another voice told them to shut up.

I leaned my hip against the desk and smoked with the window open, watching Birmingham darken by degrees. The city did not soften at night. It only changed its weapons. Daylight had shown brick and smoke, carts and men with caps pulled low. Darkness brought lamps, shadows, footsteps that seemed to pause too long beneath windows.

Somewhere far off, a whistle blew.

My throat closed.

For a moment, it was not a factory whistle. It was the warning before wounded came in. It was someone shouting for stretchers. It was rain hammering canvas overhead while I tried to find the clamp with hands slick from blood.

I took another drag, held it until my lungs protested, then exhaled toward the open window.

“Birmingham,” I said softly, as if naming the place might keep it from becoming France.

The cigarette shortened between my fingers.

When I finally unpacked, I did it carefully.

Dresses first. Two dark ones for workdays when I did not need uniform, one better dress my mother insisted I bring despite the fact that I had nowhere to wear it. Stockings. Undergarments. Hairpins tucked in a small tin. My nursing books, worn at the corners. Bandage scissors wrapped in cloth. A fountain pen Charles had given me for my nineteenth birthday, the nib slightly bent from the day I dropped it on a floor after receiving news that three men from his regiment had been killed.

Then the photograph.

Charles stood stiff in uniform, chin lifted, eyes trying for brave and landing somewhere near frightened. He had hated that photograph because he thought it made his ears look too large. I loved it because he looked alive in it. Annoyed, nervous, proud, impatient to be done posing so he could take me for tea we could not really afford.

I sat on the bed with the photograph in my lap.

The mattress dipped beneath me with a tired spring.

“You’d hate it here,” I said.

The room gave no answer.

I traced the edge of the photograph with my thumb, careful not to touch his face. “Too much smoke. You’d complain about your collar. Then you’d pretend to like it because I’d tell you to stop being soft.”

My mouth moved around a smile that never fully arrived.

The worst part of grief, I had found, was how much of love became habit. The turning to share a thought, or the listening for a key in the door. Even saving of a piece of bread because he always got hungry at impossible hours. My mind still made room for him before remembering there was no body to fill it.

A knock sounded below. Mrs. Hodge calling names.

I placed Charles’s photograph on the desk, propped against my books, and went down before the room could pull me too far under.

Supper was thin stew, bread hard at the edges, and tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. Four other women sat around the table. Two nurses I did not know, one factory girl with hollow cheeks, and an older woman who worked in laundry and said little except to ask for the salt.

Mrs. Hodge presided over the meal as if commanding a military post.

No one asked me too many questions once they learned I had come from London. That was a mercy. One of the nurses, a red-haired girl called Annie, asked which ward I had been put on. When I answered women’s surgical, she made a sympathetic noise and said Mrs. Barlow once called a vicar useless to his face.

“That was one of her kinder days,” the other nurse said.

The factory girl ate quickly, eyes lowered, one hand curled protectively around her bread. I noticed bruising along her wrist when her sleeve slipped back. Old. Yellowing.

Nurse habit, I told myself.

Human habit, something else answered.

After supper, I returned upstairs with a cup of hot water Mrs. Hodge allowed me “because it’s the first night and I’ve not yet learned whether you’re wasteful.” I washed in the basin, changed into my nightdress, and hung my uniform where the worst creases might fall out by morning. My body was tired enough to ache in separate pieces. Feet. Back. Neck. The place between my shoulder blades where grief liked to sit when it wanted to feel physical.

Sleep should have come easily.

It did not.

I lay in the narrow bed with the blanket pulled to my chin, staring at the ceiling while the house quieted around me. Floorboards groaned. A door clicked shut. Someone whispered goodnight through the wall. The sounds were ordinary, which made no difference.

My body did not trust night.

It had learned too much in France.

Night was when the wounded came in blue-lipped and shaking. Night was when shells found hospitals because smoke and lamps gave positions away. Night was when men died calling for women who could not hear them. Night was when my own mind, deprived of daylight tasks, dragged every memory from its corner and set it beside me in bed.

I turned onto my side.

The blanket scratched my cheek.

Charles watched from the desk, his photograph dim in the candlelight.

“I’m trying,” I whispered to him.

The window rattled as I closed my eyes.

For a few minutes, perhaps longer, I drifted somewhere shallow. Then a crack split the distance outside.

My eyes flew open.

A gunshot.

Far away. Somewhere beyond the houses. One shot first. Then a second. Then shouting, thin and carried by the night.

I was out of bed before I knew I had moved.

My bare feet hit the cold floor. My hand went to the wall, searching for a basin, a lamp, an instrument tray that was not there. My heart slammed once, twice, too hard. The room tilted.

France.

No.

Birmingham.

The shouting outside grew louder, then broke into laughter or anger, I could not tell which. A man cursed. Something smashed. Another voice roared back.

My breath came wrong.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

The wall beneath my other palm was wallpaper, peeling slightly under my fingers. The floor was wood. The air smelled of coal and candle smoke, not mud and chloride and open bodies.

Still, my knees nearly gave.

I fumbled for the cigarette case on the desk and knocked my pen to the floor. It rolled beneath the chair. I did not bother reaching for it. My fingers were clumsy with the match. The first one snapped, a second scraped uselessly. The third caught, flame trembling so violently I nearly burned myself before getting the cigarette lit.

I stood at the open window in my nightdress and smoked as if it were medicine.

The street behind the house was dim, shadows layered over roofs and laundry lines. I could not see whoever had fired. I could hear men somewhere to the left, voices rough with drink or rage. Then came the sound of running feet. A door slammed. A woman shouted from a window for them to take their bloody business elsewhere.

Bloody business.

Mary’s voice returned to me.

Watery Lane just down the street.

Peaky Blinders.

John Shelby’s grin appeared next. That careless tilt of his head. The way he had known the streets belonged to someone and still walked through them as if ownership were a coat he could shrug on or off depending on the weather.

I had met a gangster at the station and argued with him about luggage.

That should have frightened me more than it did.

Perhaps fear was too crowded in me already.

I smoked halfway through the cigarette before my breath began to obey.

On the desk, my journal waited beneath Charles’s photograph. Brown leather with worn spine and pages inside filled with years I sometimes wished I could tear out and years I feared forgetting if I did. I had begun it when I was sixteen because my mother said a young woman should keep her thoughts orderly. The war had made a mockery of order, but I kept writing all the same.

I sat at the desk and opened it to the next clean page.

The pen was still under the chair.

I crouched to retrieve it and had to pause there, one hand gripping the seat, because another shout outside made my stomach drop. No gunshot followed. Only drunken laughter fading away.

I returned to the chair and uncapped the pen.

For a moment, I did not know what to write.

Then I wrote the date.

March, 1921. Birmingham.

The ink looked too black on the page.

I wrote slowly at first.

I arrived today with one suitcase and all the confidence I could afford to pretend. The city is darker than London. Rougher in the mouth. Smoke gets everywhere. The hospital is better than I feared and worse than I hoped, which is likely true of most places worth staying.

I paused, listening.

The house remained quiet.

I continued.

Met Matron Hawthorne. Severe woman. Clever eyes. I think she could make a surgeon cry if given the proper motivation. Nurse Edith Clarke is sensible and dry. Nurse Mary Doyle laughs as though she has decided the world is absurd and she refuses to let it win. I like them both already, which is inconvenient.

My cigarette had burned down near my fingers. I crushed it in the saucer Mrs. Hodge had left on the sill, then rubbed ash from my thumb.

I hesitated before writing the next part.

A man called John walked me from the station. John Shelby, according to Mary. Peaky Blinder. I did not know. He was irritating, amused, and kinder than I expected from a stranger. I may have insulted him. He did not seem wounded.

The pen hovered.

I should have left it there.

Instead, I wrote Charles’s name.

Charles would have laughed at me for getting lost before leaving the station. He would have carried my suitcase even if I told him not to. He would have hated Birmingham’s smoke and loved Mary within five minutes. He would have called John trouble. He would have been right.

The ink blurred.

I blinked hard, angry with my own eyes.

My grief had become less theatrical with time. That was what made it dangerous. In the beginning it had come like weather, loud enough that people could see it on me and step aside. Now it waited in ordinary places. A suitcase handle. A hospital smell. Some stranger offering to walk beside me. Thin stew at a boarding house table. A joke I wanted to tell a dead man.

I pressed my fingers beneath my eyes until the tears retreated.

“I’m not doing this tonight,” I whispered.

Of course, saying that never stopped anything.

I turned the page in my journal to an older entry without meaning to. The paper fell open where it had been opened many times before.

April, 1918.

Rain through canvas again. Took in twenty-three before dawn. Three abdominal, six gas, too many limbs to count properly. Sister Agnes slapped Private Warren when he tried to stand with his femur in pieces. I laughed afterward and then vomited behind the tent. Charles’s letter came, muddy at the corner. He says he dreams of toast with too much butter. I dreamed last night I could hear him calling from one of the stretchers and could not find him.

I shut the journal.

Too late.

My mind had already found the tent.

The candle flame leaned in a draft. Shadows moved over the walls. For a moment, the washstand became an instrument table. The blanket at the end of the bed became a stretcher. The dark coat hanging from the wardrobe became a man standing in the corner with half his face gone.

I stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.

Breathe.

The word was useless. Breathing was the problem.

I crossed to the basin and splashed cold water over my face. Once. Twice. The shock brought me back in pieces. My hands gripping porcelain. My hair falling loose. The floor cold enough to sting. Birmingham outside the window. Charles on the desk. The cigarette taste in my mouth.

I looked at my reflection in the small mirror above the washstand.

“You are in a room,” I told myself. “Second floor. Mrs. Hodge’s house. Birmingham. March, 1921.”

My reflection stared back, unconvinced.

“You are twenty-three years old.”

My voice broke on that one.

I tried again.

“You are twenty-three years old. You are a nurse. You worked today. You will work tomorrow.”

A sound came from outside. Quieter now. Wheels over stone, maybe. Or thunder too far away to matter.

I went back to the desk because lying down felt impossible. Studying was better. Studying gave the mind something to hold that did not bleed.

I opened one of my surgical texts and began reading by candlelight. Infection. Drainage. Fever patterns. The words lined up neatly, obedient little soldiers. I copied a note about abdominal rigidity, then another about antiseptic irrigation. My pen moved slower as the hour deepened. Somewhere in the house, a woman coughed again. I listened for the wetness of it, judged it without meaning to, then wrote more.

Around midnight, another distant crack sounded.

This one might have been a motor backfiring.

My body did not care.

The pen tore through the paper.

I sat frozen, ink blooming at the ruined point of the sentence.

No shouting followed. No boots. No cries for stretcher-bearers.

I waited anyway.

Minutes passed, or perhaps seconds disguised themselves as minutes. I could feel every beat of my pulse in my throat.

At last, I reached for another cigarette.

The room had grown cold with the window open, but I did not close it. Smoke needed somewhere to go. So did I.

I smoked and watched the city through the dark glass until my eyes stung. Birmingham looked almost peaceful from above if one ignored the sounds. Roofs gathered close together. Chimneys stood black against a blacker sky. A few lamps burned in upstairs rooms where other people fought their own private wars.

I wondered how many widows lived on this street.

I wondered how many men had come home from France and found they had brought the battlefield with them tucked under their minds.

I wondered whether the Shelby’s slept well in the city that spoke their name so carefully.

The thought came from nowhere and irritated me at once.

I did not need to wonder about dangerous men. I had work in the morning. I had Matron Hawthorne’s eyes, Edith’s dry approval, Mary’s warnings, patients with fevers, a boarding house with rules. I had enough to fill my mind without making room for a gangsters I had no business being around.

I finished the cigarette and returned to the journal.

Couldn’t sleep, I wrote.

Then stopped.

The sentence sat alone on the page, too honest and too small.

I added beneath it:

First night in Birmingham. Gunshots in the distance. Men fighting somewhere near Watery Lane. I thought of France more than once. I thought of Charles too. I smoked too much and studied because the body must eventually tire if the mind refuses mercy.

A pause.

Then:

I am afraid I will never sleep properly again.

The words looked shameful once written.

I almost crossed them out.

Instead, I left them.

There had been too much crossing out in my life already. Too many things softened for other people’s comfort. Father left became Father travelled for work when neighbours asked. Charles was blown apart somewhere in France became Charles did not make it home. I was terrified became I am fine.

Ink could keep the truth if my mouth would not.

Near two in the morning, the street quieted. Real quiet this time. The dangerous sort, though I was too tired by then to care what danger wanted from me.

I undressed from my dressing gown and returned to bed with cold feet and a head full of smoke. Charles’s photograph remained on the desk. I did not turn it away. I needed him there, even if looking at him hurt.

The mattress creaked as I lay down.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling until shapes began to blur. A cart rolled somewhere distant. A dog barked once. The woman beyond the wall coughed into cloth.

My last thought before sleep finally came was of the station.

Steam with noise. And a stranger’s voice asking whether I was lost.

I had said no.

I wondered, as Birmingham dragged me under, whether that had been my first lie in this city.

Or only the first one anyone had heard.

Taglist opened.

STILL | CHAPTER 27

CW: Little Angst, miss-communication, reality of loving a celebrity, mention of grief and loss, vulnerable Pedro. Not much on this one, but we're heading to the end.

11.5K words

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

27 - Neruda

PEDRO'S POV

The weather had shifted again. Spring trying to claw its way through the cold, running later than any place I've ever been.

I woke up to that grey-blue Calgary sky that never seemed to fully decide what it wanted. Rain, snow, sunlight — everything just hung there together.

A few more days and we were heading to Grand Prairie for the last stretch of shooting, that damn hospital scene that I know for a fact will take everything left from me. One more week after that and we’d be wrapping the whole year of shooting.

It honestly felt both, a long time coming, and too early at the same time. I should’ve felt lighter about finishing it. Instead, it felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff.

She was already awake when I got back from the call sheet meeting. Her camera bag sat open on the couch, gear spread around her in neat little systems only she understood. Batteries lined in rows. Lenses cleaned spotless. Memory cards stacked beside her coffee cup.

She looked up when I walked in, but only for a second.

“Hey.”

My keys hit the bowl by the door with a sharp little clink. She went back to packing almost immediately.

“You ready for Grand Prairie?”

“Almost.” She spoke as someone who's too focused to talk. “Think I’m missing only a charger.”

“You want me to steal one from base camp?”

“I’ve got it.”

Too fast.

I stood there a second longer than I meant to. Watching her move around the apartment without really settling anywhere. Her shoulders were tight, with a mouth pressed thin. I knew that look on her. She got like that when something was chewing at her and she didn’t know how to spit it out yet.

Lately, it’d been happening more.

“I was thinking maybe after wrap party we could disappear for a few days,” I said carefully. “Before everything gets insane again.”

She paused with her back to me.

“I don’t think I can afford that.”

Something in my chest tightened a little. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Meetings. Calls. Stuff coming in.”

“That Berlin project?”

“And Finland.” She finally looked over at me. “And some U.S. stuff now, apparently.”

“That’s good, though, right?”

“I don't know.”

There was no excitement in her tone, not a single drop of that feeling of doing something right. If anything, she sounded tired.

I walked farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet mostly so I had something to do with my hands.

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“That’s not it.” She rubbed at her forehead briefly. “It’s just… everything’s moving really fast all of a sudden.”

I leaned against the counter. “You mean work?”

Another shrug.

“Work, travel...” She looked down at the strap in her hands. “Us.”

There it was.

That quiet dread of a feeling I've seen on her in passing. But lately, there was more to it, always afraid of something breaking.

I looked away first, jaw tightening before I could stop it. Filled my glass from the sink.

Behind me, I heard her sigh softly.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

I took a drink and a deep breath. A few seconds passed before she spoke again.

“Sue talked to me yesterday.”

My hand stopped halfway to the counter.

“She... What?”

“At lunch.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “It wasn’t a big thing.”

I turned toward her slowly. “What did she say?”

“She just…” Her shoulders lifted helplessly. “She said some stuff about being realistic.”

My stomach dropped immediately.

“Realistic how?”

“She said people get caught up when they work together. That proximity makes things feel more intense than they actually are and—”

She stopped herself. Didn’t need to finish.

I set the glass down harder than I meant to.

“She actually said that to you?”

“She wasn’t rude, Pedro.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I think it was the sharp edge my words came out with, the room went quiet after that. Tense in that awful way where you can feel something bigger sitting underneath the conversation, waiting for somebody to touch that ugly monster hiding under the bed, just waiting for the wrong moment.

She looked down at her sleeve, thumb worrying at the cuff.

“I didn’t really listen at first,” she said quietly.

“But now you are.”

Her face shifted a little at that. Guilt maybe, or just frustration. Could Probably be both too.

I could see it happening in real time — whatever she’d been carrying around the last few days finally climbing up her throat.

And suddenly I didn’t want to hear it anymore.

I already knew it was going to hurt both of us if she let it out.

She opened her mouth like she was about to say something.

Then stopped.

A small shrug. Showing me that she was exhausted with herself for even bringing it up.

“Forget it,” she muttered.

I stared at her for another second, waiting. But she turned back to her camera bag instead. Safer to be busy.

And I let it die there.

Mostly because I was too tired to figure out how to save the conversation once it started breaking apart.

***

Two days in Grand Prairie and I was ready to call out of it. Even with the show being 95% done by now, the hardest and the most emotional part on my end was this hospital scene. It all leads to this.

Two days of stunts giving me headaches, freezing and dark corridors of this abandoned hospital, sixteen-hour shoots and catering coffee that tasted burnt no matter how much sugar you drowned it in.

Two days of sleeping in the same bed with her without really sleeping together.

By the time we got back to the room that night, my whole body hurt. Hers too, probably. She dropped her camera bag beside the little desk with a tired clatter and immediately started pulling memory cards from her jacket pockets.

Work mode.

Always work mode lately.

I shut the door behind me and watched her move around the room for a second.

No kiss hello.

No hand on my back.

Nothing.

Just that pure exhaustion hanging between us like wet clothes.

“You ate today?” I asked finally.

“Mhm.”

That probably meant no.

She crouched beside her bag, digging for a charger, shoulders tight beneath the hoodie she’d stolen from me weeks ago and never given back.

I stepped closer automatically, reaching for her jacket where it had twisted beneath the strap.

She flinched enough for it to sting inside of me. A knife straight into my ribs with such a small movement.

My hand dropped , and suddenly I was too tired of pretending I didn’t feel it anymore.

“Okay,” I said tiredly. “What’s going on?”

She froze for half a second before going back to the bag again.

“Nothing.”

“C’mon now.”

Another silence, then a sigh.

Exhausted don't even begin to cover or state right now. But we had to go over this. We had to.

“You already know what’s going on.”

I leaned back against the dresser, rubbing a hand over my face. “I know Sue talked to you. I don’t know what she said.”

The way I pointed it out made her finally look at me.

Her eyes looked wrecked. Red around the edges. She’d probably slept four hours total in the last two days.

“Already told you, she just…” She swallowed buying time to find the words. “She said we should be realistic, that's it.”

I let out a humorless laugh under my breath.

“Jesus Christ.”

“She wasn’t trying to be cruel.”

“That’s generous.”

“She wasn’t.” Her voice sharpened slightly, defensively. “She was talking about the industry. About schedules and distance and—”

“And what? Me suddenly forgetting I love you because filming ends in a couple of weeks?”

The second it came out, I regretted how harsh I sounded.

Her expression shifted immediately. Hurt written all over her face.

“That’s not what I fucking said.” She spat, also harsh, protective.

I looked away first.

The room felt too small all of a sudden. Hampton Inn hotel room, boots by the door, damp jackets hanging from the heater, our stuff in different places all at once.

I could feel us getting lost in this conversation already.

“Sue only said people get attached when they work together,” She explained again, with more bite to her worlds than she had the last time we had this same argument. “That proximity makes things feel bigger than they are.”

“And you believe that?”

“I don’t fucking know, Pedro.”

Those words echoed inside the room, followed by a silence none of us wanted.

We were tired enough to be honest. Too honest.

She sat down slowly on the edge of the other bed, elbows on her knees.

“I’ve worked too damn hard for my career to disappear into somebody else’s life.”

“You think that’s what I want from you?”

“No.” She shook her head immediately. “No, that’s not—”

“Because it kinda sounds like that.”

“That’s not fair.”

I laughed once, no humor behind it, of course.

“Yeah? Neither is having my agent telling my girlfriend I’m eventually gonna leave her because my schedule gets busy.”

Her jaw tightened.

“She’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

I watched her fold into herself a little. Arms crossing tight over her chest like she was trying to physically hold everything in place. And suddenly she looked less angry, and more scared.

“I just…” Her voice cracked softly. “I don’t wanna build my life around someone and wake up one day realizing I was the easy thing to let go of.”

Silence.

Real, painful silence this time. Because I knew that fear didn’t start with my agent at that lunch meeting they had, no, Sue just gave it words.

I sat down slowly across from her, elbows on my knees mirroring hers.

“You really think I’d do that to you?”

She stared at the carpet, not able to meet my eyes.

“I think people mean things when they say them,” she whispered. “And then life gets complicated.”

Those words cuts through me when I'm not expecting. Maybe because part of me knew she wasn’t really talking about me anymore. She was talking about every person who’d ever made love feel temporary.

I looked at her for a long second before speaking again.

“You let somebody who barely knows my personal life tell you who I am.”

Her face tightened immediately.

“I know.”

“But you didn’t come to me.” My voice dropped quieter now. Trying to reach her in that dark place her mind made up. “You just started disappearing on me.”

That finally made her eyes lift to mine, and there she was again underneath all of it.

Scared. Exhausted. Loving me anyway.

“I didn’t know how to say it without sounding insane.”

“You could’ve sounded insane.”

A weak breath of a laugh escaped her then. Barely there, but enough for me to relax a little more.

My hands almost reached for her.

Almost.

But someone knocked twice before immediately pushing the door open.

Kate stepped inside holding a laptop against her chest, already talking before she fully looked up.

“I need you downstairs for the edit—”

She stopped.

Her eyes flicked between us once. Reading a lot ins just our body language.

“Oh,” Kate said carefully.

Neither of us answered.

Kate shifted the laptop awkwardly against her hip. “Sorry. I didn’t know you guys were…”

Fighting?

Nobody said it out loud.

Eyes still on Kate I felt the shift of my girl pushing herself up from the bed first, scrubbing both hands over her face.

“I’m coming,” she muttered.

Kate looked at her for another second too long. Concern written all over her face now.

“I can wait..."

“No need, I'm coming.”

Kate nodded, some embarrassment clinging to her expression as she watched her best friend gather her stuff around our room.

“We still have to go through yesterday’s hospital stuff before production sends selects. Don't wait for me."

Right.

More work.

More hours.

More avoiding each other while standing five feet apart all day.

I watched her pull her hoodie sleeves over her hands without looking at me once. Somehow that hurt worse than the argument itself.

When she reached the door, she finally paused. Kate already gone from there, no audience, but she still didn't turn to me to say it. Just stood there with her hand on the knob.

“I wasn't lying, I do love you, you know...” she said quietly.

Then she left before I could answer.

***

I’ve never hated silence this much before.

Don't get me wrong, we still talk, mostly about call times, weather delays, or which road production wants blocked off next. She still hands me coffee when catering runs out before I get there. I still reach for her instinctively when we’re crossing those dark hospital corridors in between setups.

But everything feels half a second off now.

Like we’re both thinking too hard before touching each other.

She's been looking at me like loving me scared her more than losing me.

She keeps working like nothing’s wrong, when everything is.

That’s the worst part.

Camera always hanging around her neck, hair shoved up messily. Fingers moving nonstop — changing lenses, adjusting settings, wiping dust off equipment with the sleeve of her jacket because she’s too tired to look for a cloth.

Nobody else would notice anything.

But I do.

I notice she doesn’t lean against me while playback resets anymore.

I notice she walks back to the trailers with crew instead of waiting for me.

I notice every tiny thing she stops doing, and I still try to act normal. Still joke around between takes. Still run my stunts around, even though I shouldn't be doing them, but I'm too stubborn. Still sit with everyone at lunch pretending my stomach doesn’t feel permanently twisted.

Some part of me is waiting all day.

Waiting for her to look at me the way she did before Sue talked to her.

A look of recognition that I was her home, her safe place.

Around noon, Kate drops down beside me on an apple box near catering, unwrapping a protein bar with her teeth.

She watches me for a second too long before speaking.

“You look like shit.”

I let out a tired laugh through my nose. “Good afternoon to you too.”

“I’m serious.” She nudges my knee lightly with her boot. “What’s going on with you two?”

I glance automatically across set.

She’s near the monitors with one of the lighting guys, reviewing stills on the back of her camera. Focused enough, professional as hell, and somehow the most beautiful human being to exist.

But she was too far away.

“Nothing,” I say.

Kate snorts immediately.

“Pedro.”

That tone right there — best friend tone. The one that says don’t insult my intelligence.

I look down at the sandwich in my hands. Suddenly not hungry anymore.

“We’re just tired.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We are.” My voice comes out too quickly "this last stretch is wearing us out."

Kate studies me for another second.

Then softer:

“You guys haven’t looked at each other properly in like… four days?”

Yup, that tracks. Kate's right.

We’ve looked around each other. Through each other. Past each other. But not really at each other lately.

I scrub a hand over my mouth, exhausted down to the bone.

“It’s complicated.”

Kate sighs quietly beside me, folding the wrapper in half between her fingers.

“Did she tell you what Sue said?”

Part of me wants to pretend I don’t know what she means.

I’m too tired for that too.

“Some of it.”

Kate mutters something under her breath that definitely sounds like a curse. Then she glances back toward her best friend again, expression tightening slightly.

“She’s scared,” she says finally.

“I know.”

“No, I mean really scared.” Kate looks back at me. “You know how she gets when something matters too much.”

Yeah. I do know how she gets, and maybe that was the problem.

Because suddenly I understood that none of this distance was coming from her loving me less. It was coming from her loving me enough for it to terrify her.

Kate bumps my shoulder lightly.

“Just don’t let her sit in her own head too long,” she says. “That place is dangerous.”

Then production calls my name from somewhere behind us and she pushes herself back up with a groan. Conversation interrupted is something Kate hates more than anything.

“Also, seriously,” she adds, pointing at me as she walks backwards away from me, “you look deeply terrifying right now. This whole Joel look mixed with Pedro who's in a middle of a fight will do numbers on television.”

I laugh despite myself. A real one this time.

Only Kate can get something like that from me at the moment.

Across set, her eyes flick toward me automatically at the sound.

Just for a second.

***

Bella notices next.

Of course they do.

They’re sitting outside the waiting area between setups with their that awful hospital gown and one earbud hanging loose, pretending to scroll through their phone while quietly tracking every person around them like a tiny exhausted detective.

I just finished one stunt scene, there's still fake blood hanging on my clothes and my skin, but I don't care, just head over there mostly because my legs need a minute to stop hurting. The second I sit beside them with a groan, Bella glances sideways at me and immediately squints.

“You look deeply unwell.”

I laugh tiredly, rubbing both hands over my face before reaching for my water bottle. “That’s a horrible thing to say to someone.”

“I’m serious.” Their eyes narrow slightly. “You look like a divorced dad who forgot how to use happiness.”

Damn, that gets an actual laugh out of me, small and rough from exhaustion.

“Jesus Christ.”

Bella shrugs, entirely pleased with themself.

Around us, production is resetting lights for the next setup. Crew members stomp through cabes of lights carrying some other cables while somebody farther down the corridor swears loudly after dropping a case of equipment. Everything feels cramped lately — set ups, stunts, extras, crew all in one single small space.

I take a long drink of water and immediately realize Bella is still staring at me.

Studying.

“What?” I ask finally.

They hesitate for maybe half a second.

“Did you guys break up?”

I choke so hard on the water it burns the back of my throat.

Bella barely reacts.

“That bad, huh?” They mutter.

“We did not break up.”

“Okay.” They pull one knee up against their chest. “Then what’s happening?”

I look automatically across set before answering.

She’s standing near video village with her camera hanging against her chest, talking quietly to Craig and Neil while flipping through stills on the tiny screen. From far away she looks normal enough. Focused. Working. But even from here I can see how tired she is. The way she keeps shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The way her free hand keeps rubbing absentmindedly at the back of her neck between shots.

I know every version of her by now.

Including the ones nobody else notices.

“It's nothing,” I say finally.

Bella hums softly beside me, unconvinced.

“You handed her the battery that fell on the ground three hours ago like it was a hostage exchange.”

I look over at them slowly.

Bella lifts both hands innocently.

“I’m just saying. The vibes are bleak.”

Despite myself, my mouth twitches a little.

But the truth is they’re right.

Today somehow feels worse than the actual fight did.

At least the fight had emotion in it. Anger. Fear. The rawness of it all. But now it’s just this slow careful distance that keeps growing every time we don’t say what we actually need.

We still move around each other automatically all day long, but it feels different now. Hesitant. As if both of us are suddenly aware of every touch before it happens.

She stops at craft services only when I’m leaving.

I catch myself waiting before walking into rooms if I hear her voice inside them.

Nobody else notices it because nobody else knows us well enough to see the difference. To everyone on set we probably just look overworked, which honestly isn’t wrong. She’s barely slipping between production and meetings for projects after wrap, and I’ve spent so much time emotionally tangled up in my own head the last few days that I don’t even remember the last thing I ate.

Still, every now and then I catch her looking at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

And every single time it wrecks me a little.

Bella follows my gaze back toward her again.

“She looks sad,” They say quietly.

And that's the ugly truth. No matter what, the past few days, every time I look at her I see that same messy feeling. Even when she laughs now, it disappears too quickly afterward.

“Yeah,” I admit softly.

Bella leans back against the chair beside me, silent for a moment.

“You know in apocalypse stories the first thing that falls apart is always communication.”

I glance over at them.

Bella shrugs one shoulder.

“I’m just saying. Historically speaking, you two are making terrible survival choices right now.”

It's not funny, I know that. But we both laugh at the comparison. Genuine laugh.

Bella looks deeply satisfied by that small miracle.

“Okay, good,” they mutter. “You were starting to concern me on a spiritual level.”

Later that night after wrap, I found her sitting there wrapped in one of the blankets from the room with her MacBook open beside her on the metal railing near the ice machine, staring out into the parking lot like her brain had wandered somewhere too far away to come back quickly.

The hotel sign buzzed overhead, throwing that washed-out red-blue light over everything. It caught in the damp ends of her hair and painted tired shadows beneath her eyes. She still had one of my hoodies on underneath the blanket, sleeves pulled halfway over her hands.

For a second I just stood there watching her without saying anything.

I missed her even now, sitting right there.

The last few days had been full of almosts. Almost touching her. Almost saying something right. Almost reaching for her in all the little automatic ways my body still wanted to.

And every time I hesitated, the distance between us seemed to grow another inch.

She noticed me eventually.

Her head turned slightly in my direction, eyes tired but softer than they’d been earlier. No smile showed up, but she shifted a little on the railing, moving the laptop enough to make room beside her.

It was such a small thing, but still felt like relief.

I walked over quietly and sat beside her, the metal freezing even through my jeans.

“You’re gonna get hypothermia out here.”

That finally pulled the faintest hint of a smile from her mouth.

“Probably.”

The cold air turned our breath white between us for a second before disappearing.

I looked over at her properly then. Up close, she looked exhausted. Not just physically, but the exhaustion that settles into somebody after too many nights thinking instead of sleeping.

There were dark circles under her eyes she’d stopped bothering to cover by day three of this shoot. Her fingers kept tapping lightly against the edge of the laptop in restless little patterns, like her body didn’t know how to power down anymore.

“Why aren’t you inside?” I asked more quietly.

She stared out toward the empty road beyond the parking lot before answering.

“My brain won’t shut off.”

Yeah.

I knew that feeling too well.

Anxiety.

For a minute neither of us said anything. Somewhere down the road a truck engine groaned loudly before fading off into the distance again.

I wanted to touch her so badly my chest hurt with it.

Not even in some huge dramatic or sexual way.

I just wanted to take her hand.

Pull her sideways into me. Rub warmth back into her fingers. Kiss the tired space between her eyebrows that only showed up when she was overwhelmed.

I wanted us back fully.

Instead I looked down at the laptop screen beside her.

“What’re you working on?”

“Berlin schedule and budget before the next meeting.”

The answer came carefully.

As if she was testing whether saying those words out loud would hurt me. And suddenly that hurt worse than the project and the distance themselves ever could.

Because somewhere along the line, she’d started treating her future like something she needed to soften around me.

I leaned back slightly against the railing, trying not to let any of that show on my face.

“That’s good,” I said quietly.

She nodded once but didn’t look convinced.

We were two exhausted people sitting shoulder to shoulder while too many unspoken things crowded the air around them, so there was some silence.

Her blanket shifted slightly in the wind and without thinking, I reached over to pull it more securely around her shoulders.

The movement made both of us pause for half a second.

The automatic feeling I have to protect her was still here. And it felt good to let her see that.

Her eyes lifted to mine then, softer now. Tired enough to stop pretending she didn’t miss me too.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

I nodded once.

My hand stayed there for a second too long before dropping back into my lap.

After another minute, she finally closed the laptop with a tired sigh and leaned back beside me. Her shoulder brushing mine lightly.

Neither of us moved away from it this time.

And somehow that tiny bit of contact felt bigger than every conversation we’d failed to have all week.

READER'S POV

I still don’t know why I said yes to lunch.

Maybe because part of me was curious.

Maybe because another part of me was tired of feeling like I was constantly being evaluated by people who already thought they knew exactly who I was.

Sue had never been openly rude to me. Neither had Franklin. That was the thing about them — they were too polished for cruelty to ever look obvious.

But there’d been moments over the last few months that stayed under my skin longer than they should’ve.

Rejected stills over microscopic details nobody else cared about. Last-minute requests for reshoots after HBO had already approved selects. Tiny notes buried in emails that somehow always managed to make me feel young, inexperienced, temporary.

Never enough to call it personal.

Always enough to feel it.

So when Sue stopped beside me outside basecamp that afternoon and asked if I wanted to grab lunch before afternoon call, I think part of me thought maybe this was her extending an olive branch.

Or maybe I just wanted her to finally see me as more than the girl sleeping with her client.

“There’s a little Italian place nearby,” she’d said while slipping sunglasses onto her head. “Quiet. And they make decent coffee, which is apparently impossible in this city.”

I remember laughing at that.

And then, somehow, saying yes.

The restaurant was tucked between a pharmacy and a bookstore a few blocks off set. Warm inside. Low lighting. Dark wood tables scratched with years of use. The kind of place that tried to feel casual while still charging twenty dollars for pasta.

Sue looked perfectly at home there.

Everything about her always seemed carefully assembled without appearing overly done. Cream blouse. Gold jewelry. That expensive kind of minimal makeup that somehow made people look genetically superior instead of professionally styled.

Meanwhile I still smelled faintly like fake blood and set mud.

I caught myself trying to wipe dirt from beneath my nails before she noticed.

That annoyed me immediately.

The waitress recognized Sue within seconds, though not in a celebrity way. More like the kind of recognition people reserve for women who seem important.

Sue smiled politely, ordered sparkling water with lemon, then turned her attention fully onto me in a way that immediately felt disarming.

She asked about the stills from episode eight first. Told me she’d seen some of the winter shots from that one and liked the way I framed isolation inside wide landscapes.

Actual technical observations.

I remember blinking at her for a second because most people outside photography talked about my work like they were describing wallpaper.

“Your composition’s gotten stronger since the beginning of the show,” she said while unfolding her napkin across her lap. “You’re letting moments breathe more now.”

And stupidly, embarrassingly, I felt proud hearing that from her.

Because she’s someone who has been in this field longer than I have, and she knows what success looks like. Sue was one of those women who walked into rooms already knowing exactly how much power she had inside them.

“You’ve been looking at my work that closely?” I asked, trying to sound lighter than I felt.

Sue smiled slightly over the rim of her glass.

“Well, yes. It’s part of my job to know what’s surrounding Pedro.”

There it was.

Subtle enough to almost miss.

I smiled anyway.

We ordered food after that. I got wine mostly because suddenly I felt nervous in a way I couldn’t explain. Sue didn’t drink.

“If I start before three, somebody from HBO’s getting verbally assaulted by dinner,” she said dryly.

That got a real laugh out of me.

And honestly, for a while, lunch felt… nice.

That was the dangerous part.

She asked about what was next for me. What the future holds for the award winner. I told her the future still looks a little uncertain, that I’m still choosing.

Most people in this industry still treated my career like an accessory to whatever production I happened to be standing beside. Sue talked about it like it had weight. Like it existed independently from anybody else.

Like I existed independently from anybody else.

“You’re at an interesting point right now,” she said eventually, twirling pasta slowly against her fork. “Your name’s starting to circulate in rooms that matter.”

I tried to shrug it off casually even though my stomach tightened immediately.

“Maybe.”

“No, definitely.” Her eyes lifted to mine evenly. “You’ve got instincts people can’t teach.”

That one got to me, or better: That got to my head. My artist mind filling itself with that dangerous ego.

Because I’d spent so many years clawing my way into rooms where nobody took still photographers seriously to begin with, let alone young women without decades of credits behind them.

And suddenly here was someone powerful treating me like an artist instead of an attachment.

I think that was the moment my guard really dropped.

By the time she finally brought Pedro into the conversation, I’d already forgotten to protect myself properly.

“So,” she said lightly, setting her glass down empty. “How are you two handling all this?”

The question caught me off guard enough that I paused halfway through reaching for my drink.

“All this?”

“The secrecy, and schedules.” A small shrug. “The fact that his life’s about to become completely unmanageable.”

It didn’t feel like an attack, not with that smooth and gentle tone. Almost like she really cared about how we’d survive what’s next.

I stared down into my wine for a second before answering.

“We’re figuring it out.”

Sue nodded slowly like she understood more than I was saying.

“I imagine that gets complicated.”

I thought immediately of December.

A blurry picture leaking into the press and suddenly I was transformed into the secret girlfriend. Everything around me that time was focus on the mystery.

I didn’t even asked him how much they spent trying to manage the damage done by one brief kiss at the airport.

“We’ve been careful,” I said quietly.

“You have,” Sue agreed.

Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten.

“He’s getting pulled in a lot of directions right now,” she continued carefully. “I’m pretty sure he already told you about Marvel wanting him. Studios and directors want him. Every network suddenly wants meetings.” Her eyes stayed on mine. “And your career’s taking off at exactly the same time.”

My fucking mind started the works right then. The possibilities, and all the paths ahead of me and my career. Everything felt real now. A good four to five months of my year swallowed by productions that wanted me.

For the first time in my life, people were asking for me specifically.

“I’m not asking him to choose between things,” I said finally, deflecting and defensive all at once.

“I know you’re not.”

Again, so soft you could almost miss it.

That was what made her dangerous.

Sue leaned back slightly in her chair then, studying me with an expression I still can’t fully explain even now.

“You know what I think?” she asked quietly.

I should’ve shut the conversation down there.

Instead I sat there waiting for her answer, curious enough to get hurt.

“I think you’ve worked very hard to become somebody on your own.” Her voice stayed calm and warm and impossibly measured. “And I’d hate to see you disappear into someone else’s orbit right when the industry’s finally starting to see you clearly.”

A red alert was lit up right there inside my mind. None of those words were new to me, but when someone spoke them so clearly, it finally set something off inside of me.

Because I was already afraid they might become true someday.

And Sue saw it happen on my face too.

That was the worst part.

She fucking got what she came here for.

When lunch came to the end, she offered to pay the whole bill, and we were talking about lenses and festival circuits again as if nothing had happened.

I cursed my stubborness. So dumb for nothing, letting some stranger get inside my mind like that.

I felt the shift when I spotted Pedro laughing beside one of the trucks, sunglasses on, curls pushed back by the wind.

Usually seeing him made my whole body soften automatically.

That day, something else slipped in too.

Fear of how much I suddenly had to lose.

***

I spent most of the morning of my day off wandering around Grand Prairie with my camera hanging uselessly against my chest.

Pretending to be out to exercise my creativity. Pretending I was doing something photography related.

Really, I was just trying to figure out how the hell to fix what I broke.

The town was quiet in a way Calgary never was. Empty sidewalks. Wet pavement from the rain early that day. Little stores with handwritten signs in the windows and pickup trucks parked crooked outside cafés.

Everything felt slow here.

Meanwhile my brain hadn’t shut up in three days.

Everywhere I looked, I kept seeing him.

A jacket he would've made fun of. A bakery window he would've stopped at immediately because he had the appetite of a tired teenage boy whenever we worked long shoots. A dog tied outside the grocery store that would've had him crouched on the sidewalk making baby voices within seconds.

And underneath all of it was this awful realization slowly clawing its way up my throat:

I missed him even when he was standing five feet away from me.

I missed him all the time now.

By the time I wandered onto Main Street, my hands were freezing around the camera I’d barely used all morning.

I’d spent the last hour pretending I was out looking for compositions, but every time I lifted the camera to my eye, my brain drifted somewhere else entirely. Toward him, in that hotel room… Toward the horrible expression on his face the night we fought.

It hit me all at once then, standing outside some tiny pharmacy while cold wind pushed at my jacket:

I didn’t know how to exist in my life anymore without automatically making space for him inside it.

Like my days had quietly rearranged themselves around loving him when I wasn’t paying attention.

By the time I reached the bookstore near the corner, I knew I was looking for something that would’ve say: I’m sorry for hurting you.

The little cart outside was overflowing with secondhand paperbacks swollen from weather and age, pages yellowed and curling at the corners. The whole thing smelled faintly like damp paper and dust warmed by old heaters.

I almost walked past it.

Then I saw the Neruda book tucked sideways beneath a stack of cracked mystery novels.

The cover was soft with wear, faded blue around the edges, Spanish printed beside English in uneven lettering.

And immediately I thought about Pedro half-asleep beside me after long shoot days, slipping into Spanish without realizing it whenever he got tired enough.

The way his voice changed when he spoke it.

Softer somehow.

More unguarded.

I picked the book up carefully, running my thumb along the bent spine.

It felt like him.

Not polished Pedro. Not actor Pedro.

The real one.

The one who read over my shoulder in bed. The one who kissed my forehead absentmindedly while answering emails. The one who looked at me like I was something fragile whenever I got overwhelmed and tried pretending I wasn’t.

Before I could overthink myself out of it, I carried the book inside.

The woman working the register barely glanced up while ringing me through. Some old folk song crackled quietly through a radio behind her while she dropped the book into a paper bag.

“You from the production?” she asked casually.

“Yeah.”

She nodded like that explained everything.

Outside again, the cold hit my face immediately, but I barely noticed it this time.

Because suddenly I was terrified.

Not of him.

That was the thing.

Pedro almost never raised his voice. Even angry, he tried to understand people before he reacted to them. Sometimes to a fault.

No, what scared me was walking back into that room and seeing distance in his face again.

Seeing resignation.

Like he’d started preparing himself for me leaving already.

I reached our room, my stomach in knots so tight I thought I might actually throw up.

One minute long of thinking about opening that door. I stood there longer than I should have, fingers curled around the paper bag hard enough to wrinkle it.

Inside, I could hear the ac unit rattling faintly through the wall.

For one ridiculous second, I almost turned around.

Then I thought about sleeping another night beside him without really touching him and suddenly that felt unbearable.

So I finally pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside.

The curtains were mostly shut, thin afternoon light spilling through the gaps in pale stripes across the carpet and bedspread. Pedro was lying on top of the blankets fully dressed, one arm thrown over his eyes, boots still on like he’d laid down for a second and never found the energy to move back up again.

And God, the second I saw him, every wall I’d spent days building around myself started collapsing at once.

I closed the hotel door quietly behind me, careful with the handle out of habit more than necessity.

Pedro shifted slightly on the bed at the sound, one arm still thrown over his eyes, boots hanging halfway off the mattress like he’d laid down intending to rest for five minutes and never found the energy to move again. The room smelled faintly like damp jackets and the stale motel heater humming near the window.

For a second I just stood there looking at him.

The last few days had done something to both of us. I could see it now that I wasn’t busy defending myself against every feeling I had. There was tension sitting heavily in his shoulders, exhaustion carved beneath his eyes. Even asleep — or close to it — he looked like somebody bracing for impact.

And the worst part was knowing I’d put some of that there.

“Hey,” I said softly.

His arm moved enough for him to look at me. “Hey.”

Jesus, his voice.

Still warm and gentle, even after everything.

I crossed the room slowly and sat down near his legs, the mattress dipping beneath me. Pedro shifted automatically to make space without even thinking about it. Some habits between us had become muscle memory by now.

For a few seconds neither of us really spoke. I could hear the television from another room bleeding faintly through the wall and the sound of tires moving slowly over wet pavement outside.

“I walked around town for a while,” I said finally.

Pedro rubbed a hand over his face before looking at me properly. “Find anything exciting?”

I huffed out the smallest laugh. “Depends. Do you consider hypothermia exciting?”

That earned me the faintest smile. Tired, but real enough to soften something inside my chest immediately.

“There’s apparently an alarming number of antique stores in this city,” I added. “Which feels unnecessary for a town this size.”

“Maybe old people just really thrive here.”

“Possible.”

The smile lingered another second before fading again, though not completely this time. He pushed himself up a little against the pillows, attention settling fully onto me now in a way that made my stomach tighten.

I held the paper bag out toward him carefully.

His eyes dropped to it first, then back to me with quiet confusion before he finally reached for it. Our fingers brushed when he took the book from my hands and neither of us pulled away quickly enough to pretend we hadn’t both noticed it.

Pedro glanced down at the cover.

Movements stilled.

“Neruda,” he murmured, thumb dragging lightly across the worn spine.

I nodded. “I saw it outside this bookstore and immediately thought of you.”

His expression shifted at that. Small. Almost impossible to catch if I didn’t know him so well by now.

“Why?”

“You still see beauty even in the darkest places.”

Pedro looked back down at the book, quieter suddenly. More careful with it than something secondhand probably deserved.

“And also,” I added softly. “I remembered you mentioning your mom liked him.”

For a second he didn’t answer. He just opened the book slowly near the middle, eyes scanning the pages without really reading them.

Then he exhaled through his nose and leaned his head back against the wall behind the bed.

“I haven’t seen this one in years.”

Something about the way he said it made a strong sad feeling lodged inside my chest.

Not because it sounded nostalgic. This memory of his felt too personal.

I watched his fingers moving absently over the pages while I tried to gather the courage to say the thing I should’ve said days ago.

All the rehearsed versions disappeared the second I opened my mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

Pedro’s eyes lifted to mine immediately.

The room suddenly felt very small.

“I think…” I stopped, rubbing my hands together nervously before trying again. “I think I got so scared of needing you this much that I started pulling away before you ever had the chance to hurt me.”

The words sounded ugly out loud. Honest in the worst way.

Pedro stayed very still across from me, listening so carefully it almost made me emotional all over again.

“I didn’t even realize I was doing it at first,” I admitted quietly. “I just kept hearing all this stuff in my head about timing and distance and careers and eventually it turned into…” I shook my head helplessly. “Whatever the hell the last few days were.”

He swallowed once before answering.

“You made me feel like you were already leaving.”

There wasn’t accusation in his voice. Just hurt and the kind of helplessness that comes with not knowing what to do.

I looked down at my hands immediately because I couldn’t stand the expression on his face for another second.

“I know.”

The silence after that stretched long enough that I could hear the ac click loudly behind us.

Then I felt the bed shift a little.

Pedro moved closer slowly, elbows resting on his knees now, the book still hanging loose in one hand.

“You know what the worst part was?” he asked quietly.

I looked up again.

He gave this small exhausted shake of his head before continuing.

“I understood why you were scared.” His eyes stayed on mine. “That’s what killed me.”

Damn.

Something inside me cracked open completely at that.

Because of course he understood.

Pedro understood people too easily sometimes. Even when they were hurting him.

“I kept thinking maybe if I pushed too hard to fix it, you’d disappear even faster,” he admitted, voice rougher now. “So I didn’t know what to do except stand there and watch you get farther away from me every day.”

My eyes burned instantly.

Without thinking, I reached for him then. Both hands wrapping around his wrist first before sliding down to lace through his fingers.

Pedro let out the smallest breath the second I touched him.

Relief in it’s purest form.

His hand closed around mine immediately like his body had been waiting for permission.

“I missed you so much,” I whispered.

That finally pulled a real expression out of him. Pain, affection, exhaustion — all tangled together across his face at once.

“I was right here,” he said softly.

“I know.”

And that was exactly why it felt so awful.

Because he had been right there beside me the entire time while I let fear turn him into something distant in my head.

Pedro’s thumb moved slowly across the back of my hand while he watched me for another long second.

Then, carefully, like he still wasn’t fully convinced I wouldn’t pull away again, he reached up and touched my face.

His palm was warm against my cheek.

“You’re freezing, Cariño” he murmured automatically, brushing his thumb beneath my eye where tears had started gathering again without me noticing.

The tenderness in that simple sentence nearly undid me.

I leaned into his hand before I could stop myself, eyes closing for half a second at the familiar feeling of him touching me like something precious.

“I love you,” I whispered.

The words came out quietly. Like breathing.

Pedro shut his eyes briefly after I said it, forehead dropping forward for a second like he physically felt the impact of hearing it again after the last few days.

Then he looked at me and kissed me.

Slowly at first.

Carefully enough that I could feel the hesitation still lingering between us, the leftover fear, the uncertainty about whether we were fully okay yet.

But the second my hand slid into his curls and his mouth softened against mine, something between us finally gave way.

The tension was no longer a thing. That distance becoming less and less threatening.

Pedro made this quiet sound against my mouth that wrecked me instantly, one arm pulling me into him hard enough that I nearly lost balance climbing fully into his lap.

And suddenly we were kissing like people who had spent days pretending they didn’t need each other quite this badly.

His hands kept moving like he was reassuring himself I was really there — my waist, my back, my hair, my face — while I held onto him just as tightly, forehead knocking against his once when we both laughed breathlessly into the kiss.

When we finally pulled apart, neither of us moved very far.

Pedro rested his forehead against mine, breathing unevenly, one hand still cupping the back of my neck.

I was home, safe. Finally.

After that desperate kiss, he kept turning the book over in his hands, thumb moving slowly along the softened edges of the cover while I stayed tucked against him beneath the blankets. The motel room had gone dim around us at some point.

For a while we just stayed there tangled together quietly, my head resting against his shoulder while his fingers drifted absentmindedly through the damp ends of my hair.

Then he smiled faintly down at the book again.

“You know,” he said, voice still rough and sleepy from everything we’d just cried through, “she used to read Neruda to us all the time.”

I lifted my head slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His eyes stayed on the pages as he opened the book carefully. “I haven’t held one of these in years.”

There was something in his expression I couldn’t fully place at first. Not sadness exactly. More like somebody brushing their hand over a scar they forgot was still there.

I shifted closer instinctively, one leg sliding over his beneath the blankets while my hand settled against the center of his chest. His heartbeat felt steady under my palm now. Calm again.

“I didn’t know that about you.”

Pedro let out a quiet laugh through his nose.

“There’s probably a lot you still don’t know about me.”

He said it lightly, but there was vulnerability underneath it that made me look at him more carefully.

He’d always shared pieces of himself slowly. Never because he was closed off or secretive — that wasn’t really him. Pedro loved loudly and very openly. But there were parts of him tied so tightly to childhood and grief and family that he handled them gently even in conversation.

“She loved poetry,” he said after a moment, fingertips pausing against one of the pages. “Especially Neruda. My mom used to read to us when things were rough at home.”

His arm tightened slightly around my waist while he spoke, pulling me in until my cheek rested fully against his chest. I could hear the low rumble of his voice through him before I even caught the words themselves.

“We’d all be sitting in the living room pretending we didn’t want to be there,” he continued with a softer smile. “Javiera would complain the loudest. Lux usually got emotional immediately.” He laughed quietly at the memory. “And Nicolás always acted deeply inconvenienced by feelings in general.”

I smiled against his shirt. “Sounds familiar somehow.”

“Oh, I was absolutely the worst of them,” Pedro admitted. “My poor mother had four dramatic children and a husband who encouraged all of us.”

“That explains a lot actually.”

He laughed again then, fuller this time, and I felt some of the heaviness between us finally loosen for real. The sound vibrated warm beneath my ear while his hand moved slowly up and down my back beneath the oversized hoodie I’d stolen from him weeks ago.

But after a minute the laughter faded naturally, leaving behind something quieter.

“There were periods after we moved where things got hard financially,” he said eventually, gaze drifting somewhere far past the hotel room walls now. “Hard enough that even as kids we could tell everybody was stressed all the time.”

His fingers kept tracing absentminded circles against my side while he spoke.

“My parents tried really hard to protect us from it. Especially my mom.” A small pause. “But kids notice everything. You hear conversations through walls. You hear your parents trying not to fight.”

Something tightened painfully in my chest hearing him talk like this. Maybe because I’d spent so long seeing the version of Pedro everybody else saw — charismatic, funny, impossible not to look at — that moments like these still caught me off guard sometimes.

The softness underneath him.

That shy little boy still living somewhere inside the man I love.

“She used to read when the house got heavy,” he said quietly. “Like she could pull everybody into another world for half an hour and let us breathe there instead.”

I stayed quiet, letting him move through the memory at his own pace.

Pedro looked down at the book again with this distant expression that made him suddenly look younger to me somehow.

“I think that’s probably where I got it from,” he admitted with a small shrug. “Acting. Storytelling. All of it. Watching somebody change the feeling in a room just by speaking.”

I don’t think he even realized how vulnerable he sounded in that moment.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe that was the point. He was letting me in.

I reached up slowly and brushed my fingers through the curls near the back of his neck, feeling him melt almost immediately beneath the touch.

“Will you read one to me?”

Pedro hesitated then, eyes flicking briefly back toward the pages.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because this mattered to him.

I could feel that now.

Then he nodded once and adjusted himself against the headboard, pulling me fully into his lap without even thinking about it. One arm wrapped securely around my waist while the other held the book open between us, his thumb resting near the spine.

Held.

That was the overwhelming feeling of it.

Held so carefully that my entire body started relaxing before my brain caught up.

Pedro cleared his throat softly before he started reading, and the second the words left his mouth, his whole voice changed.

Lower and slower.

His actor voice gone, as this was not a performance. This was something incredible intimate and private. Only for me this time.

“I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off…”

His accent thickened slightly around certain words, eyes drifting automatically toward the Spanish text whenever he lost rhythm in the English version. I could feel every line resonate through his chest beneath my cheek while his hand moved slowly against my side in unconscious patterns.

Outside, I could hear trucks somewhere on the highway and some people walking in that hotel, but all of it started fading behind the sound of him reading.

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

Emotion climbed slowly into my throat listening to him.

The poem itself was beautiful, sure. But I cried because this was him.

This was the most unguarded version of Pedro I’d ever been allowed to see.

No cameras around, no questions from interviews, no charming public version of himself carefully assembled for other people.

Just a tired man in a hotel room reading poetry the way his mother once read it to him when life felt frightening.

By the time he reached the final lines, my eyes were already wet.

“So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”

Neither of us spoke immediately afterward.

Pedro stayed still for a second with the book open in his lap while my fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt.

When I finally looked up at him, his eyes were already on me.

Open in a way that almost hurt to look at directly.

“Was that her favorite?” I asked softly.

He nodded once.

“Yeah. She used to read that one whenever one of us was sad.” A tired smile touched his mouth. “Which was often. We were an aggressively emotional household.”

I laughed quietly through some tears threatening falling again.

“I genuinely cannot imagine where you got that from.”

That earned me another small laugh, but it faded quickly this time.

Pedro looked back down at the book for a moment before speaking again, his thumb resting against the edge of the page.

“She made people feel safe,” he said quietly. “That was her thing. You could walk into a room completely wrecked and somehow leave feeling like maybe your life wasn’t ending after all.”

His voice shifted slightly on the last sentence.

Almost imperceptibly.

Still enough for me to hear the grief underneath it.

“I still miss her all the time,” he admitted.

The honesty of it hit me harder than anything else had.

No performance in the words. No attempt to make grief sound poetic or profound.

Just truth.

I touched his face carefully then, thumb brushing beneath his eye while he leaned into my hand in a way that immediately undid me.

“I wish I could’ve met her,” I whispered.

Pedro looked at me for a long moment after that, something soft and unbearably emotional moving across his face.

Then he smiled a little through it and said quietly:

“She would’ve loved you.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke me completely.

I buried my face against his neck immediately, laughing once through tears while Pedro wrapped both arms around me tightly enough that the book nearly slipped from his lap onto the bed beside us.

And somewhere in the middle of him holding me there — warm, exhausted, breathing softly against my hair — I realized relationships probably survived because of moments exactly like this.

Not the easy ones.

The moments where somebody trusted you enough to hand you the most fragile parts of themselves and believe you’d hold them gently.

After a while we gave up on pretending we were gonna leave the room again, it was already dark outside and the wind had picked up hard enough to make the hotel windows rattle every few minutes.

Pedro was sprawled across the bed beside me with his phone balanced on his stomach, scrolling through DoorDash with the concentration of somebody making life-altering decisions.

“This town has no good food,” he announced gravely.

“You’ve been saying that for two days.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

I laughed quietly into the pillow while he kept scrolling.

The truth was, I would’ve eaten cardboard at that point if it meant staying exactly where we were: Warm bodies tangled together again. Him absentmindedly rubbing circles into my hip through the blanket while some awful dating reality show played low in the background.

The relief of being back inside each other’s orbit felt almost physical. Like my whole body had unclenched without me realizing how tense I’d been.

Pedro suddenly sat up straighter beside me.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Burger King is open.”

I stared at him.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Whopper meal. Onion rings. Chicken fries.” He looked over at me with genuine excitement. “Baby, we’re healing.”

“That’s the most divorced man order I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re being classist.”

I snorted so hard I almost dropped my phone.

Pedro immediately looked pleased with himself for managing to pull the sound out of me.

That was the thing about him. Even during the worst parts of the last few days, I’d still catch him trying. Little jokes under his breath. Touching the back of my arm when he walked past me on set. Looking over to make sure I was eating when the days got too long.

Pedro couldn’t help loving people out loud.

Even hurt, he still reached.

Twenty minutes later we were sitting cross-legged in bed surrounded by crumpled Burger King wrappers while the TV still played that aggressive terrible reality show neither of us fully understood.

Pedro had stolen most of my fries already.

“You have your own.”

“They taste better from your container.”

“That’s literally impossible.”

“It’s emotional science.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the headboard while he reached over to steal another one anyway, grinning when I slapped his hand away too late.

Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows.

Inside, though, everything finally felt warm again.

Comfortably messy.

My bare legs tangled automatically with his beneath the blankets while he balanced a carton of onion rings against my knee and got increasingly emotionally invested in the reality show contestants.

“I’m telling you right now,” he said around a bite of burger, pointing toward the television, “that man is absolutely cheating.”

“You think everybody’s cheating.”

“Because everybody usually is.”

“You’re impossible.”

Pedro looked over at me then, eyes crinkling behind the stupid paper Burger King crown he’d found in the bottom of the bag and immediately decided to wear for the night.

I thought to myself: There he was.

The version of him I’d been missing so badly it physically hurt.

Not actor Pedro, not the public celebrity Pedro, or the friend people liked. Here he was just my boyfriend being ridiculous in a hotel room while eating fries in bed.

I laughed hard enough at one point that soda nearly came out of my nose, which only made Pedro laugh harder until both of us were half collapsing against each other under the blankets.

By the middle of the second episode I was stretched across his chest listening to his heartbeat while he played absently with my fingers between commentary about the show.

Every now and then he’d kiss the top of my head without interrupting whatever deeply serious opinion he had about reality television politics.

The ease between us started returning slowly after that.

Small pieces here and there, like the way my body stopped hesitating before touching him. The way he automatically tucked my feet beneath his legs because he knew they were always freezing. The way silence stopped feeling dangerous again.

Later, when we showered together, it felt less like passion and more like muscle memory returning.

The kind built slowly over months of shared hotel rooms and exhausted set nights.

I washed shampoo from his curls and after a while he stood behind me with his chin resting against my shoulder, warm water running down both of us while steam filled the tiny bathroom until the mirrors disappeared completely. At one point he reached around me to grab the soap and kissed the side of my neck absentmindedly in the middle of the movement, like his body had finally stopped second-guessing its way back toward mine.

There was something deeply intimate about that more than anything else.

The normalcy of it.

Knowing exactly how he liked the water temperature. Knowing he always forgot towels until the last second, or that he’d complain dramatically about hotel shampoo while still using half the bottle.

Almost a year together and loving him had settled into my body in hundreds of tiny habits I didn’t even notice anymore until I thought I might lose them.

By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, my skin was still warm from the shower and the room had gone soft and dim with only the bedside lamp left on.

Pedro was already back in bed in grey sweatpants, no shirt on and his glasses for the last time that day just to have a look at me. He was stretched against the pillows with his iPad balanced on his stomach.

The sight of him hit me with this sudden overwhelming wave of affection so strong I had to stop for a second.

Domestic looked stupidly good on him.

He glanced up immediately when I walked out wearing one of his old shirts, towel still draped around my shoulders while I rubbed at my wet hair.

“There she is,” he murmured.

The way he said it made warmth spread low in my chest.

“You planning on coming back to bed tonight,” he asked, “or have you decided to abandon me emotionally for European cinema?”

I snorted.

“That depends. Is Burger King Crown Pedro still with us?”

“Always.”

“Then maybe.”

Pedro smiled slowly at that, eyes warm behind the glasses.

I was halfway across the room toward him when my phone buzzed loudly on the desk.

A calendar reminder.

My stomach dropped immediately.

“Oh shit.”

Pedro lowered the iPad slightly. “What?”

“The Berlin call.” I grabbed my phone, already wincing at the time. “Fuck, I forgot this was tonight.”

Recognition crossed his face immediately.

“That one you told me the other day?”

“Mhm.” I exhaled slowly, reaching for my laptop now. “The Cannes director’s on the call.”

For a second I genuinely considered cancelling.

Not because I didn’t want the project.

Because after the last few days, sitting in this warm hotel bed beside him suddenly felt dangerously easy to get attached to.

The idea of talking about Berlin while his side of the bed was still warm behind me made my chest tighten in ways I didn’t fully want to examine yet.

Pedro watched me quietly for a second before setting the iPad aside.

“You should take it.”

I looked over at him.

“You sure?”

“Baby.” His voice softened immediately. “This is important.”

He cares about it, and that somehow made me love him even harder.

I settled at the little table near the window while Pedro switched the bedside lamp off, leaving the room lit mostly by the glow of my laptop screen.

The call connected almost immediately.

Three faces appeared onscreen.

The director first — sharp cheekbones, silver jewelry, impossibly cool in that effortless European way that should’ve been annoying but somehow wasn’t.

Beside her small window, sat the producer, older, calm, wearing round glasses and a sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

And then there was this guy from crew already on board for the project.

He has curly dark hair, with headphones crooked around his neck. Camera equipment stacked behind him like he’d forgotten he was supposed to look professional before joining the call.

The second he saw me appear onscreen, his entire face lit up.

“Oh thank fuck,” he said immediately. “You’re real.”

I blinked, caught off guard enough to laugh.

The producer sighed. “Harry’s been talking about your work for two weeks straight.”

“Because it’s incredible,” Harry cut in without shame. “Sorry, but the winter stills from that show ‘All that Remains’?” He shook his head dramatically. “Insane. I genuinely got angry after seeing them.”

I laughed again, embarrassed now.

Pedro glanced over from the bed at the sound, smiling faintly to himself before going back to pretending he wasn’t listening.

The conversation flowed easily after that.

They talked about the project for nearly an hour — the visual language they wanted, the intimacy of the story, the way they envisioned photography existing alongside movement instead of behind it.

Harry, especially, kept asking me questions about framing and emotional composition with the kind of intensity only another visual obsessive could have. He was the main camera for that project, dealing with all the technical part of the project.

At one point he actually got up to grab printed screenshots of my work from somewhere off camera.

“I told them there’s loneliness in your framing,” he said while holding one of the stills closer to the webcam. “But it’s never cold. That’s the thing. Your images still feel… loved.”

The comment hit the artist ego beneath myself. Because that was exactly what I was always trying to do.

Even in grief. Even in isolation. Find the humanity inside it.

By the time they started discussing logistics, my stomach had tightened completely.

Three months.

Berlin.

Meetings starting in June, right when we were going to shoot the last scene for this show.

A whole future unfolding in front of me while Pedro lay ten feet away in bed wearing glasses and waiting for me to come back under the blankets beside him.

When the call finally ended, I sat there for a second staring at my own reflection in the black laptop screen before slowly closing it.

The room felt quieter afterward.

Heavier somehow.

I turned toward the bed.

Pedro was still awake, lying on his side now with one arm tucked beneath his head watching me through the dark.

“You heard all that?”

“A little,” he admitted. “That guy Harry seems emotionally obsessed with you.”

I laughed softly despite myself and finally climbed back into bed beside him, immediately curling into the warmth of his body beneath the blankets.

Pedro took his glasses off, and opened his arm for me automatically.

The movement was so familiar now neither of us even thought about it anymore.

For a while he just played slowly with the damp ends of my hair while I listened to his heartbeat beneath my ear.

Then quietly:

“Three months is a long time.”

“Yeah.”

I tilted my head enough to look up at him. “You think I should do it?”

Pedro stayed quiet for a second before answering, his fingers still moving lazily through my hair.

“I think if you turn something like this down because of me,” he said carefully, “eventually it’ll hurt us anyway.”

That landed deep because I knew immediately he was right.

His hand slid slowly down my back beneath the oversized shirt.

“And I think you’d be incredible there,” he added more quietly.

Emotion climbed into my throat so fast it caught me off guard.

This was the thing nobody outside us really understood about us: Pedro had never once asked me to become smaller so he could feel bigger.

Even now.

Even while I could feel the sadness underneath his support.

“You’re very emotionally devastating when you’re mature,” I muttered against his chest.

That pulled a soft laugh out of him.

“Sorry.”

I pressed my body closer automatically, his warmth wrapping around me while rain kept tapping softly against the hotel windows outside.

And somewhere between his heartbeat under my ear and his fingers drifting sleepily along my spine, I realized I couldn’t picture my future anymore without him already living somewhere inside it.

Alright. I think we’re ready for the last chapter right? That’s one more and the epilogue. But I can totally see a second season coming up hahahaha.

Hope you guys stick around. I promise to try and be faster with those updates. Taglist: @kellyxo1 ; @joelmillerpascal ; @sarahhxx03 ; @sara-alonso ; @needz1nk ; @sassyispunk ; @flow33didontsmokeagain, @alixxhere

#pedro pascal #the last of us #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #production #rpf

STILL | CHAPTER 26

CW: Alternate POV's, Lux being the support our couple need. Uncomfortable situation, smut, welcome home sex, squirting, first time saying three little words, emotions running high, crempie, p-in-v, little bit of anal play. I think that covers most of it.

6.4K words

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26 - Welcome Home

PEDRO'S POV Of course she left something behind.

And I only found it because I was packing my bags to leave for L.A right after the New York Premiere.

Tucked between pages of a book she’d been flipping through — something about women photographers and film history — like she knew I’d open it eventually, and I almost missed it.

But there it was: a square of her handwriting, and one of the polaroids we’d shot in my kitchen back in Calgary in a night she made me laugh so hard I nearly dropped the wine bottle.

The photo wasn’t innocent.

Not explicit either, not really — but the way she looked at the lens, at me, with that smile, my shirt hanging off one of her shoulder, legs curled under her on the kitchen counter like she had nowhere else to be…

It knocked the air out of me.

The note underneath was brief. Her handwriting always danced across the page as if it had music behind it.

Just in case you start forgetting how good it feels when I’m at your place. — Your girl

I sat back on the edge of the couch, hand still holding the polaroid, heart doing too much inside my chest.

Jesus.

I’d been busy after she left. Had long meetings with my agents, talked to some producers and directors. Coco came by for fittings with too much caffeine and enough of our bond to make me forget some of my problems.

So far I was good, great even. I’ve done what I always do: compartmentalize. Tuck the feeling of missing her into a drawer so I could get through the day. And each day it worked.

But now she was in the apartment again. In the faint scent I sometimes smelled, that same lotion she has in her camera bag whenever she’s on sets being efficient as hell. And now I had her in this damn picture I couldn’t stop staring at.

I tilted it in the light, watching the soft edges of her outline glow.

Gone. So gone for her. I didn’t even try to deny it anymore.

It was the kind of feeling that made me stupid. That made me want to cancel everything and fly to wherever the hell she was, just to watch her work, just to see her face light up when she laughed.

It scared the hell out of me.

Scary because I’ve been around long enough to know what this business does to love. I’ve seen it chew up good things and spit them out, turning timing into a curse so fast you don’t actually get a minute to remember what the real thing was.

But none of that mattered when I looked at this photo.

She was real, stubborn and smart and too good at what she does. She saw through my moods and held space for them. She teased me until I let my guard down enough that she could get in with no effort. On top of all that, she gave me pieces of herself, trusting enough to share her life, and her fears, and now I didn’t know how to live with less.

I picked up my phone. I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I texted her.

I just found your surprise. You’re a menace. I’m ruined. 15:35 - Pedro P.

I miss you like hell. 15:35 - Pedro P.

I stared at the photo one more time before tucking it in my wallet. Right where it could wreck me whenever it wanted.

***

Critics called the whole thing a genius piece of art. I was so proud of it, but still, those two premieres were in the way of me being back to Canada.

Had two nights in the suit, and two more rounds of answering the same questions: "What is it like to work with this insane actor?", “How was filming during the pandemic?”, “How is the last of us shooting going?", and “Who was the girl in that airport picture?". Just two more walks down a carpet that smelled like perfume, stress, and desperation masked as charm.

And then I’d be free.

Free to get on a plane, back to a not so cold weather — Spring doing its job now, but I’d still have long days on set, and her.

Lux stood beside me like a lifeline, dressed in this tailored black one piece that made her look like she owned the whole damn thing. She was always good at this part — those red carpets with too many flashes, the perfect amount of a smile to maintain for a long time. She knew when to lean in, and when to pose.

Thank God she was with me, because I was absolutely useless tonight.

I went through the motions: smile, wave, keep moving, nod politely. But I wasn’t really there. My body showed up. My mind, though?

Stuck with her.

The polaroid she left me — tucked inside my wallet now — might as well have been burning through the fabric of my white tux. I could feel it every second, as if it was alive in there. Her handwriting on the back, and that crooked little smile she had in it.

The way she looked like she belonged to me, and only me.

I blinked, snapped back to the present as someone from Lionsgate pulled me aside with a smile and a mic.

“Pedro, good to see you again! How does it feel to be premiering The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent in front of a live audience?”

I gave the expected answer. Something about how fun the movie was to make, how Nic was a legend, how the script was wild and weird and unlike anything I’d done before — all true, sure, but it all sounded rehearsed.

Then came the pivot.

“And I have to ask, because it’s everywhere online right now… rumors about someone special in your life. Is there any truth to that?”

Lux made a sound behind me, surprised at how the question came in directly with no hesitation. I smiled the way you do when you’ve perfected the art of dodging.

“You know I love to keep a little mystery,” I said, voice warm, a little coy. “Let’s focus on the movie tonight. Nic Cage is the real romance story here. I’m in love with him the same way Javi, my character, also is.”

The reporter laughed, took the hint. But I hated the way my chest clenched.

Because if I had it my way, I’d be shouting it. I’d be saying, Yeah, there’s someone. She’s not famous, but she’s extraordinary. The kind of extraordinary you don’t walk away from.

But I didn’t say any of that.

When we stepped inside the venue and the chaos dimmed, I felt Lux's eyes on me again.

“You’re not really here,” my sister murmured, adjusting the collar of my shirt unnecessarily.

I shrugged, exhaling loudly. “Left half of myself in Canada.”

She looked at me for a long second, then gave a small nod. “Then get it back. First thing whenever you can. Don’t let this business steal the good parts of you. It already took enough, don’t you think?”

The answer didn’t come to me, I just swallowed hard and nodded.

The movie played, and I barely registered it. I was supposed to be proud, supposed to be soaking in the laughter, the applause — but I sat there running my thumb over my wallet, over the bump of the polaroid through the leather.

She called herself your girl in the note she left.

Don't get me wrong… I’d had flings. I’d had things that almost felt like love. I’ve been searching throughout my life for something.

But this? This was full-blooded, terrifying, all-consuming. And I’d never felt more alive.

READER’S POV

I wanted it to be perfect.

Mid April you’d think the weather would be this nice spring-sunny-transitional thing. But Calgary was hanging on to the cold and everything was still kind of slushy outside. Inside Pedro’s apartment though? I was determined to make it feel like the real spring. Or, at the very least, like home.

He’d left me a key from his rental, tucked into my bag the day I left New York, with a simple “in case you miss me too much” smile, and I’d been holding onto it, waiting for the right moment to do something.

I got in a few hours before he was scheduled to land. Dropped my bags by the door, kicked my boots off, and just stood there for a second in the quiet, letting the soft white noise of the fridge wrap around me. His scent never really left that place, since it was locked all the time he was off in New York and now Los Angeles.

I unpacked my plan slowly.

Flowers — A bouquet with almost every color in it, because I couldn’t decide which one suited him best.

Dinner — warming in the oven, homemade because I knew he’d be sick of microwavable things and take outs.

My clothes? Just one of his flannel shirts stolen from New York, now mine, hanging off my frame with nothing else under it as I moved through the apartment lighting candles like I wasn’t terrified this would all come off as too much.

It was a private moment of me saying with gestures how much I missed him here. Just the kind of surprise you only pull when you’re all in.

My nerves were all over the place that night. I was fixing the wine glasses when I heard the key turn.

I expected to hear his voice, or maybe the jangle of his laugh, or some New York sarcasm about how I was trying to seduce him with food and firelight.

Instead, I heard another voice too followed by sharp high heels… Fuck.

“Pedro, just email me when you get the final sides, okay?” Sue’s voice echoed by the door.

I wanted to hide. Anywhere sounds good. Anywhere to hide my bare legs. Please God…

The door opened and there he was, suitcase in one hand, his eyes softening the moment he saw me, but then, confusion, quick and flickering behind his eyes, followed by panic of having someone else there with us.

Sue was right behind him, in a smart coat and heels, her brow arching as she stepped inside and took in the whole picture.

“Oh,” she let it out by surprise. “Didn’t realize you had company.”

Pedro blinked twice. “I—She—” He looked at me then at her, like he didn’t know which side of the room to run to. “You used the key.” He said to me.

“Yeah,” I replied, heat crawling up my neck and my eyes darting everywhere but to them. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

Sue was already stepping back toward the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Pedro.” Her smile to me was polite, but I felt like I’d been caught doing something wrong. Something intimate in a space she still considered business.

He shut the door behind her, and for a long second, neither of us said anything.

I looked down at the wine glasses. The candles. My bare legs under his flannel shirt.

“This was a stupid idea,” I muttered, already trying to find something to do with my hands. “I can pack this up, go back to my place. You probably want to rest or something.”

“No, hey,” he said quickly, crossing the space between us to catch my hand. “It’s not stupid. It’s perfect.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes.

“It just didn’t feel like that. Not with her looking at me like I’m… like I’m not supposed to be here.”

He stepped closer, his hand sliding to the small of my back. “She’s just… Sue. She’s all strategy and opinions. Don’t take it personally. She’s not used to anyone knowing me this well. But that’s not on you.”

“She hates that I’m here, doesn’t she?” I asked letting myself be hugged by his strong arms.

“She doesn’t know you,” he said simply with a shrug. “That’s her loss.”

I looked up finally, and saw the weariness in his face. The way the flight and the red carpet and all the meetings had drained him. Dark circles under his gorgeous eyes, and his shoulders a little too tense.

And underneath all of that — the soft ache that mirrored mine.

I pressed my forehead to his chest, breathing him in to steady my own heart.

“I wanted to say welcome home.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around me, pulling me closer, tighter, until there was nothing between us but heat and everything we hadn’t said for weeks.

“You did,” he murmured into my hair. “You do. This—this is home.”

And just like that, the tension melted.

But I knew — I knew — the shadow of that awkward moment wasn’t gone. It had just slipped into a corner. Waiting.

Because the higher we climb, the more people want a say in how we love. And I wasn’t sure how many awkward glances or judgmental smiles I could take before it started to chip away at all of this.

***

The stretch was unmatched. The drag and pull of his thick and painful hard cock had us both moaning and even whining a little.

We knew that when the tension was eased and the longing for each other surfaced, making its statement, we would be insatiable for the whole night.

Once both of our bodies were bare on top of the mattress, he started with his mouth directly into my cunt, making out with my lower lips, thrusting his tongue into my aching hole, and even giving my clit small teasing bites. And on top of all that, I could see his hips rooting against the sheets.

Pedro enjoys eating me out as much as I enjoy his mouth on me.

He already gave me two blinding orgasms just like that. And then, he got up, pulling my legs to my chest, sinking down on me with a grunt full of pleasure.

Skin on skin never felt so good.

His hips speed up a little, earning a gasp from me.

“That’s fucking right. My girl, all mine to fuck like this” He's mumbling so close to my ear. Making sure I listen to every filthy word he says.

Pedro’s teeth grazes my earlobe, sending shivers all over my body. I felt my nipple harden. “You love being fucked like this, don’t you, babe?”

I can only nod. If I open my mouth to say a single word I know I’ll scream. Pleasure overtaking all my senses.

“Ready to give me another one?” As the words comes out of his mouth, the force of his hips changes to a deep thrusting.

“Y—yes, fuck yeees” I cry trying to hold on to his forearms the best I can.

There’s half moons all over his skin from my nails. And I can tell that he loves getting those marks.

“Give it to me before I stuff you so full, you’ll be leaking my cum all ov— G-haaa” The last word is lost to the pleasure he also feels.

My eyes rolls back.

“Pedro—Babe, oh my fuckinggod” He shifts a little, hitting that hidden spongy spot only he is able to find inside of me.

Again.

And again.

“Right here, hun?” He speeds up more, hitting that damn spot.

My tights burn from being held up by him, but I don’t fucking care. Only thing I’m focused on is this burning heat inside my belly, numbing every sense. My legs shake hard and I lose my breath.

“Oh fuck, so damn tight, so tight, I’m gonna cum” Pedro almost chokes.

I’m too lost in my own pleasure, but once he is nailing me in that bed seeking his own release, my body goes on full alert mode.

This feels too good, and there’s a second and stronger orgasm overtaking the one I was already going through. But this time I felt an insane pressure inside my body. I was gasping for air and at the same time I felt some liquid coming out of my pussy and hitting Pedro’s thighs.

“Squirting all over me, hermosa” His voice is breathless, and so damn proud.

He’s fucking me through this intense release, still coming inside me. The sound we make together is pure filth with the combination of releases. Squishing through the room.

My legs are numb at this point, and my mind is a bliss.

He pushes the last rope of cum inside me, and his body stills, lips crashing into mine as we both try to come down from our high. My fingers find his curls, and the smile finds both our mouths.

“Fuck, that was good” His nose touches my chin, tracing lazy lines while he’s still inside me, but he let my legs fall from his grip.

I’m too full of emotions to answer anything clearly.

My boyfriend just made me come four times. My body feels boneless. And there’s only one thing inside my mind. He’s not expecting it, neither am I. But I manage to choke those three words out for the first time directly to him.

“I love you” I say, feeling too much.

He goes still.

Those brown eyes going wide.

I mean, it’s not like we didn’t know it. We’ve said we liked each other dozens of times, we’ve confessed to others how we love each other. But this is the first time ever those three words are out of my mouth directly to him.

“Say it again,” Pedro whispers, voice in complete disbelief.

I blink, my heart thudding so loud it’s hard to hear anything else. His right hand comes up to cup my cheek while our eyes are locked into each other.

“I love you, Pedro Pascal.” I lift one of my hands to touch his gorgeous and sweaty neck. “I don’t know why I haven’t said it to you yet, but it’s been true for a while now.”

He closes his eyes for half a second, exhales hard through his nose — like the words hit somewhere deep inside his ribs — it’s funny how such simple words can change the whole atmosphere of the room. And in a single movement he’s on me again. Mouth to mouth, forehead pressed against mine.

“I love you,” he says back in between kisses, and it’s not careful, nor its neat. His words feel like a dam breaking. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Te quiero, fuck, Te quiero tanto.(I love you so much)”

And I realize…

He’s been waiting and holding it, carrying those words with him, maybe just as long as I have or even longer. Just waiting for me to say it first.

But now… now it’s real in a way it wasn’t before.

We said it.

We meant it.

And the second that door opens, there’s no way back through it.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to say it first,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over the corner of my mouth. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”

I smile, a little dizzy from the adrenaline we just had, the smell of sex still hovering the room, from the warmth still tangled between our bodies, from him.

“You could have said it, I was never good at showing it first.”

He lets out a breath of laughter, low and hoarse, and then he kisses me again as he lays down beside me. Kissing, not because it’s leading to anything again, but because he has to, because he doesn’t know anything but that, as if he can’t control it.

We lie there in the mess we made — the sheets barely clinging to the bed, his cum is dripping between my legs still, and his body still draped around mine, our legs tangled, the air thick with heat and breath.

And Love.

The real kind.

The terrifying, knock-the-wind-out-of-you, no-one-else-but-you kind.

“I mean it,” My voice comes out quieter now, like the moment deserves that softness. “I love you, and I have loved you through it all.”

He nods, brushing one thumb across my cheek. “I know. I knew before you said it.”

He kisses the inside of my wrist. His lashes are heavy, his body relaxed, but his mind is awake, I can see it.

“It’s gonna make the hard parts harder,” I whisper, almost to myself.

“Yeah,” he says. “But it makes everything else better.”

And I nod, my hand still tracing lazy lines around his bare chest. The warmth between us is still buzzing, but now there’s something else rising inside my mind — that quiet awareness of time. Of real life coming back in.

I shift just a little, enough to press my face to the side of his neck. “We should talk about what happens next.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“Yeah,” he replies softer now. “We should.”

It’s not the first time the thought’s crossed my mind. But it’s the first time we’re speaking it out loud — the schedules and distances, the choices that could start pulling us in opposite directions faster than we’re ready for.

“I’m about to close those two offers,” I start, my fingers resting lightly over his heart. “Just finishing up some details, and still need a couple of meetings to align the timeline. Berlin in July, Finland by the end of September, maybe early October."

He listens to every single word. I can feel his breath slowing, chest rising under my hand. His fingers lightly trace the curve of my spine like he’s grounding himself.

“And you should go,” he says after a while. “If that’s where your work’s pulling you. You’re too damn talented to ever sit still.”

I lift my head just enough to look at him. “And you?”

He exhales, one hand slipping behind his head on the pillow. “My agents have me looking at five films. All very different. Spread across continents. I’ve committed to two already — Strange Way of Life in Spain, and Freaky Tales in Oakland. The rest are still circling. But…”

He hesitates.

“But?”

“Franklin said Marvel’s sniffing around. Not officially, not yet, but… enough that he brought it up with the usual ‘don’t screw this up’ tone.”

My eyebrows rise, even though part of me isn’t shocked. He is the kind of actor who could disappear into something like that — the intensity, the gravitas, the pain just below the charm.

He is the kind of actor that people took too long to realise how good he is, and now everyone will try to book him for their big parts.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” He laughs a little, like it still doesn’t feel real. “It’s a big one, and it scares the hell out of me.’”

My stomach tightened a little, as I held his gaze. “You deserve every good thing coming your way.”

He catches my chin gently bringing my face to his. “Even you?”

“You already have me.”

“Damn right I do” He leans in again, biting my lower lip.

At the same time my heart is full, it's also aching with how unpredictable our future is. My mind is racing through it all, and he senses it, his arms holds me a little tighter until I speak again.

“I guess we’re gonna have to start actually talking about flights, and time zones, and how to keep something alive when we’re on opposite ends of the planet.”

“Or we talk about where we overlap,” Pedro offers as a solution. “Where I can fly to you. Where you can fly to me. Who’s got the bigger break. Who can afford a little sacrifice.”

“You think love can survive all this?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His body shifts a little under mine, and his eyes scan my face.

“I think our love can,” he finally says.

I close my eyes. Let that settle.

We lay there a while, not rushing toward anything. Not needing to.

My head on his chest. His hand stroking slow up and down my back.

“I want to try,” I tell him, quieter now. “I don’t want this to be something we look back on as just a phase in Calgary. I want to figure this out with you.”

“So do I,” he says with a dreamy voice. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it means late-night FaceTimes and last-minute flights and sleeping alone more than we’d like.”

“I hate sleeping alone,” I whisper.

He kisses the top of my head. “Then I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t have to.”

***

When we awake, next morning, the sun comes in through his window, warm and low — a spring glow casting a sleepy golden light across the hardwood. I’m curled against him, one leg tangled in his, and for a while we just lie there like that, soaking in the slow silence of a morning we know is borrowed.

Even without looking up I knew something’s off.

He’s still holding me, hands still warm, but his mind… it’s already somewhere else.

I tilt my face up, resting my chin against his chest. “You’re thinking too loud.”

A soft laugh escapes him, but it’s tight. Not the kind that reaches his eyes. His fingers pause on my back, then resume.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

He hesitates. Long enough that I pull back a little and look at him properly.

“Babe?”

He’s staring at the ceiling, brows slightly knit together, like he’s working through a script that doesn’t want to come out clean.

“I was thinking,” he starts, “about your dad.”

I blink. That’s not where I thought we were headed.

“My dad?”

“Yeah. About whether I should… go to London. Speak to him. Like, officially.”

I blink again, slower this time.

“Speak to him?”

He finally looks at me. “We’re… this is real. I mean, it’s been real, but now it feels like we’re not just in a bubble anymore. You’re planning work in Europe. I’m trying to balance five films and still find time to be in the same city as you. This thing—it’s us. It’s happening. And I don’t want to keep pretending like I’m not aware that some people think I’m… too old for you.”

I sit up, the sheet pulling with me. “Pedro—”

“Wait, let me finish,” he says gently. “I know your dad’s not a fan of me, and I can’t blame him, I mean, if I were him, I’d probably be wary too. But maybe if I… went down there. Spoke to him face-to-face. Let him see what I see when I look at you. Let him understand that I’m not some temporary thing or some… rebellion crisis story.”

There’s a lump forming in my throat. A part of me wants to wrap myself around him and never let go, but the other part of me feels the familiar pang of dread—the reminder of how complicated this is.

“He’s old-fashioned,” I say, choosing my own words. “And yeah, he doesn’t get us. But you showing up won’t magically change that.”

“I don’t need it to change him,” he says. “But I need you to know I’m not afraid of standing in front of the people you love and saying, ‘I’m here. For real.’”

The weight of his words stands right there in between us.

God, I love him.

I lower my gaze, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the sheet. “It’s not about being afraid. I just… I know how he is. He’s going to bring up your age, your fame, my career. He’ll ask what happens when it all fades.”

Pedro shifts closer, sitting up slightly, the morning light catching the lines on his face, the warmth in his eyes.

“Then I’ll tell him what happens when it all fades,” he says. “We’ll still be here. Figuring it out, trying even when it feels impossible.”

My breath catches when his hand finds mine.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” I whisper.

He smiles then, that soft kind of smile that tells me he’s about to shift the mood entirely “I’ve already fallen for you. If that’s not the most dangerous thing I’ve done in the last decade, I don’t know what is.”

We laugh a little, and his body shifts closer.

The silence that follows is thick with unspoken things—what ifs, timelines, long flights, complicated family dinners.

He looks down at the phone on the nightstand. “Call time’s at two. We’ve got the morning.”

I nod. “Want breakfast?”

He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me back into him. “I want you.”

I grin falling against his chest. “Flawed logic, Mr. Pascal. I’m not on the menu.”

He leans in, pressing a slow kiss to my shoulder, then my neck, making me shiver

“Good thing I’m a regular.” He says muffled against my skin.

I smile wide, trying to play it cool. “Regulars still have to pay, you know?!”

He laughs, low and warm, his breath tickling my skin. “Oh, I pay,” he says, grazing his teeth along the slope of my shoulder. “Every single time.”

I shiver. “You sound way too proud of that.”

“I am. I’ve earned it.” He moves, slowly trailing kisses down the curve of my back. “Do you know how hard it is to behave around you?”

“I don’t recall asking you to.”

“You didn’t.” His voice is deeper now, soaked in sleep and the ache of lust flowing now. “But that’s the problem, hermosa. You just exist and I lose all sense of control.”

I roll over to face him, hair a little wild, mouth still warm from sleep. “You’re dramatic.”

“Maybe. But you like it.”

I raise a brow, pretending to stay unimpressed, but my legs tangle with his again and I know I’m losing this game already. “What if I said I was the one in control here?”

He smirks. “Then I’d say... prove it.”

Challenge accepted.

“Don’t tempt me,” I murmur, running a hand across his chest, slow and teasing, watching the way his eyes darken.

He watches me like he’s holding onto the last thread of control, jaw tense, breath slowing — until I drag my fingers just a little lower, just a little slower, and that thread snaps.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. When he opens them again, something has shifted — he’s already lost this round, and he knows it.

He grabs my wrist gently but firmly, presses it back onto the pillow beside my head, and hovers over me, lips ghosting over mine but not touching yet. “You really want to play games with me right now?”

My smile is smug. “I thought you liked games.”

He groans, low in his throat, and then he kisses me—no hesitation, no teasing now. His mouth is hungry and soft all at once, like he’s been waiting days instead of hours. I kiss him back with everything I have, threading my hands through his hair, pulling him closer.

“You win,” he mumbles against my mouth, lips moving to my jaw, to that spot behind my ear that always makes my breath hitch. “You always fucking win.”

“Mm,” I murmur, legs already wrapping around him. “That’s what I thought.”

He lets out a breathless laugh and trails kisses down my neck, the teasing replaced by something rougher, more desperate. Like he’s been pretending he had restraint all morning, and now it’s finally slipping. His hands move across my waist, up my ribs, slow and tickling at the same time.

“You drive me insane,” he says, kissing down my chest, “do you know that?”

“Better than anyone,” I whisper, voice cracking just enough to make him grin against my skin.

He pulls the sheets down with one hand, the other still holding onto my wrist against the pillow, and I swear my whole body aches for him already. The room spins a little when his mouth finds my neck again, slower this time. Like he’s savoring it, pretending this is a reward he’s earned.

My back arches. My fingers grip the sheets. I try to stay quiet—because of the neighbors, or just because of decency—but he’s doing it on purpose. Every flick of his tongue, every breath against my skin is designed to push me to the edge and keep me there.

He’s bitting my collarbone, nose dragging against my skin , “You’re doing good for me.”

“Pedro…”

He smirks. “My good girl.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m yours.”

When one of his fingers finds my clit, it’s like I don’t care about the walls anymore. I just care about him, about the way he’s worshipping every inch of me, like nothing else matters. And maybe in this room, at this moment, nothing does matter anymore.

The pressure is just right, he knows my body better than anyone has by now. His voice is hoarse when he murmurs close to my ear, “I told myself I was gonna take it slow.”

I manage a weak laugh. “You always say that.”

He lines himself to my entrance and slides in with a single movement of his hoops, we both gasp, the sound caught in our throats like a secret shared. My nails dig into his shoulder instinctively, grounding myself in the stretch, the weight of him, the way he fills every part of me like he was meant to. His forehead rests against mine, his breath hot and shallow. Our eyes stay locked, mouths brushing but not kissing—just sharing air, staying in that moment of stillness right before the storm.

“Okay?” he whispers, voice strained, like he’s holding on by a thread.

I nod, barely able to speak. “Yeah,” I breathe, “more than okay.”

He kisses me then, tongue slipping in deep, consuming, a little messy, and starts to fuck me down that matress. Slow at first, like he wants to feel every inch, like he needs me to feel it too. And I do. Every shift, every drag of him against places inside me that make my toes curl, make my back arch, make my breath stutter.

I try to keep quiet. I really do. But he’s good at this. Too good.

The bed creaks softly under the weight of our bodies, and the only soundtrack besides our breathing, is our skin against skin, and the occasional soft, stifled gasp that slips from me and makes his mouth twitch into a crooked smile.

“You’re gonna let every neighbour know what I’m doing to this pussy?” he murmurs, dragging his lips down to my throat. “So damn needy.”

I shake my head against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as he rolls his hips with a slow, devastating rhythm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he says between kisses along my collarbone, “are perfect like this. All mine.”

His free hand finds mine and pins it gently above my head, fingers laced. The other braces against the bed near my waist, muscles flexing. He’s holding back, but barely. I can feel the restraint trembling through him, and somehow that makes it hotter—knowing how much he wants to let go, but won’t. Not until I do.

“Baby” I gasp when he finds that sweet little spongy spot that sends an electric wave through my body “Don’t hold back, ple—please.”

I think it’s the way the word comes out from my mouth, he nods frenetically, and all his movements become so much rougher. His speed increases so fast, and we’re both painting for air that doesn’t come easily.

I feel every inch, every single drag, every pound and the slaps his balls give just around my ass. It’s too much, but we don’t stop, no—god, there’s no fucking way to stop this wrecking train.

“Pedro,” I whisper, my legs tightening around his hips, urging him closer, deeper. Both his hands come around my body and he grabs my ass-cheeks, needling both of them while still slamming the veiny cock inside of me.

“Take it, Cariño. Take everything,” he breathes, dragging his nose along my cheek, sweat sliding from his forehead.

A gasp comes from my mouth once I feel one of his fingers slide in between my asscheeks, first time teasing me around that ring of muscles. I clench in anticipation of what’s to come, my body chills all over just with the tip of his finger trying to breach that little entrance, while he’s still pounding me so damn hard, I’m seeing stars behind my eyelids.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you here one day?” I hear his voice, but I’m too damn focused on the pleasure reaping through my body.

“Y—yes, Pedro, yes, baby” My voice comes out thick. I’m not even sure of what I’m saying. “Do it now, p—please.”

“Not today baby” I feel his thumb breach in another few small millimeters, just enough that I finally cum all over his cock, pulsing, clenching, and gasping for air.

His pace is relentless, eyes locked on mine like he’s memorizing the moment.

Pedro is lost in it too, chasing his high, thumb still half buried inside of me as he fucks me through my own release. I can’t register what was happening besides the fact that my body is fully shaking.

“shitshitshit—fuckbabysogood” I curse, voice pitch high, and he continues to slam his body against mine, dragging every last wave of orgasm I have left.

The air around us is so thick, my hands pulls some of his brown hair, and the sting of it makes it for him.

He pushes in in a single deep stroke, cursing softly into the crook of my neck, my name a broken prayer on his lips. I feel the hot strings painting my sensitive insides for a while, grunts and curses coming in low as he tries to push his cock even more inside of me.

It’s nearly impossible to breathe, and then his weight is partially gone, trying not to crush me.

We collapse together, tangled and flushed, a mess of limbs and heat and racing hearts.

Silence settles over us, a bliss of thoughts, the kind of pocket of time that doesn’t need to be filled. He stays inside me a little longer, hands still holding my ass, forehead resting on my shoulder. I feel his lips press against my skin again.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, and I smile, chest still rising and falling against his.

“Same,” I breathe, and we just stay there like that, letting it all soak in.

When he pulls from inside of me, the emptiness of it all is cold. But I don’t say anything. Just lay there feeling his cum leaking inside my thighs.

Taglist: @kellyxo1 ; @joelmillerpascal ; @sarahhxx03 ; @sara-alonso ; @needz1nk ; @sassyispunk ; @flow33didontsmokeAgain, @alixxhere

Life is super busy atm, sorry this took longer than I was expecting. We're almost done with this one though. Only a couple more chapters left until TLOU season 1 is wrapped for our couple, then, they'll head their own ways?? I mean, I got a lot more story to tell, if you guys stick around. Love y'all. previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

#pedro pascal #the last of us #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #production #rpf

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 08

CW: Oh boy, where do I start? This is a heavy one. Alcoholic father, Graphic physical violence, cheating, Domestic abuse, Severe injury / medical trauma (including surgery, blood) , Verbal abuse & emotional manipulation, Graphic depictions of assault, Blood and gore, Implied near-death experience.

8.0K words

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08 - Leaving

Kings’s County, December/2009

Sam's POV It was the smell that hit me first.

Not just the sour tang of liquor, so usual now I barely notice it anymore. This was something thicker, heavier. The unmistakable stench of piss soaked into cheap carpet. It stopped me at the trailer door with a punch to the chest.

I dropped my bag by the door, kicked it shut with the back of my boot and followed that smell inside the trailer.

There he was, the guy I have to call ‘father’. Facedown just outside the bathroom door, like he’d missed the frame by inches. One boot still on, belt halfway undone. His cheek was pressed into the linoleum. His hand was twitching.

I stood over him for a full thirty seconds.

Long enough to think — Leave him. Let Shane handle this one.

But Shane had pulled a double that day, and he wasn’t gonna be home until past midnight. And I knew how this went — if I didn’t handle it, no one would. So I crouched, curled my hands under Simon’s arms, and heaved him up with a deep groan, because goddamn, he was heavy.

He slurred something when I dragged him toward the couch, I didn’t understand a single word. His legs caught on a stack of newspapers and he tried to say something again that came like, “Don’t throw out the coupons…”

“Yeah, sure, Dad,” I muttered, breathless.

I got him onto the cushions, slumped like a ragdoll. His face turned toward the wall. The wet patch on his jeans was already dark and spreading.

“You’re a good girl, Trouble,” he smiled a little.

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him to stop calling me that. The nickname used to mean something cool when I was six, but now, it only brought pain, sliding off his whiskey tongue, an insult no one would ever understand.

No, telling him now would mean nothing to both of us, so I just went on and found the baking soda and a rag. Cleaned the carpet the best I could after a 10-hour shift. Sprayed the air with something citrusy that didn’t really help at all.

Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, sore and quiet. Locked door to keep the weird smell out. I reached under the bed and pulled out the coffee can. Opened it slowly, as if I was afraid the money would scatter.

Forty-five dollars went in. Folded tight. Counted twice.

$4,223.

Still not enough for all my plans, but so damn close, I could taste the freedom under it.

It all went downhill from that night.

Just a week after that incident with my dad, Shane came in with something under his arm and a wild look in his eyes.

He was done with all this bullshit.

It was just past 6 p.m., and I was folding laundry on the couch while Simon sat in his recliner, thumbing through a TV guide like he actually planned to watch something that wasn’t static or reruns of MAS*H.

Shane dropped the photo album on the table, as a man slapping down evidence in a trial.

“Remember this?” he asked, flipping it open. “Come on, Dad. Look.”

Simon blinked over the rim of his beer. Too drunk at this hour of the day to say anything at all. Shane turned the pages slowly.

“You holding me up at the fair. That summer when Mom still made your shirts from scratch. You see that smile?”

Simon leaned forward, squinting.

“This one — that beach trip down to Tybee. Remember how you made us all fried bologna sandwiches even though Mom said it was disgusting? You and her, sitting on that old striped towel, remember?”

Simon let out a breathy laugh. “She never knew how to stay,” he slurred as if this was the biggest joke of his life. “Couldn’t handle the heat. Or the rest of us.”

Shane’s face went blank.

The photo album shut with a loud thud.

He stood up. Walked out the front door without saying another word. I watched through the window as he sat down on top of his jeep, his hands shaking, frustrated enough to stay frozen in one place.

Simon leaned back in the chair and picked at the corner of the album. Maybe his brain was telling him he should care, but it annoyed him.

I left them both there to deal with their own feelings. Wasn’t having any of that anymore. I went to my room, sat on the floor, pulled out my notebook, and flipped to the last page where the numbers lived now.

The quiet hope. A light at the end of a very dark valley.

Rent in Atlanta — maybe with Mariah if she gathers courage enough to leave this place with me. Bus fare, or a train ride. Deposit for the first and last month of rent. Money I would have back if I decided to move.

I made a little chart with all of it. Loved to see the numbers right there, at reach. One of those days searching for stuff, I drew a tiny rocket ship in the margin like I used to when I was twelve and wanted to be an astronaut just to get off this planet. From time to time I’d come back to it to add more stuff to the drawing, until it was time to launch.

My tip jar, aka coffee can, sat untouched by the side of my bed. Yesterday was the kind of bad night you try to forget. Too much work and too little money.

But I slipped a twenty from it, right into the middle of the notebook where some of the money was set.

$4,425.

Getting there. Little by little. Bill by bill.

***

Another week passed by, and it became unbearable to be in the same house as Simon. The fight that day started when he couldn’t find his bottle.

“Trouble, where is it?”

“What?” I had to lift my eyes from the sink full of dishes to watch him swaying in the same place.

“I left it right here,” Simon shouted, kicking a chair leg hard enough to knock it sideways. “Don’t lie to me, girl.”

“I’m not fucking lying,” I said, with my blood heating iniside my veins, but I was too tired to react.

“You think you can control me like your damn mother did?”

I stared at him. “She left. She didn’t control a damn thing.”

“Don’t talk to me like that in my house.”

“It’s not your house. It’s a trailer you never bother to pay the bills to keep the lights and water on, same place I scrubbed your piss out of this carpet a couple of weeks ago, so forgive me if I don’t roll out the red carpet for your drunk ass.”

His mind snapped.

He lunged like he was gonna throw something at me, or throw himself even, but something made him stop right before he could do anything to hurt me. His tall figure just stood there, panting, red-faced, and furious at the life he was living.

I’m so tired of all this, my heart pounded inside my chest with anger now, my skin had tingles going all over it, so I picked up the nearest glass — a cheap thing from the dollar store — and hurled it at the wall with a scream coming straight from my soul. The glass shattered on impact, raining little pieces across the linoleum.

Simon flinched at the sudden movement.

I slid down with my back against the sink and let myself sink to the floor, breathing hard with the urge of a panic attack. My hands were shaking. I pulled my knees to my chest, biting my lip until it bled.

Not knowing what to do, Simon went back to the living room, leaving me alone with this ache I felt.

Ten minutes passed before the front door opened again.

Shane walked in, saw the broken glass, saw Simon sulking in the recliner like a kicked dog, saw me curled up on the floor, and he didn’t even ask.

He just walked to the fridge, grabbed a warm soda, and handed it to me.

Then sat beside me in silence.

After a while, he said, “He’s not coming back, is he?”

I didn’t look at him.

“Which version?” I asked.

Shane stared at his hands. “The one who used to call us his whole world.”

There was nothing to say.

We just sat there in the dull kitchen light, surrounded by silence and broken glass.

Two siblings against a nightmare.

***

The bar was slow that next week. Cold weather kept people at home, or drunk somewhere else. But I still walked out with seventy in tips and a cramp in my lower back. It felt like I’d earned a damn trophy.

Markus handed me a wrapped sandwich before I could grab my jacket. “You look like you haven’t eaten all day.”

He was right, I haven’t. Every penny was worth saving now, even the ones I should spend with food.

By the end of the shift Mariah cornered me by the dumpster when we threw out the trash.

“If you really leave this place, I’m coming with you,” she said, lighting a smoke. “I’m not meant to rot in King’s County either.”

I laughed, but it caught in my throat. “We’ll see.”

“I’m being serious. Got contact in Atlanta. We can quit together.” She handed me the cigarette and I accepted it.

“I don’t know how long ‘till I can quit.” I said and took a deep drag of the smoke.

“Just let me know how we can do this together.” She smiled, tired from the shift and from life.

“I will, promise.” I filled my lungs with the smoke once again, and handed the cigarette back to her.

That night, back at the trailer, I stood in the kitchen watching Simon sleep.

TV was playing white noise again. He hadn’t shaved in… I don’t even know how long now, his shirt was buttoned wrong, of course it was, one side hanging lower than the other. His hand twitched in his sleep like he was dreaming of something violent.

I should’ve felt pity. He was becoming more of a loser each passing day. But the only thing I got from watching him was a state of numbness.

I went to my room. Closed the door. Pulled out the coffee can and counted the wad of small bills.

$4,763

I laid on my back, eyes on the ceiling.

Did the math in my head. If I worked through Christmas time, maybe $5,000. If I skipped it? That sweet number would come to me later in January.

Duffel bag was still packed under my bed, and sitting on that page of my notebook there was a rocket drawing, page curling at the corners, and waiting for launch day.

“Almost there, Trouble” I whispered to myself as a smile took over my lips.

***

Just barely 2 p.m. on that cold Friday, and the sky already looked like it wanted to call it a night. Gray and swollen, heavy with the kind of winter drizzle that never quite turned to rain.

I sat on an upside-down beer crate behind the bar, shoulders hunched under my jacket, fingers curled around a mug of weak-ass coffee.

Mariah was next to me, one leg slung over the other, boots resting on the wall like she owned it. Her red hair was tucked under a knit beanie and her eyeliner was already smudged like she’d been fighting ghosts.

We were between lunch rush and evening chaos — which meant we had a whole twenty minutes to pretend we weren’t tired, broke, or slowly rotting inside this place.

She blew smoke from her nose and passed me the joint. “Markus swears he saw Shane flirting with a soccer mom at the grocery store.”

“Swears or hopes?” I smirked, taking a drag.

She grinned, sharp and toothy. “He says she had milk and mascara. I said, ‘so do half of us here.’”

I laughed, and it felt good for a second, but then I looked down at my boots. My plans of leaving here, and leaving this day to day friendship we had with Markus, one of the best guys I’ve ever met. That made my smile disappear.

The words left before I could stop them. “I think I’m leaving right after New Year’s.”

Mariah blinked. “For real?”

“Yeah.”

She sat up straighter. “Damn, you were not joking that night.”

I nodded. “I’ve been saving since September. Almost have enough for the first and last month of rent. I might take a job in Atlanta — Markus has a cousin who works in some diner off Piedmont, says they’re always short-staffed.”

Mariah stared at me, her mouth halfway open like she was still loading the information.

“I thought you were just talking shit.”

“I was,” I said quietly. “But now I’m not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgment. It was grief. Her grief too. Because she was gonna be left behind. At least for now.

I knew she wasn’t really in a hurry to leave this place. She had a house, not much, but anything was better than what I had since I was born. She has her mom here too, which makes things complicated to leave behind in such short notice too.

Mariah pulled her knees up and stared at the horizon, gray on gray. “You really gonna leave Shane?”

I stopped for half a second to think about, my throat tightened. “Yeah.”

She looked wrecked. “I’ll miss you like hell, Sammy.”

That one hit like a sucker punch, because it felt sincere. Mariah could be hard to manage most days, but she’s a true friend. She’s always there when I need her the most, and even if she’s younger, she always had that ‘big sister’ energy.

“I’ll miss y’all,” I said. “Every single day.”

“So why leave?”

I looked down at my hands.

Because this place will eat me alive if I stay, or because loving people isn’t enough when it hurts more than it heals. Because being needed and being loved aren’t always the same damn thing.

But all I said was “Because I have to.”

Mariah nodded. “You know I’ll drive you myself if you need.”

“I know.”

She leaned her head against mine.

We sat in the quiet for a while, letting the cold seep into our bones. Letting the weight of the decision settle like dirt.

***

The air inside the bar smelled like stale beer, pine-scented cleaner, and peppermint schnapps. So, yeah, same smell as always.

I was in the back, perched on a cracked stool in the storage hallway, changing into my night shift shirt — black with grease stains that never quite came out, no matter how many times I scrubbed them in the sink with dish soap and hot water.

Shane stood at the other end, arms crossed, leaning against the ice machine the kind of stance of someone who thinks he owns the place. He’d brought me a coffee and a pack of fries from the gas station down the road, and I was inhaling them between tying my apron.

“You know you don’t have to work every damn night,” he pointed, watching me. “It’s Christmas time .”

“Tell that to the electric bill,” I muttered, mouth full.

He gave me a look. One of those classic big brother looks. The kind that carried all the worry he’d never say out loud unless it came out angry.

“You still coming to dinner at Louise and Thomas’?” He asked with that kind of puppy eyes “Louise is doing the ham, I’m bringing wine.”

“Wine,” I snorted. “You mean the kind with a screw cap?”

“It still counts,” he replied, smirking.

I hesitated then, wiping my hands on my apron. We were alone here in the back, suddenly I was aware that I was waiting for a pocket of space like this.

This was the moment.

If I didn’t say it now, I wouldn’t say it at all. And if I left without telling him… it’d haunt me.

So I looked at him. Right at my big brother. The one who is always here for me when I need it. The guy who would burn the world down if it treated me slightly wrong. His tired face, those lines forming where there used to be none. The small scar near his eyebrow from a fight he got into when he was just a teen, only because a guy looked at me wrong.

“I’m leaving,”

Fuck, it wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

Shane blinked. “The bar?”

“Yeah” I looked away with my chest too heavy “I mean. No.”

“Then what is it?”

“King’s County. I’m moving to Atlanta. After New Year’s.”

The silence that followed landed hard.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe, for a second.

Then he let out a soft curse before asking, “Is this about Dad?”

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s about me.”

I leaned back against the wall, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind me like it might keep me standing. “I’ve been saving for months. Working doubles. Skipping meals. I got a place lined up in Atlanta, maybe. Nothing fancy. But it’s a start.”

Shane’s jaw clenched. “You weren’t gonna tell me?”

“I didn’t know how,” I admitted looking anywhere but into his eyes. “You’ve always looked at me like I’m something you have to keep from falling apart. And I didn’t want you to think I was abandoning you. Because I’m not.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus, Sam…”

“I’m not doing this because I don’t love you,” I said, stepping closer. “I do. You’re the best thing I got in this damn world. But I’m tired of patching up Dad’s holes, he’s fucking draining me to the bone, Shane. I’m tired of waking up in this town and knowing I’m just treading water. This can’t be it, just surviving another day can’t be the reason why I’m here.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat.

“I need something more, Shane. Even if it scares the hell outta me.”

He looked at me for a long time, processing everything I told him. Then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me so tight it knocked the air out of my lungs.

“You’ll always be Trouble,” he murmured against my hair.

“Yeah,” I said, voice breaking, because I had nothing left in me to hold those damn emotions. “But maybe somewhere else, Trouble turns into something better, right?”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. With wet and red eyes, but a proud little smile tugging his lips upwards.

“You better call. Every damn day.”

“I will.”

“And don’t go falling in love with some slick Atlanta asshole who says ‘ma’am’ just to sound polite.”

“I make no promises.”

He smiled now, fuller but it cracked at the corners.

And I realized then — we’d both been holding on to each other so hard, afraid of letting go. But I needed to grow outside of all of this, or I would never survive.

***

December, 24th of this sick year, called 2009.

It was just past ten when I told them all to leave.

Markus had been watching the clock for the last hour, his fingers twitching toward the keys. Mariah was half-asleep at the empty bar, her Santa hat slipping sideways, eyeliner smudged in a way that made her look like she’d fought Christmas itself and lost.

“Go,” I told them, wiping my hands on a bar rag. “Seriously. I’ll close up.”

Markus frowned. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Go home, go be with your family, open cheap wine, watch home alone and tell your moms you love them.”

Mariah stretched. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, Shane will pick me up anyway. Go, go, be happy and shit.”

They hesitated, like maybe they knew better than to leave me alone tonight.

But I used my secret weapon, that same tired, crooked smile I’ve used since I was fifteen and learned that the right smirk could deflect anything too heavy I was hiding inside of my chest.

That made them pack their few things by the locker, and head home, leaving me with just a few tasks to finish before I could finally trade this sad place for my own sad place, home, or if you’d like to call it: Trailer junk.

It was just me at the bar, and the low hum of the freezer in the back kicking back in for the night mixed with the faint buzz of neon against the main door sayin’ we’re closed.

I really liked when there was no one around to pretend I was a functional human being. I’m still a mess in all the wrong places, and all the right ones too. Still Trouble trying to figure out how to just survive another holiday as the only adult in the house that knew how to save money or plan for the future.

Here it was quiet, almost cozy, and peaceful in a way Christmas never really was at home. No slurred yelling, no broken ornaments, no need to smile for someone who’d already ruined the night.

I poured myself a Coke with a splash of the good stuff and sat on the stool behind the counter, legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankle. The streetlights outside painted slow-moving shadows across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, someone set off fireworks — early or late, who the hell knows — and for a second, I let myself believe it was just a normal night.

A normal night before a new life.

I thought of Atlanta. Of maybe splitting rent with Mariah in the near future. Thought of picking up that server job, going home and not having to clean up after anyone but myself, and never again having to explain why I’m still here to someone who knows I shouldn’t be.

I let myself believe in freedom.

And that’s when the front door slammed open.

The jingle of the bell clattered against the sudden force.

I knew that silhouette before I even saw his face.

He was worse than usual. And I’ve seen his sorry ass very very drunk before. He was past that somehow.

“Thought you might be here,” he slurred, stepping in heavy, stumbling steps toward me. “Place looks real nice when it's empty, don’t it?”

My chest tightened. “It’s late, Dad.”

“Oh, now I’m Dad,” he spat. “Not Simon. Not him again. Now I’m Dad.”

I stood, putting the bar between us. “You been drinking?”

“You think I need to be drunk to know what you’re planning?”

I froze.

“What?”

He pointed a shaky finger at me. “You think you’re so smart, Trouble. Think your brother doesn’t talk in his sleep? Think I don’t hear things?”

My mouth goes dry “You went through my things.”

“You’re leaving,” he just ignored what I said. “Running off. Like your goddamn mother.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s not the same.”

“Oh, it’s exactly the same. You think you're better than this place, better than me—"

“I’m trying to live, Simon!” My voice cracked across the bar like a whip. “I’m trying to get out before it kills me!”

He slammed his palm on the counter. “You think this place killed me? No, Trouble. You kids did. You and your goddamn brother with your looks, and your talk, and your fucking disappointment.”

“Don’t put that on me,” I hissed.

“You got your mother’s selfishness,” he growled. “You never wanted to be part of this family. Always too busy dreaming about stars and getting out. And now you’re doing what she did. Leaving me here. Alone.”

I felt the sting in my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall.

“You’ve never been alone,” I said. “Not when you pissed yourself in the hallway. Not when you pawned your own wedding ring. Not when I scrubbed your vomit out of the sink. Not even when I worked doubles just so we could keep the lights on.”

He swayed.

And for a second, I saw something in his eyes. Something like shame, like the man he used to be was still there — the one who taught me how to ride a bike on gravel roads, who made bad grilled cheese and called it gourmet, who used to sing Johnny Cash while cleaning the grease off his hands after a long shift.

But then it was gone.

Snuffed out like a match.

His jaw clenched, and his gaze dropped to the floor before snapping back up, hard.

“You’re gonna take your goddamn paycheck and run off to Atlanta, leaving me like your fucking mother did, little brat.”

The word mother spilled out like a curse that still tasted bitter after all these years.

Once he mindlessly stepped inside the bar where I was, I stepped back instinctively, but there was nowhere to go — just old wood, cold walls, and a closed front door.

“Dad, please, just leave.”

“You were never meant for more,” he hissed in between his teeth. “You think you’re better than this town, than me? Than your family?”

“I think I’m tired,” I answered once my back hit the wall.

“Tired?” he snapped and I winced. “I’m tired. Tired of busting my ass and being looked at like I’m the problem. You’re the one who broke this family.”

I laughed — a sharp, humorless sound. “I was eight when she left. Eight. You were already drunk most nights and mean the rest. I didn’t break shit, you did.”

The first hit sends stars bursting behind my eyes. My cheek burns, and I taste blood before I realize I’ve fallen down. The wood floor is cold against my palms, sticky where the bourbon spilled just hours ago. The second hit is with me on the floor. There’s no trying to stop it, he shouldn’t be this fast when he’s drunk, but his fist finds the side of my temple, splitting my eyebrow open, and I feel the hot blood starting to come out.

“You don’t talk to me like that,” he growled. “Ungrateful little bitch,” His boot connects with my ribs in a sudden movement at least three times, and the only thing I can focus on is the pain blossoming sharp and deep, knocking the air from my lungs. I try to crawl backward, but he grabs my arm — the crack is loud, sickening, and my vision goes white for a second.

I can’t even scream, my breath’s gone, the only thing I manage is a small cry, terrified for the fact that there’s no one around, and that sound must’ve triggered something in him.

His face twisted, and he shoved me back hard.

I hit the side counter with a thud. Pain exploded in my shoulder, white-hot and spreading like fire. I feel my legs buckling as I fall, too in pain to stand up. The blood came out fast from just above my left eye, and my body hit the floor.

It’s weird how my brain works around the blinding pain, as if I could only process one thing at a time. I noticed how I couldn’t move my arm. There’s pain flooding down into my ribcage and up into my throat and around my pelvis. I tried to scramble back, but something was wrong.

“Please—” I try to say, but it comes out as a choke.

He’s out of himself. It’s like the faint light inside of him has finally snapped shut, leaving only rage and this unreasoning anger against someone who he should be protecting.

“You ungrateful bitch,” he muttered. “I should’ve left you with her.” He grabs me by the collar, drags me up, slams me against the wall. My head hits something hard making my whole vision tilt. His spit lands on my cheek when he yells, but I don’t even hear the words anymore — just noise, wet and furious.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think of Shane. Of what he’d do if he walked in now. Of how Mama left, and maybe she was right to. Maybe she knew this was what staying would mean.

My knees give out, and I hit the floor again.

The last thing I see before everything blurs is the Christmas lights in the corner. Those are the cheap ones I strung up for the regulars, ‘cus they like the feeling of the holiday season. They were flickering over broken glass and blood on the floor, making everything look unreal.

Rick’s POV I don’t remember what started it, and that alone says more than anything we actually said out loud.

It had been building for weeks—maybe longer than that—and by the time it finally broke the surface, it didn’t come from one thing. It came from everything. From the quiet dinners where neither of us had much to say, or the nights I came home late and told her I was tired instead of telling her the truth, whatever that even was anymore. Even the way she’d started looking at me like she was waiting for me to either come back to her or leave for good.

Carl was asleep down the hall, and that fact sat between us like a warning we both understood but chose to ignore in our own ways. I kept my voice low because of him, because I couldn’t stand the thought of him waking up and hearing us like this, but keeping it low didn’t make it gentler. If anything, it made everything feel tighter, more controlled, like something was being held back that was only going to come out worse later.

“You’re barely here anymore.”

Lori didn’t raise her voice when she said it. She didn’t need to. The words carried enough weight on their own, and the way she stood there, arms crossed, shoulders drawn in just slightly, made it clear this wasn’t a passing complaint. She’d been holding onto this for a while.

I leaned back against the kitchen counter, letting my hands rest against the edge like I needed something solid to anchor my thoughts. My eyes drifted toward the sink, toward a plate I hadn’t bothered to wash and a glass sitting beside it, like there was something in that small mess I could focus on instead of her.

“I’m right here,” I replied, but even as I said it, I could hear how empty it sounded. Just a response I’d given too many times already.

Her mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Your body is, Rick.”

I kept my gaze steady, even though I could feel the truth of it pressing in from all sides. I had been there less. Not always physically, but in every other way that mattered.

“I’ve been working,” the fact escaped me as I was pushing off the counter just enough to stand up straighter. “You know that. It’s been long shifts, and—”

“I know you’ve been working,” she cut in, and there was something sharper under her tone now, something closer to frustration than hurt. “I’m not talking about your job, Rick. I’m talking about everything else.”

I looked at her then, and for a second I saw how tired she was. Not just tonight. Not just from this. Tired in a way that comes from waiting too long for something to change.

It never did.

“What does that even mean?” I asked, quieter now, not because I didn’t want to argue, but because I didn’t trust myself if I pushed any harder.

“It means you leave before I wake up some mornings,” she said, taking a step closer, like she needed me to hear this without any distance between us. “It means you come home and you’re somewhere else, even when you’re sitting right there at the table. It means I try to talk to you and you give me half an answer and then shut down like the conversation’s over.”

I dragged a hand over the back of my neck, feeling the tension sitting there as a rock pressing down the dirt.

“I’m just tired, Lori.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew they weren’t enough.

Her expression shifted, as if she’d expected that answer and was already disappointed by it at the same time.

“You’ve been tired for months,” she said. “People don’t disappear into ‘tired,’ Rick. They choose to.”

“I ain’t disappearing,” I counter it, my voice tightening despite myself. “I’m doing what I need to do. For this family.”

“For this family?” she repeated, and this time there was a bitter edge to it. “You think this is what that looks like? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re already halfway out the door.”

I could’ve argued. I could’ve told her she was wrong, that she was reading too much into it, that she didn’t understand the pressure, the hours, the weight of everything sitting on my shoulders.

But none of that would’ve been honest.

So I didn’t say it.

Instead, I just stood there, feeling the space between us stretch wider with every second I stayed quiet.

Lori watched me, waiting.

And when nothing came, something in her face gave way.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, almost to herself.

I exhaled slowly, my chest feeling tight, like there was something stuck there I couldn’t force out.

“This ain’t a fight we should be having tonight,” I said, more carefully this time, trying to steady the situation before it slipped any further.

She let out a soft, humorless breath.

“Then when?” she asked. “Because there’s always a reason to push it off, isn’t there? There’s always something more important than this.”

I glanced toward the hallway again, toward Carl’s door, still closed, still quiet.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” I said, though I wasn’t sure she’d believe me anymore.

“It is,” she said. “And I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

The room fell into silence after that, one of those thick and uncomfortable ones, the kind that doesn’t give you anywhere to hide.

I felt it then. A weird ache inside my chest pulling me to get out of there.

It had been there earlier too, but it was faint and easy to ignore before. Now? It felt stronger, sitting low inside my gut, twisting just enough to make it hard to focus on anything else.

Something wasn’t right.

I couldn’t explain it. There wasn’t a clear reason for it, nothing I could point to and say this is why. But it was there all the same, persistent, insistent, like a thought I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried.

I straightened slowly, my decision forming before I could fully justify it.

“I’m gonna go out for a bit,” I said.

Lori let out a short breath, something close to a laugh but without any real humor behind it.

“Of course you are.”

I grabbed my jacket from the chair, my keys from the counter, feeling the cold metal press into my palm as I closed my hand around them.

“I just need some air,” I added, though even to me it sounded like an excuse.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less certain. “You always do.”

I paused at the door, my hand resting against the frame for a second longer than it needed to.

Part of me wanted to turn back. To say something that would fix this, or at least keep it from breaking any further tonight.

But that feeling in my gut didn’t let up.

If anything, it sharpened.

I looked back at my wife. She hadn’t moved. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself now, like she was holding something in place.

“You’re really going?” she asked.

I nodded once.

“Yeah.”

She held my gaze for a second, then looked away.

“Don’t stay gone too long,” she said, and there was something quieter under that, something I didn’t have the courage to examine too closely.

“I won’t,” I answered.

Then I stepped out into the cold.

The night air hit harder than I expected, sharp and clean, and I pulled in a deep breath as if it could my head from this bad feeling.

It didn’t.

If anything, it made everything feel more immediate.

I got into the truck, the engine turning over after a brief hesitation, the low rumble settling in around me as I rested my hands on the steering wheel. For a moment, I just sat there, staring straight ahead, trying to figure out where I was even going.

But the truth was, I already knew.

I just hadn’t wanted to admit it yet.

King’s County was quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that feels unnatural, like the town had emptied out without telling anyone. Christmas lights blinked softly on a few houses as I passed, colors reflecting faintly off the windshield, decorations sitting untouched in front yards.

Everything looked the way it was supposed to.

It just didn’t feel like it.

My grip on the wheel tightened as I turned onto a road I knew well enough to drive without thinking, my body making the choice before my mind could argue against it.

I shouldn’t have been going this way.

There was no good reason for it. Nothing I could explain if someone asked.

But that feeling hadn’t gone away.

It had settled deeper instead, heavier, more urgent, like something was already in motion and I was late to it.

I thought of her without meaning to.

Just fragments of that Halloween night.

A kiss I hadn't dared to relive inside my head. The way she looked at people straight on, like she didn’t have time for pretending. Specially me.

The way something in me had shifted that night I crossed a line I hadn’t meant to. But Trouble pushed her way through every wall I put up.

I pushed the thought down before it could take shape into something more.

This wasn’t about that.

It couldn’t be.

I told myself I was just checking in. That it was nothing more than a habit, a sense of responsibility, something tied to the fact that I’d known her for years.

But my foot pressed harder on the gas anyway.

The bar came into view sooner than I expected, the dim lights inside casting a dull glow through the windows.

I slowed the truck, my eyes scanning the lot out of instinct more than intention.

And then I saw it.

Simon’s truck.

Parked wrong. Crooked, like it had been left there without care.

The driver’s side door wasn’t fully shut.

Something in my chest dropped hard.

That feeling, whatever it was, spiked sharp enough to make my pulse kick up.

I didn’t turn the engine off right away. Just sat there, staring at it, my mind trying to catch up to what my gut had already decided.

He drank. I knew that.

But not like this.

Not alone.

Not tonight.

I reached for the door handle, then stopped, my fingers tightening around it as I listened.

Nothing.

No music.

No voices.

Too quiet.

I stepped out, the cold biting into my skin again, but I barely registered it now. My focus had narrowed, every sense tuned to something I couldn’t see yet but knew was there.

Each step toward the bar felt heavier, slower, like I was walking into something I wouldn’t be able to undo.

I reached the door, my hand hovering just above the handle.

For a moment, I stood there, the weight of it settling in.

Then I pushed it open. One movement sharp and quick. It swings open easier than it should, and that alone told me something was wrong. Because at that time of the night, Sam would be smart enough to keep it locked.

The bar’s lights are low enough that I have to sharp my focus, the overhead lights half-dead since I don’t even know when, casting that dull yellow glow over everything. One of the bulbs flickers, buzzing faint under the thick silence. The place smells wrong. Not just stale beer and old wood like it always does, but something sharper underneath it.

Metal.

It takes me half a step inside before it clicks.

Blood.

There’s too much of it.

It’s on the floor in uneven streaks, dark against the worn wood, dragged and smeared like something’s been moving through it. It catches the light in a way that makes my stomach turn before my mind can catch up.

Then I hear it.

A dull, sickening thud from a hit, followed by a small cry.

“You think you can just walk out on me?” Simon slurs, his words thick, unstable, full of blinding rage. “You’ll learn your lesson, girl.”

Another weird sound of something breaking. Not anything of the bar, but of someone.

My body moves before I fully register it.

I round the corner of the bar, and that’s when I see them.

And everything inside me snaps into something I don’t recognize.

Sam is on the ground.

Not sitting. Not trying to get up. She’s on the ground in a way that tells me she couldn’t do anything, even if she wanted to.

Her body is twisted slightly onto her side, a weird angle of someone who fell and never made it back up. One arm is wrong—bent at an angle that doesn’t belong to anything living, her sleeve soaked through, dark with blood that’s still wet enough to shine under the flickering light. Her face—

Jesus.

There’s blood along her brow, split open just above her eye, running down into it, pooling at the corner before slipping along her cheek. Her eye is already swelling, skin turning dark beneath it, her breathing shallow and uneven like every inhale costs her something.

And he’s still standing over her.

Still moving.

Still hitting her uncontrollably.

The sound of his fist connecting with her again doesn’t register as a separate thing. It blends into everything else—the blood, the smell, the way her body barely reacts anymore.

I don’t think of anything else. Don’t weight my force, and most importantly: I don’t hesitate.

I’m on him before I even feel my feet move.

My hand catches the back of his shirt and I yank him off her with everything I’ve got, slamming him hard into the nearest solid thing, which is the old jukebox behind him that cracks on impact, glass splintering, the lights inside it flickering out in a shower of sparks.

“You touch her again—”

My voice comes out rough, louder than I expect, shaking with something I don’t bother trying to control.

My forearm drives into his chest, pinning him there, keeping him from moving back toward her.

His head snaps up, eyes unfocused, glassy with drink, but there’s something else in them too. Rage. The kind that don’t care where it lands.

“She’s my daughter!” he spits, breath hot and sour, words spraying between us.

“Then what the hell are you doing?” I snap back, my grip tightening without thinking, my body already leaning into the fight like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. “You’re supposed to protect her, not do this to her.”

He laughs.

It’s broken a broken sound that triggers something primal inside my brain.

My fist connects with his jaw before I decide to do it.

Just once, but hard enough that I feel it up my arm.

His head jerks to the side, there’s a tooth flying from his mouth to the ground, and his body goes slack for half a second, but he doesn’t drop.

And there’s a part of me. A savage part, loud and immediate, that wants to keep on going.

To put him on the ground and make him feel even a fraction of what he just did to her.

My hand tightens in his shirt again, pulling him forward, ready to drive him back into the machine, into the wall, into anything that’ll take the force.

But Sam makes a sound. Trying to call for something, not very clear, but it cuts through the haze I’m in.

My head snaps to the side, she’s still there. Struggling to breathe. One eye bloody on the inside, and too much blood on the outside too.

The way her chest barely rises. The way her body stays too still after it does, like it’s struggling to keep up. The way her arm lies there, completely wrong, completely useless.

She’s not fighting anything anymore. No, she’s barely holding on.

And just like that, the choice is made.

Priority.

I shove Simon back hard, letting him drop, his body hitting the floor with a dull, heavy sound.

“Get the hell out,” I bark, the words coming out harsh enough to scare him.

He stumbles, trying to catch his balance, eyes still wild, still unfocused. For a second, I think he might come at me again.

Part of me almost hopes he does.

But he doesn’t, and ai don’t even have time to watch the direction he goes off. He’s by the door and I’m already moving toward her body.

“Sam.”

My voice drops the second I say her name, like something in me shifts the moment I’m close enough to reach her.

I drop to my knees beside her, the wood beneath them sticky with her blood, my hands hovering for half a second before I touch her, afraid of doing more damage than what’s already been done.

“Hey—hey, look at me.”

I keep my voice steady as I can, even though there’s something tight in my chest making it harder to breathe.

Her eyes move first.

Slow.

Like it takes everything she has just to focus.

They find me and I want to cry right then.

“Stay with me,” I say, softer now, my hand coming up carefully to her face, avoiding the cut, the swelling, trying to find somewhere I won’t hurt her just by touching her. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

Her breath catches, uneven, and I see the way it hurts her.

“I—” she tries, her voice barely there, breaking on the first sound.

“Don’t—don’t push it,” I tell her quickly. “Just breathe. That’s all you gotta do right now. Just breathe.”

My eyes move over her again, taking it in whether I want to or not.

The arm— My God, it’s bad.

Broken in three different places from where I can see. Then my sight moves to her ribs, and It's clear how every shallow breath takes effort. The way she’s protecting one side without even meaning to—

There’s more.

There’s something deeper going on. I have to move fast.

“Alright,” I murmur, more to myself than her, trying to keep my head straight. “Alright, I got you. I got you.”

My jacket comes off, and with a piece of an old chair, I manage to steady her arm as good as I can to move her from here.

I slide one arm carefully under her shoulders, the other moving to support her legs, adjusting as gently as I can, even though nothing about this feels gentle.

The second I lift her, she gasps.

Pain.

“I know,” I say quickly, my voice dropping closer. Only if that would help somehow. “I know, I know. I got you. I’m not gonna drop you. Hear me?”

Her head tilts slightly toward me, eyes half-lidded now, but still there.

Still fighting.

I hold onto that and carry her out.

Not thinking about the blood getting on me or anything really, except getting her somewhere safe.

That same cold wind hits us both when I push through the door, but she doesn’t react to it. Her weight shifts slightly in my arms, lighter than it should be, like she’s already pulling away from herself just to get through the pain.

“Stay with me,” I say again as I reach the truck, my voice tighter now despite everything I’m trying to hold together. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

I get the door open, ease her in as carefully as I can, adjusting her so her arm doesn’t move much, or her ribs don’t take more than they already have.

Every second feels like too long.

Every breath she takes feels like it might be the one that doesn’t come back.

I move around to the driver’s side fast, sliding in, my hands already shaking more than I want them to.

The engine roars to life.

And I don’t wait.

I drive.

I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare

#the walking dead #twd #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl dixon twd #rick grimes smut #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes #daryl twd #twd fanfiction #twd rick #shane walsh #Shane Little Sister #Walsh #brother's best friend #Walker

allthingswhumpyandangsty

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A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE | PROLOGUE

CW: GRIEF, MENTION OF WAR, MENTION OF DEATH, PTSD, ANXIETY ATTACK, EARLY 20'S VIBES.

2.5K WORDS

masterlist | next chapter

PROLOGUE - LONDON TO BIRMINGHAM

The kettle had started screaming before my anxiety did.

It rattled on the iron stove as if it meant to wake the entire building, though there wasn’t much of anyone left to wake. These old buildings were getting more expensive each day after the war. Almost impossible to keep up with the rent. Mrs. Godfrey downstairs had moved out in November right after her son came back from France without half his leg. The butcher’s wife across the hall left in January — said London was too full of ghosts.

I suppose that makes two of us then.

The kettle kept on screaming a little longer than necessary that morning. It filled the silence at least. Good, I thought, because I’ve learned that silence is when memories get loudest inside these walls.

Same smell of coal smoke and old lavender soap I didn’t bother to change. The wallpaper peeled in one corner above the narrow bed — I’d meant to fix it when we first moved in.

When we first moved in.

I closed my eyes. Memories too loud again.

We.

There it was.

I turned the stove off and poured the water into the chipped porcelain teacup Charles had bought me the week before he shipped out. Blue rim. Small crack near the handle. I always held it carefully, like if I didn’t, it might shatter and take whatever was left of him with it.

I carried it to the window.

Central London was already awake — carts rattling over cobblestones, boys shouting headlines about strikes and Irish unrest, the world insisting on moving forward whether or not I wished to.

I lit a cigarette before I’d even taken the first sip of the tea. The match flared bright against the skin of my finger, a reminder that even though I didn’t want to, I still felt, and I liked that moment — that small violence against my own skin. It matched something untouched inside me.

I wasn’t meant to smoke too much. Charles hated it.

“You look like a French film actress when you do that,” he’d laugh, stealing it from my fingers. “Too clever for your own good.”

I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the cracked glass.

“Well,” I murmured to the empty room, “you’re not here to scold me anymore.”

Empty words against the silence didn’t break me the way they used to. That frightened me more than my own grief ever had.

Grief, at least, proved he’d existed for the short while we were together.

My eyes scanned the room, empty now, with just a suitcase laying open on the bed behind me. Three dresses, one wool coat, some old pieces of clothes I had, and two of my nursing uniforms folded precisely. A photograph tucked between the linens as well — Charles in his uniform, stiff-backed and proud, pretending not to be afraid.

I had watched him leave from this very window. His trembling hands waving a farewell to his fiancee that smiled weakly to his figure. A heavy feeling told me that morning was the last time I was going to see my fiance.

I had smiled either way, because I didn’t know what else to do. That’s the cruel thing about love — sometimes you feel the ending before it arrives.

A knock sounded at the door pulling me from these memories. I already knew who it was before she even said something. My mother never knocked softly, thanks to the fact that she never had time to be soft, not as a single mother in this world shaped by men.

I crushed the cigarette in the saucer and crossed the room to open the door.

She stood there in her dark coat, hat pinned too tightly, lips pressed into a thin line that meant she’d rehearsed whatever she was about to say.

“You’re still here, my dear” she said.

“Where else would I be?”

“Birmingham train leaves at eleven.”

“It’s half past nine.”

Her eyes flicked over my shoulder into the flat. She’d never liked it, it was too small for her liking, too drafty… And too close to the life I’d built without her permission.

“You don’t have to go, you know?” she said as a last effort to protect me.

“Yes, I do.”

“You could transfer to St. Mary’s. Stay in London, you know the staff here. They’d take you in a heartbeat, you earned that with those medals…”

“I know the ghosts here, mother” I corrected gently. “And I don’t want to with them anymore.”

She looked at me then, eyes already a little wet, a proper look to the girl she raised. And for a moment, she wasn’t my mother — she was just a woman who had watched too many men leave and not return since she was little.

“Birmingham,” she said quietly. “It’s too rough.”

“I’ll be in a hospital, not a boxing ring.”

The joke didn’t make her smile..

“They say that gang there—”

“I’m not going there for gangs,” I cut in sharply. “I’m going because they offered proper surgical training. Because they don’t treat nurses like decorative furniture. Because I need… I need something new.”

Because I cannot breathe in this flat without feeling his presence in every corner. But I didn’t say that part.

She stepped closer to me without asking and walked to the small mantel. Her fingers brushed the photograph frame. Charles again, always him.

“You’re only twenty-three,” she said. “You’ve buried enough already.”

“And I’ll bury more,” I replied evenly. “That’s the job.”

Her mouth tightened even more.

“I can’t keep you safe, and your father—”

“No,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “You can’t. And don’t bring him up”

We both went still.

My father had left when I was fourteen. No war excuse for him, and not a single uniform to give him an out. Just a suitcase and a woman with brighter hair than my mother’s.

Men leaving was not new to me. To us.

“I’ll be fine,” I softened my voice a little. “I can handle myself.”

She studied me the way one inspects porcelain for cracks, but I wouldn’t let it show, at least not now when I was so close to start over.

“You’ve become hard, Margaret.” she stated the fact.

“No,” I answered with the tiniest twitch to my mouth. “I’ve become careful.”

A heart could only take so much before it cracks. Mine was at this bleak point where it craved a change. She knew it, and I knew it too.

Outside, a carriage rolled past loudly, wheels splashing through last night’s rain.

My mother reached into her handbag and handed me a small envelope. Money, of course.

“I won’t need it.”

“Take it anyway.” She insisted, shoving the small amount into my hands.

So I did. Because some battles aren’t worth winning.

We packed the last of my things in silence. The flat grew barer with each folded memory. By the time the suitcase snapped shut, the room looked like it had never belonged to anyone at all.

At the door, I paused.

I looked back once.

The bed where we’d laughed, where the plans of a big family grew just to be crushed by a cruel war. The window where we’d sat down to drink a cup of cheap whiskey together, planning a wedding that would never happen, and the damn stove where he’d tried and failed to cook eggs each and every morning of our month together.

I pressed my fingers to the cold wall.

“Goodbye,” I whispered.

To Charles, the boy that had loved me so fiercely. A farewell to the girl I’d been before getting shipped to volunteer as well, to learn medical procedures, and to stitch men back together.

My mother touched my arm.

“Margaret.”

I squared my shoulders.

“I’m ready.”

That door was closed for one last time.

There’s no turning back now.

I didn’t have much to work with, so the lowest fare was the only thing I could afford for now. And let me tell you, third-class compartments smells like damp wool and boiled cabbage. A mix that lingered around making me want to throw up a little, but I held.

The seats were narrow wooden benches with cushions that had long since surrendered any claim to comfort. A mother with two boys occupied the far corner, their boots muddy, and their voices too loud for the size of the carriage. Across from me sat a man in a threadbare coat who kept coughing into a handkerchief already stained with rust at the edges.

I placed my suitcase on my lap instead of the rack above, not trusting the rack to keep it together the whole three hours of travelling.

The train shrieked when it pulled away from the platform — metal screaming against metal — and I felt it in my teeth.

I kept my favorite gloves on, always did it when I’m too anxious. It makes my hands feel contained, as if the shaking might not find its way out of my body.

London slid past the window in smudges of grey bricks and soot. Chimneys shaped like broken teeth around every corner, and laundry lines strung between buildings like surrender flags.

I watched it all until the platform disappeared in the distance. And then I exhaled.

Breath caught halfway down my chest, a warning in the format of a first spike of terrors my own mind kept on playing on repeat.

It always begins in my ribs — a tightening, like someone winding a key inside me. Then the thoughts begin to scatter.

You don’t know anyone there. What if the hospital isn’t what they promised? What if you can’t sleep just like you couldn’t in London? What if you never stop leaving things behind?

I reached into my coat pocket before the panic could climb any higher and found my cigarette case.

But something made me hesitate. The mother was watching me and her boys were staring openly now, curious.

I slipped the case back into my pocket.

Instead, I pressed my thumb into the inside of my wrist — hard enough to ground myself but not enough to bruise. A trick I’d learned after the news of Charles’ death got to me. Provoke pain sharp enough for the brain to register and small enough to not be overwhelming.

The countryside began to replace the bricks now.

Fields after fields. Flat and pale under a low grey sky. Fences cutting the earth into obedient pieces.

The man across from me let out a wet cough again.

The nurse in me thought faster than the passenger could ever do, so I leaned forward slightly. “How long has it been like that?”

He blinked at me, startled that someone was talking to him.

“Like what?”

“The cough.”

He hesitated, embarrassed. “Since the beginning of winter.”

I hummed low in acknowledgment, “Fever?”

“Sometimes.”

I nodded once. Tuberculosis sat heavy in the poorer districts these days, all because of the war feeding it well.

“You should see someone in Birmingham,” I said. “If that’s where you’re headed.”

He gave a short laugh. “And pay with what?”

Fair enough.

I swallowed the rest of my advice.

The train rattled harder as we gained speed. Every jolt made my suitcase shift on my knees, so I tightened my grip around it.

I remember taking this same route when I was shipped out, and its very likely that Charles took the same one as well.

That thought arrived uninvited.

I imagined him sitting somewhere in this same train, boots polished, shoulders squared. Pretending bravery for the benefit of strangers that would bleed with him somewhere I don’t even know.

That second spike hit harder than I expected, my pulse climbed fast — too fast — until I could hear it in my ears. My breath shortened, not because I wanted it to, but because my body had decided it was necessary.

Not here.

Not in front of strangers.

I stood abruptly, carriage swaying harder than it had the right to.

“Lavatory,” I muttered to no one in particular.

The corridor between compartments was narrow and smelled worse than the seating. Coal smoke drifted in through cracks in the doors. The train roared beneath my feet.

I locked myself inside the tiny lavatory and leaned both hands against the metal basin.

The mirror was scratched and unforgiving.

“You are fine,” I told my reflection.

My eyes looked too large in my face, alert in the worst way, like an animal listening for gunfire in the middle of the woods.

I removed one glove, with trembling fingers, “Stop,” I whispered, as if they might obey.

The train lurched again, and the motion tipped something loose inside me.

It was something I didn’t even think about, my fingers moved on their own, reaching for the cigarette case. Struck the match. Light up the tip.

The flame flared bright in the small space, lighting the walls amber.

I inhaled deeply… Too deeply.

Coughed once with a gasp. But the nicotine did its work — slow, steady, dragging my pulse back down from the ceiling.

Smoke filled the cramped space. It curled around my face and blurred the edges of the mirror until I didn’t have to look at myself quite so clearly.

“I am not fourteen,” I murmured to the air “I am not newly widowed.” I kept going as the cigarette burned bright “And I am not afraid.”

The last one was a lie.

But I’ve learned lies can be useful.

When the cigarette burned down to the filter, I crushed it into the basin and ran water over the evidence. My glove came back to my bare hand, same hand that straightened my coat. And then I lifted my chin.

By the time I returned to the compartment, the boys were asleep against their mother’s shoulder.

The coughing man had closed his eyes too.

The countryside had shifted — fewer fields now. More factories. Tall black silhouettes against a sky already darkening though it wasn’t yet afternoon.

Smoke.

So much smoke on that poor sky.

Birmingham announced itself before the conductor could have the chance to.

Something tightened in my chest again, but this time it wasn’t panic, or anxiety. It was anticipation.

This city didn’t know me, or the ghosts I had.

It didn’t know I’d watched soldiers bleed out on tables while trying not to think of one particular uniform.

It didn’t know I woke some nights convinced I’d heard his boots at the door, or gunshots too close that could only be heard if you’re inside my mind.

Here, I could be simply Margaret Allen.

A nurse. Twenty-three years of age. Capable enough to have earned a couple of war medals.

The train began to slow down, the brakes screeched like something wounded.

I looked out the window as the buildings drew closer — brick stacked high and close together, narrow streets, men in flat caps, women with sleeves rolled to their elbows.

Not elegant as London was. Not gentle either.

This was something alive, breathing on its own after years of trouble.

My fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase.

“All right,” I whispered “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Taglist opened.

MASTERLIST | A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE

A WHISKEY AND A SMOKE Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: Margaret Allen has already lived through more than most people twice her age.

It doesn’t.

Birmingham is smoke, steel, and secrets. And at the center of it stands Thomas Shelby.

She smokes when her hands start to shake. He lights cigarettes when the ghosts get too loud.

Tags: War, PTSD, Grief, loss, anxiety attacks, violence, eventual smut MDNI. slow-ish burn? It takes place around 1921, Age gap (Margaret is 23, Tommy is 31). I'll tag each chapter if there's more warnings. (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix). A/N: I had this idea a couple of years back. Kinda forgot about it until I saw the trailer for the Peaky Blinders Movie. So here I come with some Tommy Shelby from season 2 foward.

START HERE:

00 - LONDON TO BIRMINGHAM 01 - GHOSTS THAT FOLLOW 02 - 03 - ON GOING...

ironinkpen

me, reading my own wips: oh wow i hope the author finishes this

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 07

CW: Aftermath of something wrong, but good? ; Thanksgiving vibes ; Bad Father/Daughter Relationship ; Yearning ; Mentions of Cheating ; Alcohol and food consumption.

7.1K words

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

07 - Thanks Fucking Giving

Kings’s County, November/2009

Halloween always marked a change for me, and after my birthday, the rest of every single year moved like molasses.

Slow days, sometimes heavy in a kind of way, either because I was struggling with something, or because I had to take care of people.

Fall had finally settled in for real — not the fake kind we get for two days in October, but the true Georgia kind. Mornings dipped colder, frost crawling up the windows by the time I wake up, sending chills all over my body because the heater of the trailer never worked good enough. The air smelled like wet leaves and chimney smoke, squirrels lost their damn minds and the trailer park turned into a crunchy carpet of reds, oranges, and browns.

I worked every night I could. Double shifts whenever it was possible.

Babysitting in the mornings and sometimes even late afternoons if someone needed me to. There was a woman, Melissa, over in lot seventeen with twin toddlers and no car — I watched them three times that week alone earning more money than a weekend in the bar could ever give to me. Another desperate mom who had to work on weekends left her boy with me for six hours on Saturdays while she cleaned houses somewhere around Augusta by Richmond County.

Leo came by once a week now, and he was my favorite constant chaos.

Little guy didn’t say much, but when he laughed, it shook the walls of the trailer and for a minute, I didn’t feel like the world was drowning me the way it had been lately.

Shane on the other hand, barely came home.

I knew he was working and growing professionally, but I also knew he wasn’t working that much. He smelled like too much cologne and too little sleep, and sometimes I heard him sneak in around three a.m., singing something under his breath like that would cover up whatever bed he’d crawled out of.

Dad was… worse.

Drinking straight out the bottle, even during the day. Slurring half his sentences when he tried to talk to us, asking for money I didn’t have, and yelling when I didn’t give it to him like a personal bank.

One night, I found him passed out in the yard, still holding a half-eaten sandwich he must’ve made hours before. I covered him with a blanket and didn’t say a word. I was too tired to do something else, but he was still my family.

One person disappeared from my day to day. And understandably so.

Sheriff Rick Grimes did check on me after I dry humped him, didn’t come by the bar to drive me home. Didn’t show up at all.

I was also avoiding him the best I could.

My birthday party broke something loose around us. Avoiding having to talk about it was the best option in this situation. But I missed him.

Rick wasn’t just a crush. I really enjoyed his company whenever I had him alone. Talking to him always made me forget a little how shitty my life was.

Saturday I got home just past one in the afternoon after a morning watching kids and two long errands on foot. The sun was low already — it never stayed high for long anymore. Golden light fell across the trailers like the whole place was stuck in a fading photograph.

There was an envelope tucked into the screen door.

Cream-colored with neat cursive writing. An Invitation…

I stared at it for a second before even pulling it free.

My hands were cracked from soap and cold and too many hours working and cleaning shit for someone else. My eyes burned from not sleeping well at night, either from the cold or just the thoughts on my life. My chest ached in that old way, as if I’d been holding my breath for weeks and didn’t know how to stop.

In the paper the sentences were simple:

Thanksgiving at the farm. Like every year. Hope you’ll come. Louise and Thomas send their love. Dinner starts at 3pm. Tell Shane and your dad, too. We’d love to see you all. – Lori

That was it.

Almost like everything was still fine, and as if I hadn’t kissed her husband for long minutes in the dark.

It was just the same damn tradition, like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Last year, I helped Louise peel sweet potatoes in her kitchen while Carl showed me his drawings from school. I drank a glass of wine with Thomas and Shane while Rick sat across from me and made me laugh until my stomach hurt.

This year, though…

I couldn’t even look Rick in the eye.

I folded the invitation and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Stood there on the porch for a long second, just listening to the leaves rustle across the yard like whispers I couldn’t quite make out.

Maybe we’d go. Maybe we wouldn’t.

Or maybe it was time someone finally broke tradition.

***

I tossed my jacket over the back of a chair, cracked open the fridge, and grabbed one of Shane’s remaining two Bud Lights. If he wanted it, he should’ve bought more. My feet hurt. My shoulders were knots constantly aching. I watched three kids under five today and cleaned up two different kinds of bodily fluids. I earned this damn beer.

Shane was sitting at the table, fiddling with something on his phone. He looked up as I dropped into the seat across from him, his eyes narrowing in that big-brother kind of way that always made me want to lie, even when I didn’t have anything to hide.

“You look like hell,” he said.

I cracked the beer open. “Thanks, sweetheart. You always know how to flatter a lady.”

He smirked, then leaned back in the chair. “Busy day?”

“Long,” I muttered, taking a swig.

He studied me for a second too long. I could feel it — his eyes reading more than I wanted to show. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the invitation, already tossing it across the table without a word.

He picked it up, read it, and raised a brow. “Thanksgiving at the Grimes farm, huh?”

“Mm.”

“They do that every year.”

“Yup.”

“You gonna go?”

I took another drink. “Dunno.”

He frowned. “What d’you mean you don’t know?”

I shrugged.

Shane leaned forward, arms on the table now, watching me like I was a case he hadn’t cracked yet. “Sam.”

“What?”

“You’re acting weird lately.”

I snorted. “That’s rich coming from you. You smell like a perfume counter and haven’t been home before midnight all week.”

He didn’t take the bait. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m tired, Shane. That’s not dodging, that’s life.”

“You wanna go to this?” He waved the paper in the air, and set it in front of me.

I glanced at the it again. The words blurred a little, so I blinked slow.

“I just…” I started, then shut my mouth.

He waited for me to find the words.

I sighed. “I’m not really in the mood for all that happy family stuff this year. Alright? It’s not about them. I just… I’m too tired.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

Shane sat back again, watching me like he wanted to say something. And it was almost like he could feel the parts I left out. But after a long second, he nodded. “Alright.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That easy?”

He shrugged making a face. “You say you’re tired, I believe you. I’m not an asshole.”

“You’re a little bit of an asshole,” I said, cracking a smile to ease the tension.

“Yeah, well. You’re a pain in my ass. So I guess we’re even.”

He reached over and grabbed the last beer from the fridge. Cracked it open and tipped it toward me like a toast.

“To surviving another year,” he said. “And to Thanksgiving dinners we can bail on if we feel like it.”

I clinked my bottle against his. “Cheers.”

We fell into this comfortable cadence for that night. Thanksgiving wasn’t mentioned again, neither was the Grimes’ family and their “happy”— fake — little world.

For the night we just played a card game together until we both were too sleepy for something else.

***

Alright, the list is simple right?! Should be in and out in no time.

Eggs, mustard, apples, the damn chicken because turkey would be too much food and too much money to spend…

But the pie crust wasn’t anywhere in sight. The grocery store was filled with the desperate last minute — the day before thanksgiving — shoppers, or if you’d like to categorize them: Tired parents grabbing boxed stuffing, teenagers scoping the wine aisle like it’s the final boss, and single people with not much family around just trying to make something simple.

I pushed my cart slow, filled mostly canned things, two boxes of mac and cheese, a couple of sad chicken breasts that looked like they had been stepped on, but it was on sale, and I could make it work.

The plan was to make something kind of Thanksgiving-y that didn’t break the budget. Shane had said he was in charge of the beer and maybe some mashed potatoes, if he remembered. Which meant I needed to plan like he wouldn’t.

I was eyeing a jar of store-brand gravy when I heard my name being called.

“Sam!”

I turned, and there was Carl, grinning ear to ear and already halfway running down the aisle toward me.

I blinked, stunned for a second. “Carl Grimes, are you stalking me?”

He laughed and barreled into me for a hug, nearly knocking a can of cranberry sauce out of my cart. His arms wrapped around my waist like it’d been months instead of just a few weeks.

I hugged him back without thinking. “Hey, kiddo.”

When he pulled away, he was already talking a mile a minute.

“Are you coming to the farm Tomorrow? Grandma said she made a pie just for you. She made two, actually, but one is mostly for Grandpa—”

“Carl,” came a voice behind him.

My chest stilled for a second. Then my cheeks were on fire.

He was walking down the aisle toward us, holding a basket with a few things in it — apples, canned corn, a box of crackers, and he looked… the same, but tired. More grey at his hair and a shadow behind his blue eyes.

When he saw me, his step faltered.

But he didn’t turn away. Actually, he couldn’t, as we were supposed to pretend everything was fine.

“Hey,” he said, stopping beside Carl.

“Hey,” I echoed, my voice too tight.

There was this whole gap of silence after that. Carl, oblivious, looked between us like we were the last two puzzle pieces on the game board.

“You shopping for Tomorrow?” Rick asked.

“Trying to. I don’t know.” I gestured vaguely at my cart. “It’s not much.”

Rick nodded. “Still more than what we grabbed.”

I gave a soft huff of a laugh. “So business as usual.”

He smiled then, barely there, but enough to set my chest on fire.

Carl tugged at my sleeve. “You‘re not coming?”

I hesitated. Hard to explain why and make it believable to that kid. All I wanted right now was to disappear.

Both Grimes’ pair of eyes were on me.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcomed with my dad… He only has me and Shane.”

Carl’s brow furrowed and he cut me off. “You’re always invited, bring him too.”

And then Rick, voice low but steady, added, “Yeah, you should come, Sam.”

I looked up at him. Knowing what kind of war he was battling inside of his mind. One side wanted me to be near, and the other side too scared of what could happen.

I swallowed. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

Carl blinked. “Why would it be weird?”

Neither of us answered him.

Rick’s voice was quiet. “It wouldn’t be weird, Sam. It’d be... right. Just like every year.”

My throat tightened. Suddenly the store felt too hot. I wanted to say 'no' more than anything, but Carl’s eyes were too hopeful, too bright on me. The kind of look I don’t deserve anymore. Not after what I did a couple of weeks ago.

I looked down at the kid “I’ll think about it,” It’s all I can say.

He groaned. “That means no.”

“It means maybe,” I replied, ruffling his hair. “Maybe’s better than nothing.”

Rick nodded once. “It’d mean a lot.”

To him or to Carl, I didn’t ask.

I just turned back to my cart. My hands were shaking.

“Tell Louise I said thanks for the pies,” I said, barely above a whisper looking back at them.

Rick held my gaze a second longer, then took Carl’s hand. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

“Maybe,” I said again, but it came out softer this time.

As they walked away I felt my mind diving into a hundred different scenarios. Most of them ending up with me and Lori fist fighting over the whole truth of what happened at my birthday party.

So I stood there a little while longer, heart pounding over a jar of gravy, wondering if saying yes would break me more than staying away.

***

By the time I woke up on Thursday most of the turkey trots were over already, I think. The only thing I got was the sound of Simon cursing at the coffee pot like it had personally betrayed him.

Through the tiny bedroom window, the sky was already cloudy, that soft, sleepy kind of light that falls on Georgia in late November. Pale cold light filtered through the lace curtain. A bird chirped once, then gave up.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up slow. My feet hit the floor like two bricks on the cold flor of the trailer.

My head was foggy and my chest too heavy.

But I knew what I had to do.

I pulled on my warmest sweater, the one I got in college before i dropped out, and yanked my hair into something presentable. Didn't wear makeup, or earrings. Today asked for simple, or as simple as it can get, just jeans, boots, and enough deodorant to not smell like the bar I’d closed less than eight hours ago.

In the kitchen, dad was wearing two different socks and pouring half a bottle of cheap whiskey into his coffee. Guess we’re going Irish today.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said, grabbing a piece of dry bread from the counter.

He grunted something that might’ve been same to you or I hate this holiday, unclear.

Shane came in a minute later, shirtless, squinting like the morning light offended him.

“You look dressed,” he stated.

“You look unemployed, officer Shane” I shot back in my grumpy tone.

He snorted. “Charming. Is that cheese I smell?”

“No, that’s your dad’s socks,” I said, biting into the bread. “And we’re going to the Grimes’ for dinner, so shower. Both of you.”

Simon looked up from his coffee. “We are?”

“Yes,” I said, like it was obvious.

“You said you didn’t wanna go,” Shane reminded me, crossing his arms, looking confused as fuck.

“I changed my mind.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

I took another bite of bread, chewed without really tasting anything, then shrugged. “Because Louise makes that weird apple pie with cheddar cheese on top and I don’t feel like cooking today.”

I didn’t have to look at him to know he had that big-brother-suspecting-something written all over his face.

“You sure?” he asked, voice quieter now and searching for my eyes. “You don’t look excited.”

“I’m never excited,” I muttered. “You know this. But I figure we can go for an hour, make Carl happy, make Louise and Thomas happy, eat something that’s not sad chicken breast and powdered potatoes, then bounce.”

Simon belched. “Do I have to wear a collared shirt?”

“No,” I said. “But maybe pants would be nice.”

He grinned with his one tooth missing. “Spoilsport.”

Shane was still watching me like he was waiting for me to spill something. Waiting for me to crack just a little, but I wasn’t easily breakable.

“Clock’s ticking,” I said instead, turning to grab my coat. “I’ll be outside in the truck. If y’all aren’t ready in twenty, I’m leaving without you.”

I stepped out onto the porch and let the cold hit me full force in the face. It must have been around forty degrees this morning — colder than most November days I remembered.

I blew into my hands, eyes on the empty road ahead.

Told myself over and over again that I was doing this because of Carl, and to make people happy. But my heart already told me I was lying.

I wanted to see him again, even if the set up was the worst possible — Around his family. I just needed to torture myself a little longer to maybe have something break loose.

***

The old Grimes farmhouse came into view just past the bend — white siding catching the faint sunlight, the porch decorated with hay bales and two fat pumpkins that had seen better days. Wind cutting through the trees in that whistling Georgia way, scattering crisp leaves down the gravel path like confetti no one asked for.

Shane’s jeep came to a complete stop just behind Rick’s truck at their drive.

Simon muttered something about the place looking like a “damn Hallmark movie,” and he was right, it always felt that way. My hands were fidgeting with a loose line from my hoodie, shaking a little with the sudden adrenalin pumping around my body.

For a second, none of us moved.

Then Carl exploded from the front door like a rocket.

“Dad, they came” He announced for the whole house, excited as shit.

His small frame bolted down the steps, skipping the last three with a jump, and wrapped his arms around my middle the second I stepped out of the car.

“You came,” he breathed, face pressed to my hoodie.

I blinked hard and hugged him back tight. “Told you I’d think about it.”

“That’s not a yes, though.”

“Then call it a late RSVP.”

By the time we reached the porch together with him chatting too excitedly about something he did at school—PE class—, Louise was already at the door in her apron, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her face lit up like it always did when she saw me — as if I was the daughter she didn’t get to have and like I was still nine years old and eating all the apples off her tree.

“Well, look what the wind dragged in,” she said, pulling me into a warm hug that smelled like cinnamon and something buttery.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I mumbled into her shoulder.

She pulled back just enough to cup my face. “You’re too skinny again, Sammy. Working too hard?”

I smiled, that same tired grin I always have ready. “What gave it away? The eye bags or the existential dread?”

She laughed and swatted my arm. “Get inside. I need your help peeling potatoes.”

Thomas came out next, with his arms wide open. “There’s my girl.”

I hugged him, too, feeling that fraternal love I didn’t get outside of here. Thomas kissed the top of my head and clapped Shane on the back with that fatherly thud that said, I’m proud of you even if you’re a mess.

Simon got a handshake and a snort. They still had some respect for him, even if he didn’t deserve it.

Some unspoken southern rule of giving him some benefit of the doubt, because he did what he could with us by himself. A roof over our heads, and maybe some food at the table earned him politeness.

My personal sin was standing by the couch while Cowboys versus Raiders played in the background. His flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, face clean-shaven, giving that innocent-father look to him. The only thing he couldn’t change, or hide was his eyes, they were darker than I remembered.

Rick wasn’t smiling, he was far from it, and he couldn’t look away either. Our eyes caught and held like magnets with too much history already.

My breath caught inside my throat, I gave him the smallest nod, and he gave one back.

And just like that, the noise around us roared back to life. Carl was tugging me inside, Louise was hollering about sweet potatoes, and Thomas had already dragged Shane into some story about the old barn roof collapsing.

Funny how certain smells could bring you back to another time. I stood right there in the kitchen, dragging in the smell of comfort food to my lungs. Pie crust, herbs, the season of the way too big turkey roasting in the oven. Louise had three things going at once, my favorite was the cornbread dressing that honestly made me consider proposing to her every damn year.

“Here,” she said, sliding a bowl of peeled potatoes toward me. “Slice these for me, would you, sweetheart?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said, rolling up my sleeves.

My hands found the rhythm quick: peel, rotate, slice, drop. I could do it in my sleep. I probably had, a few times, dreaming about the bar. So I let the sound of the knife soothe me for now, using it as a white noise to push away every thought I had about Rick Grimes and his presence just a few feet away.

Lori’s presence was something I could feel even without looking. She came unannounced, and stood just to the right of me, hands on her hips, watching the sweet potatoes like I was doing something wrong with them.

I kept chopping while she stood there, not saying anything. Not to me, anyway.

Louise, bless her, kept up the chatter. “Carl said he saw you at the store yesterday,” she started. “Said you were shopping for your own Thanksgiving.”

I froze for half a second, but forced my hands to move again. “Hadn’t made up my mind yet.”

“I’m glad you came,” she said, warm and certain. “It means a lot to him.”

Lori’s voice cut in, even and just cold enough to sting. “To all of us.”

I glanced at her.

Perfect blowout, lipstick that hadn’t budged all morning, her earrings that matched the necklace she had on her neck, which also, somehow, matched the table counter.

Her lips formed the most polite smile she could manage, fake as a three dollar bill.

“I brought wine, by the way,” she added, moving to the counter. “In case the cider’s too sweet for you.”

“I’ll take whatever numbs the day,” I muttered under my breath.

Louise chuckled. “She’s been like this since she was twelve.”

“Like what?” Lori asked, sweet and artificial enough that Mama Lou didn’t notice a damn thing.

“Sharp tongue, soft heart,” Louise said, smiling at me.

I kept slicing without looking at them. “Don’t start rumors, now.”

“Oh, honey,” Louise grinned. “Those started a long time ago.”

Lori laughed too politely, making something inside my chest stir. I felt her eyes land on me again, but couldn’t manage to glance back.

“You still working at the bar?” She asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Must be hard hours.”

“Pays the bills.”

She nodded. “Carl told me you babysit sometimes too.”

I paused, my eyes lifting to look at her now “Yeah,” I said. “Kids are easier than grown men most days.”

Lori leaned on the counter, picking at an invisible speck of flour. “I just don’t want him getting into anything too… adult, too soon.”

I looked up, right at her. “Carl’s smart. He sees more than you think.”

And that was the direct attack I’ve been saving. Lodged inside my chest since the night Carl asked me if his parents were getting a divorce.

“I know he’s smart,” she said, tone clipped now. “That’s why I worry.”

Louise stepped in like a guardian angel, waving her spoon. “Alright, alright. No mom-sparring in my kitchen. If y’all are gonna fight, at least wait ‘til the pie’s done.”

“Not fighting,” I said with a too-sweet smile.

“Neither am I,” Lori said, mirroring it.

Louise sighed. “Lord help us.”

I went back to the potatoes, but my ears were burning, and my heart was beating way too fast.

Lori Grimes didn’t suspect a thing, but she knew I didn’t like her from the get go. She was just setting some dominance, and that carried through the whole thanksgiving dinner.

The sun outside was dipping lower behind the clouds, throwing faint shadows through the kitchen windows. Louise had lit two pumpkin-scented candles and the smell clung to everything now — the sweet potatoes, the wood, my hoodie, just anything it could.

Food looked incredible at the table. Louise had pulled off a miracle with her mac and cheese, and Thomas was already sneaking spoonfuls when he thought no one was looking, winking at me whenever I caught him doing as if we’re sharing a secret.

Carl was the responsible for setting the table for everyone, dragging napkins across it, carefully folding them just like I’d shown him when he was five.

“Corners,” I reminded him, tapping one with my knuckle. “You want those folds sharp. Precision, Mr. Grimes.”

He rolled his eyes like I was the one being dramatic. “It’s a napkin.”

“It’s a first impression,” I said in a funny voice. “The fork’s already judging you.”

He laughed — that real belly-laugh that only ever came when he wasn’t trying to be older than he was. His cheeks were pink from running back and forth helping set up, and he kept glancing toward the kitchen, clearly itching to steal a roll.

I leaned over and whispered, “Tell you what — if you manage to not drop a glass before dinner starts, I’ll sneak you the first slice of pie.”

He beamed. “Deal.”

I ruffled his hair and turned to grab the water pitcher, only to freeze when I saw my dad.

One hand nursing a bottle of beer he had no business of having.

That bottle had been untouched next to his plate for an hour. Louise even swapped it for sparkling cider when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. But now — half full, warm from his palm, and a second one was already waiting by his side.

I set the pitcher down harder than I meant to and walked to him as quiet and quick as I could manage on such a spur of anger rising into my body.

“Hey,” I said under my breath.

Simon gave me a wide, sloppy smile. “Ain’t this somethin’? Like the ol’ days.”

“Put it down.”

He blinked. “C’mon, baby girl—”

“Simon,” I snapped.

His smile faltered.

I took a breath, kept my voice low. “You promised me. One day. One fucking day without getting sloppy.”

He looked around, embarrassed now. “Ain’t sloppy.”

“Yet,” I said. “You’re not sloppy yet. But I know the pattern. I’ve been watching it my whole goddamn life.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t talk to your old man like that…”

I stepped closer. “If you mess this up for me, I swear to God, I won’t speak to you for a month, and you won’t see the color of my money either. Don’t fucking test me on this. Not today.”

He stared at me — eyes bloodshot, but the shame hit somewhere in his consciousness. I saw it flash, even if he tried to mask it.

We stared at each other for what it felt like hours. Then, finally, he set the bottle on the sideboard. Didn’t throw it, didn’t argue.

It was like handling a teenager with too much emotion. An unfair thing if you ask me. I was supposed to be the one people worry about, I was supposed to be the one sneaking beer and bringing in trouble. But instead I was fixing my father’s behaviour in front of people who I cared about.

Simon walked to the table, slow, almost sulking, and dropped into the seat next to Thomas like a sullen teenager.

I let out a shaky breath, rubbed my eyes shut. The feeling of having someone’s gaze on me. Warmth spreading slowly behind my ears, because I knew whose eyes were on me. So I turned slowly.

The Sheriff was standing by the hallway arch, one hand curled around a glass of water, unreadable expression on his face.

He watched me, not moving, not turning his head away, and I didn’t know what he was seeing. Wasn’t sure if he was looking at a girl who’d just cleaned up another mess, or a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. By the time we all sat down, the table looked like something out of a damn Southern Living catalog — Louise’s cornbread stuffing still steaming, cranberry sauce that wasn’t from a can, and two kinds of pie cooling by the counter like we were all playing house. Shane called dibs on the ham before his butt even hit the chair.

I sat between Simon and Carl. Across from me, Rick. And right beside him, pressed shoulder to shoulder like a billboard ad, was Lori.

She hadn’t let go of him once since we çeft the kitchen. One hand on his arm, the other brushing his hair back. Hovering with eyes sharper than a hawk, she refilled his drink twice, then proceeded to laugh a little too loud at things that weren’t even funny.

It wasn’t like her.

Rick didn’t look like he knew what to do with it either.

His eyes kept flicking across the table, trying to find something, anything to help him make sense of her actions. And I could feel something building like a pressure behind my ribs.

“Carl,” Louise said, passing the rolls. “Why don’t you say grace, honey?”

Carl perked up. “Me?”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t tried to drink the gravy,” Thomas muttered.

Simon chuckled under his breath and I elbowed him in the ribs.

Carl cleared his throat, hands folded in front of him like we practiced when he was little. “Thanks for the food, for Grandma and Grandpa, for the whole family being here, and… for Sam, ‘cause she’s the best.”

I almost choked on air with a laugh escaping my lips. He smiled mischievously before stealing one piece of cornbread out of my plate.

“Okay,” Carl added, “Amen?”

“Amen,” we all said.

“Now pass me those sweet potatoes before I start crying,” Shane said, grabbing the dish before anyone else could.

“Lord, Shane,” Louise sighed. “They’re hot, you’re gonna burn your tongue.”

“Might finally shut him up,” I muttered.

“No chance,” Rick said.

My eyes flicked up to his. Almost like the old times. And we shared a laugh at the expense of my older brother.

But then Lori was there again, hand on Rick’s arm in a possessive way. “Shane, how’s work been?” she asked. “Still chasing teenagers around for speeding tickets?”

“Nah,” Shane said, mouth full. “Now I just sit on the highway and wave at people. Real relaxing.”

“He means he naps in the cruiser,” I said.

“Hey,” Shane pointed his fork at me. “That is a strategic rest cycle. Law enforcement approved.”

“You snored into your radio last week.” Rick added a little more relaxed now.

“That was a tactical broadcast.”

Laughter circled the table. Even Simon grinned around his mashed potatoes.

I let the moment and this warmth settle inside my chest, even if it stung. For a second, it felt like old times, where I hadn’t kissed my brother’s best friend, and before this crush turned into something more dangerous on both parts.

Lori cut into her turkey, eyes sharp. “Rick’s been working more hours too. Sheriff never sleeps.”

Rick cleared his throat. “Well. It’s the job.”

“Yeah, and who signed you up for that again?” Shane said. “Oh, right. Me.”

“I remember,” Rick said.

Carl was watching all of us, eyes ping-ponging between the adults like he was trying to decode something. Smart kid.

“Sam,” Louise said. “How’s work treating you?”

“Like a girl with low standards and good tips,” I said, sipping my cider.

Thomas laughed. “You still with that punk crew at the bar?”

“Markus and Mariah? Yeah. Markus thinks he’s James Dean. Mariah thinks Shane’s hot.”

Shane choked on his drink as soon as I revealed.

Lori raised her eyebrows. “Does she now?”

I smirked. “He’s got fans. Don’t let the hairline fool you.”

“Hey—”

“Mariah’s got taste,” Simon said, slurring just a little. “When I was twenty years younger—”

“You were still gross,” I muttered, kicking his boot under the table.

But he was laughing at it, and Shane was turning red right at the spot. Carl was shaking his head like he couldn’t believe we were all related.

Across the table Rick had this tiny smile on his face. Eyes still searching for something and still full of unspoken words, with Lori leaning into him, tucked a hand into his elbow, whispering something none of us could hear.

He nodded, trying to be polite. Once I helped Louise clean all the dishes from the table, it was desert time. The slice of apple-cheddar pie sat heavy on my plate, and all I could do was look at it because my stomach was already twisted into too many knots to make room for anything else.

For a while I watched the house full of smiles, Thomas and Louise proud as ever watching Carl narrating a football game he made up in his head.

But I couldn’t take it anymore.

I slipped through the front door and let it swing shut behind me with a soft click. The porch creaked beneath my boots as I stepped down, heading across the field in no particular direction. Just… away.

The grass was still damp with cold, and the air smelled like firewood and drying leaves, like change. The kind you can’t outrun, the kind that finds you anyway, especially when you don’t want it.

I wandered toward the small animal pen — the one Thomas still kept for goats and a few lazy hens. They weren’t loud. Just standing there, chewing, blinking at me like I was an idiot for being out here in sneakers instead of boots.

The pie was cooling in my hand, untouched. I leaned on the wooden fence and looked out at the trees just past the property line, all tall and bare and reaching.

Somewhere in between dinner and desert the sun managed to cut through the clouds, but it wasn’t warm. The sky now was purple at the edges, bleeding into gold. It was the kind of sky that looked too pretty to be real — like something out of a dream I’d already forgotten.

And just when I thought maybe the ache might settle, I heard it — slow footsteps over dead grass.

“Pie looks good” He said as casual as he could manage now.

“I’m too full.” I didn’t dare to look at him.

“You can never be too full for apple-cheddar pie.” His voice tried go for a joke.

I held the plate up slightly, not turning around. “And yet, somehow, I am too full. Maybe something’s wrong with me”

The words weren't supposed to be mean. This was not the way I imagined our first conversation after what happened.

“You alright?”

I shrugged. “Peachy.”

His jaw clenched loud enough that I heard.

The animals rustled behind us. A hen let out a lazy cluck and shuffled toward the coop. The sun dipped lower, dragging the sky with it.

Rick stepped closer, still behind me.

“You didn’t have to come today.”

“Carl asked me to.”

“Still.”

Still.

I finally turned to face him.

And there he was — hands in his pockets, flannel sleeves still rolled, jaw working overtime, like he’d bitten back a dozen things already. The light hit the side of his face, trying to soften something in him but failing miserably.

“Why are you out here?” I asked, voice going cold.

“Same reason you are,” Rick replied, unable to tear his eyes from me.

I raised just one eyebrow, suggestive. “You hiding from Lori too?”

His lips quirked, just a dust of a smile. “Something like that.”

We stood in the thick silence of it all — all the things we weren’t saying piling up around us like leaves in the corners of the barn.

Finally, I spoke. “You confuse me.”

His head tilted slightly. “When?”

“I don’t know, Rick. Pick a day,” I said, voice low and shrugging my shoulders, my body going into expressive mode. “That afternoon on the range where you somehow were too close, but not close enough. My birthday, going jealous of a random guy, pulling me aside, kissing me so hard I lost track of who I was…. Or when you stopped after the damage was fucking done.”

He looked at me with his eyes going darker, full of guilt, shame, desire… You name it.

“You think it’s easy?” His voice dropped at least an octave.

“I think nothing about this is easy.”

The wind picked up, caught the hem of my hoodie and the tips of my hair. I crossed my arms to hold myself together and had to turn away from him and from that gorgeous face.

“I didn’t come here to make things worse,” I said, trying to be softer now.

“You didn’t make it.”

“I did,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “But it wasn’t on purpose.”

He stepped closer.

Too close.

The plate in my hand suddenly felt heavier than it was supposed to be. I set it gently on the fence post behind me.

Rick’s eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second too long. And that second felt like a wildfire crawling through my veins.

His voice dropped. “Sam…”

It was like his body was wired to mine. Stepping closer without meaning it. Not looking away from my lips or my eyes.

And I couldn’t breathe. If I did, his scent would hit me square in the face, and I would lose it.

So we stayed like that until the sound of Carl’s laughter echoed from the porch and snapped us both back into our skins.

I turned away first.

“I should get back,” I said.

“Yeah,” he muttered low. “Me too.”

It’s really taking all we got to not do something stupid right there. But his family and mine are together just a short distance away.

So I just turn away and force my body to move away from him. Crunching every dead leaf on the way back to the farm house.

The warm air hit me the second I stepped back inside — heat from the oven still flowing like small waves. Warm laughter in the living room, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and pecan pie wafting through the house. For a moment, I let it hold me.

Then I heard the unmistakable start of a fight. Shane’s sharp voice, angry at something, or better, angry at someone. And then Simon’s slurred as always.

Fuck.

“Don’t start with me, old man—”

“Boy, you think you got it all figured out—!”

Louise tried to cut through the noise. “Not in my house, y’all.”

I didn’t even think. I threw the jacket I was wearing from being outside right at them and crossed the kitchen fast, heart already racing and heat blinding me.

They were in the middle of the kitchen, standing too close to each other.

Simon’s shirt was half-untucked, red creeping up his neck. Shane looked like he’d just about had it — one hand clenched at his side, the other waving off whatever bullshit Simon was spewing.

“You show up one day out of the year, drunk off your ass…” Shane growled.

“Oh, please—”

“—and this is how you treat those people who took you in tonight? Real classy, Simon.”

“Don’t you stay there and pretend you’re a saint. You and your fucking sister treat me like a didnt raised you both bastards…” Simon raised his voice as each cutting word left his mouth.

That was my cue.

I stepped between them, palm to Shane’s chest, then turned and grabbed Simon by the elbow.

“Outside.”

“Sam—”

“Fucking now, Simon.” My voice cracked like a whip. “Go”

He blinked at me, surprised. Shane tried to argue but I shoved at his shoulder too.

“You too. Congratulations, both of you. You turned Thanksgiving into trailer park theater. Outside. Now.”

The room had gone quiet. Every single pair of eyes on us now. Thomas stood frozen near the archway, as he was getting ready to interfere before I did it myself. Lori was in the corner, eyes wide and judgmental, telling just enough that it was obvious this was not normal to her, but somehow it was to me. Carl had a different look, almost heartbroken.

And Rick…

He had just come from outside, and he was standing behind the couch, jaw tight, eyes on the whole situation, and when they landed on me it was like he could feel the whole storm happening under my skin.

I followed my brother and my father outside. Gathering our things on the way. I was done.

Once the door slammed shut behind us, I turned on them full-force.

“You can’t give me one day,” I hissed. “Just one. That’s all I ask.”

“He started it,” Shane muttered, glaring at Simon.

“No, you started it the second you let him drink without stepping in,” I snapped. “And you—” I pointed at Simon, who was swaying just a little. “You’re lucky Thomas didn’t knock your damn teeth out.”

“Kid, don’t talk to me like—”

“Don’t call me kid. You lost that right a long time ago.”

Neither of them said anything.

I just stood there, chest heaving, eyes burning with a cry I wouldn’t allow myself. I hated how familiar this all was, and how easy it was to slip back into the role of babysitter to grown men who never learned to grow the hell up.

Finally, I turned for the steps.

“We’re going home,” I said finally.

“Sam,” Shane called, trying to make me stop.

But I didn’t.

Not until I hit the jeep. Dropped my body at the passenger side and waited for both of them to realize that thanksgiving was over. That I was done with their shit, too tired, and didn’t have a single fight left inside me.

Silent tears streamed down my cheeks. And right there I tried to turn the switch off. I didn’t want to feel.

This storm inside me was too big to be tamed. Too strong for me to fight it off.

I looked up and saw Rick’s silhouette by the window.

He saw everything. The mess I try to fix every single day, but couldn’t outrun even if my life depended on it

I turned my face away before Shane or Simon could see the tears shining under the moonlight.

If Rick hadn’t already made up his mind… Tonight probably did it for him.

I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare

STILL | CHAPTER 25

CW: Alternate POV's, anxiety, consumption of food and alcohol, fluffl followed by smut, overstimulation, rubbing the tip, feral Pedro, unprotected p-in-v, dirty talk, creampie. I think that covers it.

12.8K words (couldn't find the point to break for the next one, sorry not sorry) - Sorry this one took this long, life got in the way. Hope the lenght of the chapter makes up for it. We're also reaching the end of this first season too.

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25 - Big Apple

Throwing myself into the work was the only way to keep the emptiness at bay. It felt right to be swallowed by the endless hours shooting anything and everything. When the work was too much, my thoughts were quiet.

Episode 8 was a full-throttle Ellie-versus-David showdown. Intense as hell, and so demanding of every single person who makes this show comes to life. We came back to the studio to fix audio, reshoot some of the fight scenes to make it more believable, and to nail every single aspect of the most important shift of the story. And also, to prepare things for our last episode.

Pedro finished his part early and left for some meetings and to show up at the premiere of his new movie with Nicolas Cage.

I’d stagger to set before dawn, layers on under my coat, camera warm against my chest, and I’d shoot every spare moment: Bella’s quiet breaths through tearful and angry close-ups, the way their freckles caught the morning light, the tiny details no one else thought to capture. The grips and gaffers would nod at me as I passed, half-smiles of exhaustion displayed on their faces, but I barely noticed them—my mind was always halfway out of the frame, replaying the last night I’d fallen asleep in his arms, imagining how it felt for him to be back in New York, pacing through meetings with his agents.

I wasn’t some girl waiting around, twiddling her fingers and whispering I miss you into the void. That wasn’t me. Never was, really.

Yes, I thought about him. In the way I reached for my phone on my way back to the flat, the way I turned around in bed as if his body would still be there. But I wasn’t building my life around stolen weekends and text messages. I had too much going on, too much to do, and I was fucking good at it.

The last few weeks had felt like my career was open and rising—in the best way possible. My inbox was a chaos of new offers, some people called me for an editorial campaign. Another group of producers sent an offer to some independent film sets, and there’s even an exclusive series of on-the-road stills for a production house in east London. I had invitations to exhibits, panels, portfolio reviews… Everyone wanted to talk to the girl who got the most prestigious award on the field.

And I wanted to say yes to all of it.

But each yes meant something else entirely. Each yes was a step away from Pedro’s shadow. A step into a life where I wasn't just his girlfriend who takes cool pictures, but an artist carving out her place in the world. I could feel it happening, the ground shifting under my worn boots.

It scared the hell out of me.

Not the work, or even the pressure. I could handle all of that. What scared me was the tiny voice in the back of my head that asked, What happens when love isn’t enough?

Because we both had places to go, scripts to read, people waiting in other cities for us to perform our jobs. Pedro has awards seasons, interviews, and eventually… This would all be too much. The distance will feel endless.

I was afraid of being another name added to the list of things he couldn’t keep. And I think he was afraid of becoming someone I had to work around.

So I worked, I focused, I shot on digital and on analog. I poured myself into every single fucking frame, every shadow, every raw second I could bottle up in stills. Because I didn’t know how else to keep myself steady when the love I felt was tangled up with so much uncertainty. When even the thought of asking “What are we going to do when the show wraps?” made my throat tighten with so much anxiety.

Maybe we were strong enough to make it work or maybe we weren’t, but I wasn’t going to sit still and let life pass me by while I figured that out.

Kate was waiting for me when I walked in.

I hadn’t even taken off my boots yet. My hands were still half-numb from the cold, fingers fumbling with the zipper of my jacket. Every single day that I was working and she was off, she made this homemade potato soup. So I always came back to the flat smelling like comfort.

"You look like death," she said, not unkindly. Her legs tucked under a thick blanket, while she half-watched and half-scrolled on her phone.

"Thanks," I mumbled, kicking off my boots and shrugging out of my jacket with a groan. My shoulder ached from the gear I’d hauled around all day. “That’s the look I was actually going for.”

She didn’t laugh. Something about the unspoken care we always shared made her look at me long enough. I walked over the kitchen, filled a glass of water and leaned against the counter, finally letting my eyes meet hers.

"Sixteen hours?" she asked softly.

I nodded. "Give or take."

Kate stood up, crossed the room, and leaned against the counter next to me. She didn’t say anything at first, just took the glass from my hand, refilled it, and set it back into my hand.

"You’ve been doing that all week. Getting there before sunrise, leaving after the last person’s wrapped." Her voice was quiet and true. “You’re doing too much, like damn, you even showed up on your day off. That’s not healthy”

"I'm doing my job,” I said, trying to defend myself against something I knew was true. “It’s a tight schedule, you know how it is."

“You’re doing everyone’s job, and then some. And I get it… You're fucking incredible at it, and you're in demand and you're... you. But this?” She gestured at me, at the exhaustion spilling like a broken dam, the dark circles under my eyes, the rawness I was trying to keep tucked under my skin. “This isn’t sustainable, and you know it.”

I didn’t answer right away. I just took another sip of water and stared down into the glass like maybe it held the words I couldn’t find at the moment or just in general.

Kate sighed. “You think I don’t notice what’s happening? You’re working yourself into the ground trying to outrun something.”

“I'm not—” I started.

“You’re trying to avoid thinking about Pedro, about what happens next, or about how everything’s changing and you’re scared shitless.”

Her words hit like a quiet, unexpected punch. I swallowed hard.

“I’m not running away,” I said, but my voice was too thin.

She softened, reaching out to touch my arm. “I didn’t say you were. I said you’re trying to outrun it... Big difference.”

I blinked and looked away. She was right, and I hated how weak that all sounded.

“I don’t know how to do this, Kate,” I admitted, finally letting the truth out of my mouth. “I don’t know how to be me and still be with him. I don’t know if we’ll make it, and if we don’t… I have no idea how the hell I’m going to survive all of this. It’s already too fucking intense.”

Kate exhaled, her hand still on my arm. “Then take the time to figure it out. But don’t kill yourself in the process.”

She pulled me into a hug before I could argue, before I could build the wall back up. I let her hold me, her chin resting on my shoulder, and for a second I let myself lean into the comfort, the hug of a friend who cared.

“You’re not alone in this,” she whispered.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded against her shoulder.

Kate didn’t pull away right away. She gave me time, like she always did when I wasn’t ready to speak yet. Her arms stayed around me, grounding me, until she slowly leaned back, her hands resting gently on my arms as she looked me in the eye.

“Have you talked to him about all of this?” She asked.

I hesitated. My mouth opened, then closed. I reached for the glass of water again. Only to give my hands something to do.

“Not really,” I said finally, my voice barely audible.

I didn’t get an instant reaction, but her eyes gave her away. The way she was slowly figuring out some fears I tucked away for too long.

“You talk to him about everything,” she said gently. “You call him when you find a new kind of coffee you like. You text him pictures of weird dogs on the street. You tell him when someone rubs you the wrong way, but not this?”

“It’s different,” I tried to defend myself. “This is... big. This isn’t just about work or missing him. It’s about—” I stopped myself, teeth pressed into my bottom lip. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’m already giving up.”

Kate leaned back against the counter again, arms crossed. “Then say it messy, say it scared... But say it. You can’t be the only one carrying this weight.”

“I don’t want to make him feel like he has to fix the whole thing.”

“There’s no fixing it, but carrying it alone will only do more harm than good.”

The words struck something tender and deep. I stared at her, feeling that tight part of my chest loosen just slightly.

“Do you think I’m being unfair?” I asked.

Kate gave me a soft smile. “I think you’re being human.”

I let out a tired breath, closing my eyes hard, as if held long enough, the fears would go away. “I love him so much it makes everything harder.”

“I know.” Her voice dropped into that gentle, almost maternal register she rarely used. “But loving him doesn’t mean disappearing into that love. You’re still you, and he loves you. Not the overworked, over-performing version who never says she’s scared.”

I nodded slowly, staring at the floor.

“I’ll talk to him,” I said with my voice low.

“Good.” She nudged my arm. “Maybe not tonight, you’re basically a ghost. But soon, before you start burning yourself out trying to hold the whole future in your hands.”

I managed a faint laugh. “You’re getting good at this whole ‘wiser sister’ thing.”

Kate smirked. “Shut up. I’m like, five years younger than you.”

“Still counts.”

She rolled her eyes and walked back toward the living room, calling over her shoulder, “Now go shower. You smell like wet snow and despair.”

I stood there for a while longer, too tired to move right away. The weight of the fear was still here, but not as crushing. And when I finally made my way to the bathroom, I kept replaying that one line in my head:

carrying it alone will only do more harm than good.

The days were a blur of snow-dusted mornings, endless hours on set, and late nights where I sat curled up with my laptop, still in thermals, fingers cold enough from staying outside and stiff from editing too many shoots. My camera bag barely left my side anymore. Neither did the dark circles under my eyes.

The second half of 2022 was turning into the busiest season of my career. And the most surreal so far.

I rolled down my inbox once more… a strange mix of genuine interest and thinly veiled opportunism. Some offers were clearly fueled by whispers of my relationship with Pedro. PR people and producers pretending to not know anything about us, but always circling back to the same weird questions.

"Would you be interested in working around our cast?"

"We think you’d be a great fit for something more… high-profile."

I could read between the lines. They all said: We want you because we’re pretty sure you’re the girl Pedro Pascal is dating.

Some part of me thought that this whole thing with our relationship wasn’t fair. I’d worked too damn hard, too long, for my name to be an accessory, to just be something people saw because of someone else’s fame.

But not all offers were bad. Two, in particular, caught my attention.

One was a gritty indie independent movie filming in Berlin—small, intimate crew.The director, a very strong name for the near future awards, had mentioned my name in some rooms with the right people. They want me because of my eye, my style and my pacing. They’d even referenced one of the shots I took in the early years of my career. Something those vultures that wanted me for fame would never look at.

The second was something quieter. A documentary project in rural Finland, following a month in the life of an isolated village—weather, light, grief, resilience. It was supported by an arts foundation, and a challenge to be conquered. No celebrity names, no red carpets, just pure, brutal storytelling. Something where the stills would matter as much as the actual footage.

I kept circling between the two folders on my laptop, clicking between moodboards and shooting schedules and payment breakdowns. Both projects would take me far, away from Calgary, from comfort, and away from my family and Pedro.

And I hated that part of me that hesitated.

I didn’t want to be the girl who gave up career milestones for love. I also didn’t want to be the girl who let her career push love away before it even had a chance to breathe.

The screen of my cellphone buzzed. A video call request. His name lit up, the picture of both of us together on his sofa, looking like two teenagers in love.

But I didn’t answer this time.

Not because I didn’t want to hear his voice. He was on my mind twenty-four-seven now, no way to escape. But I needed to be sure that wherever I went next, whatever I chose, it would be mine. Not because of him, and especially, not in spite of him.

That was my future.

PEDRO'S POV

Manhattan’s noises were in the distance, it could be a police car or an ambulance roaring so far down I couldn’t tell the difference. Franklin’s New York’s office always felt like a glass box designed to make you forget the sky. Cold walls, polished surfaces, perfect lighting. Clean enough to look expensive, sterile enough to make you sit up straighter.

I’d been chewing the same to-go coffee lid for ten minutes. My cup was long empty, and I wasn’t even sure I liked the coffee he got us to begin with.

Across the room, Sue was already perched by the desk, fingers ready on her tablet like she was preparing for battle. Franklin paced in that way he does when his mind’s ten tabs ahead of the conversation.

“All right,” he said, tapping at his iPad. “Locked in: Freaky Tales, starts this year. Two weeks prep in Oakland, then three to four weeks shoot. Tight, fun, you’ll love it.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Looking forward to that one.”

“Then we locked some dates to promote the last of us. We’ll let you rest by the end of the year, though.”

Sue turned the screen to me with a smile on her face “We’re almost closing your first SNL too.” The Ipad showed some pages of the contract she was going over.

Those three letters alone made my stomach turn upside down inside of me. And they kept going.

“For Gladiator 2 we’ll have to fly to Morocco. Late summer. Hope you’ve been hitting the gym, amigo, that armor doesn’t forgive middle age.”

I forced a laugh, but I didn’t have it in me to fake it good enough. Sue didn’t even look up now. She cleared her throat to keep going with this crazy schedule.

“We still have Materialists, Last of Us season 2, The Uninvited, Eddington…”

I ran my hands together. The speed of it all was scary as fuck, and they were only halfway through the list.

“That’s already a lot.”

Franklin grinned. “You’re hot right now. You’ve earned this. The projects are solid. You’re in a position where you can pick the scripts you want, the people you trust.”

“I know,” I said, slower this time. “And I’m grateful.”

“But?” Sue looked up, finally. She always caught the crack before anyone else.

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “But I’m not twenty-five anymore, and I’ve got someone in my life now, someone who matters. This isn’t a casual thing, she’s not just a quick romance on set. I’m trying to build something that lasts.”

Franklin slowed his pacing. “Build how? Like... house and kids kind of build?”

I gave him a look. “Maybe. I don’t know yet. But I’m not going to throw it away just because the schedule’s too busy.”

Silence fell over us for a heartbeat. They both looked at each other in a silent conversation, even though I was right there with the empty coffee cup still clutched to my hands.

Sue tilted her head. “Pedro... You’ve been here before. You know what this business does to relationships. Especially when both people are in it.”

“She’s not in it the same way.”

“She’s still in it,” she said as if it was some obvious shit. “And she’s getting buzz. The award put her on the radar. You two together? It’s a headline waiting to happen.”

“She doesn’t want that,” I shot quickly back. “She doesn’t care about being seen.”

Franklin folded his arms. “That’s not how it works, though. You don’t get to choose how and where the spotlight hits. You start making personal decisions that pull attention... it bleeds into press, set dynamics, endorsement deals. We’ve seen it, man.”

I leaned forward. “What exactly do you think I’m doing wrong?”

Franklin tensed a little, but Sue was the calm during the storm, she didn’t flinch.

“We’re not saying she’s wrong for you. We’re saying she might not be right for what this life demands right now. There’s a big difference.”

“She’s not some hanger-on,” I said, jaw tightening strong enough to hurt. “She’s one of the most talented people I’ve met. She works harder than anyone I’ve seen on a set. That award? She earned it. Every single bit of it.”

Sue nodded. “Sure. She’s good, maybe great. But you know how this town works. The second they smell a story? The second someone sees the two of you together in another blurry photo outside a hotel? It’s no longer about talent. It’s about narratives. Control them or get swallowed by them.”

“I’m not hiding her.”

“You’re not claiming her either,” Franklin said, softer. “And maybe... maybe that’s the safest move for now.”

My chest felt heavy. I had to stand up slowly… just because I didn’t want to be in that chair anymore. Actually, I didn’t want to be in this office.

“You know what?” I said, voice low and controlled. “You don’t know her. You haven’t seen how she navigates this world. She’s thoughtful, quiet, and brave in ways people don’t notice. She doesn’t give a damn about being photographed next to me. But she shows up for me in ways I didn’t think I deserved anymore.”

Sue watched me, her expression unreadable. “Just don’t confuse timing with fate.”

I looked at her. The feeling of being outnumbered was stronger now. They both were calculating their words, and their looks towards me, both cold and judgemental.

“This isn’t a mistake,” I said determinedly. “She’s not a mistake.” Then, even quieter, almost to myself, “I’d give all of this up before I made her feel like one.”

No one spoke after that.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. I didn’t check it. I knew it was her. Probably a picture of Calgary’s skyline from her flat, or something she saw on set. Maybe a ‘miss you’ that I’d read five times before answering.

I stared out the window instead. Watched Manhattan breathe, the way only this city could — fast, loud, and indifferent to any of this drama.

I’d lived long enough in its rhythm to know how easy it was to lose yourself in the motion. But for once... I didn’t want to get swept in.

For once, I wanted to hold onto the one thing that made all of this worth it.

The silence was bigger than it felt. Giving me that faint sign that I should buckle up and get ready for something coming my way. I shifted my weight and turned my body to look at them. Franklin almost sitting at the edge of his desk, and Sue comfortable by the couch.

“So,” he said, so normal, it looked like he was getting our lunch order. “Which one are we dropping?”

I blinked twice before a single word came out of my mouth.

“What?”

He tilted his head, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The five movies? The scheduling puzzle? You just said this relationship matters, so tell us which project we’re pulling to make room for it.”

My jaw tensed even more after each word. “It’s not that simple—”

“It is,” Sue cut in, calm and brutal. “You want time? We make time. But it comes at a cost. So which one we’re dropping?”

I looked at both of them. The weight of the question didn’t feel hypothetical. They were too good for that. It felt like an ultimatum dressed in casual negotiation. Something that twisted my stomach even more.

“I’m not ready to answer that,” I said, feeling like a cornered animal.

Franklin threw his hands in the air, starting to pace again. “Then we’re flying blind, Pedro. We have dates that need locking, studios that need commitment. Flights… You want to be an artist? Great. Be an artist. But don’t get mad when the machine asks for decisions. That’s the job.”

“I’m not getting mad,” I bit back so fast. “I’m thinking. There’s a difference.”

“Thinking’s expensive,” Sue muttered, scribbling something on her screen.

“Well, you guys are asking me a big question, I’m allowed to think about it. It’s my fucking career at the end of the day.”

I sat down, leaned my back in the chair, suddenly feeling all of my almost forty-seven years hit me in the spine. “I’m not going to throw away a role just because I’m seeing someone. But I also don’t want to fill my year with films that feel safe or hollow. If I’m going to be gone for months at a time, away from someone I care about... the work better be worth it. It better mean something.”

Franklin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not above the hustle, Pedro. You’re hot right now. But this industry forgets fast. You say no to the wrong film, the wrong director, the wrong offer? You could be sitting here in a year begging for a cameo.”

I rubbed at my temple. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying: Let me think.”

Sue looked at Franklin, then back at me. Her eyes sharp with something she was about to drop into my direction. When her mouth opened, the words came in slow, so I could understand every single one of them.

“There might be a Marvel offer coming in soon.”

Yeah, that got to me.

“Marvel?”

She nodded. “We don’t have details yet. But we know casting’s started for two Phase 5 and 6 projects. One of them’s eyeing you.”

“Do we know what for?”

“Not yet. But they’re asking around. Quietly.”

Franklin jumped in, voice suddenly bright, like we’d all just walked into a sunnier room. “That kind of deal sets you up, Pedro. It locks you in for the next five years. Franchises, spin-offs, money like you’ve never seen. Global visibility.”

I ran a hand down my face. “Yeah, and no privacy. No off switch.”

Sue met my gaze. “You’d be taking your girl into a much much bigger storm. Are you guys ready for that?”

That was the real question under all of this. Not the schedule. Not the travel. Not even the Marvel machine coming on the edge of the horizon.

Could I love her and do this?

Could I live in the kind of spotlight I’d always sidestepped—while trying to protect someone who never asked to stand in it?

Not a single word came to my rescue.

All I could think about was her face the last time I saw her, curled into my chest like she could sleep off the weight of the world when she was by my side. The way she took care of everyone but herself. The way she made me laugh when I was empty. And the way she made me feel things that had nothing to do with work, power or fame.

She deserved someone who wouldn’t make her feel second to a contract.

But she also deserved someone who knew who they were. Who didn’t walk away from their craft every time things got complicated.

“I need a couple of days,” I said finally. “That’s it. Two days.”

Franklin sighed but nodded. Too tired of this conversation to argue. Sue didn’t say anything else. Just tapped her screen and moved on to emails.

And I sat there… wondering how many days you could ask for before the world moved on without you.

READER'S POV The calendar on my phone stared back at me waiting for me to do something about it.

It marked the beginning of April.

Spring time, and…

Pedro’s birthday. His forty-seven.

I knew he didn’t like making a big deal out of it. He was the kind of man who’d much rather bury himself in scripts and meetings than sit in front of a cake with people singing at him.

Last year we didn’t know each other. Last year he celebrated during the shooting of one of the “mid-covid’ productions. With his cast-mates somewhere in the UK. This year he’s over in New York.

As his unofficial girlfriend I should be there, right?

“Are you sure about this?” Kate had asked the night before, watching me try to fit two vans shoes into one padded backpack.

I zipped it shut, gave her a look. “He’s doing everything he can to protect what we have. The least I can do is show up.”

She didn’t argue. Just gave me a nod that said, go get your man, then promised she’d hold things down on set until I came back, which was about three full days off.

Lux was in on it too. She’d FaceTimed me from her tiny but gorgeous Brooklyn apartment, practically buzzing with excitement.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t text you during your travel hours,” she grinned. “Then drag him to the rooftop bar. You time it just right, and boom—there you are.”

I’d laughed, nerves tangling with the anticipation. “You’re too good at this.”

“I watch a lot of rom-coms,” she winked. “And anyway, he deserves this. You both do.”

I've been working nonstop. Accepting meetings, narrowing down projects, just… Trying to keep my brain busy enough to not feel the echo of him in every silence. But nothing really filled the space he left.

And now?

Now I was on a direct flight to JFK, my bag tucked under the seat, and my heart punching against my chest like it knew something big was coming. I spent too much money on a last minute flight to time my arrival just right like Lux said.

But the fucking flight was delayed. Of course it was. April skies over Calgary had cracked open with a storm that morning, as if the universe just needed one more obstacle before I got to him.

I manage to switch off to another company and by the time we hit cruising altitude, all I could think about was his face.

What it would look like when he saw me again. What it would feel like to hold him, to kiss the curve of his jaw and whisper, “Happy birthday” into his skin. What it meant to choose this, even when we both knew how hard it is.

The plane touched down late, the city lights glittering below as something unreal. I checked my phone, only to find one new text from Lux from twenty minutes ago.

“He’s here. Clueless. I’ll keep him talking. You good?” 21:05 - Lux

I texted back:

“Just landed. Be there soon.” 21:26 - Still.

Outside, the wind was still biting, but I didn’t care. I pulled my coat tight, shouldered my bag, and walked out into the blur of yellow cabs and horns and the kind of energy that only New York could hold.

He didn’t know I was coming into his night.

That felt like a superpower. Loving someone to a point that you make crazy decisions like a last minute flight. When I arrived at the rooftop

bar it was warmer than expected, string lights casting a golden haze over the tables and the Manhattan skyline. One thing I noticed as well: It was quiet. Not normal quiet, but the kind where you can still hold a conversation. This is the kind of place you’d bring someone important when you didn’t want eyes or noise. Lux had chosen well.

I spotted her first. Propped against the railing with a drink in hand, pretending to be casual, eyes darting toward the far corner every few seconds.

Then I saw him, my birthday boy.

His broad back turned to me. The hair had grown out a little, some of his curls at the back brushing his collar. He was laughing at something Lux had said, head tilted just enough that I could see the lines in the corner of his eyes.

I missed him more than I care to admit.

I walked slow. Every step felt like a held breath, I didn’t want to startle him, no, I wanted to savor this, the quiet seconds before his world shifted.

Lux spotted me, smiled behind her glass, and said, loud enough for him to hear: “Don’t look now, but I think your birthday wish just came true.”

He turned while she was still speaking.

At first, he blinked like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Then his mouth parted slightly into an “o” shape, the stunned silence stretching just enough to make my heart hammered inside my chest so hard I lost my breath.

“Hi,” I said, smiling as if my whole body exhaled just to say it.

His eyes had that sparkle, igniting a little more as he forced his brain to catch up to reality.

“You’re here?” he asked, voice already cracking with disbelief.

I nodded. “Feliz cumpleaños, Cariño.”

Then he was across the space in between us, pulling me into him like he’d been underwater this whole time and I was the air he needed. His arms wrapped tight around my back, my cheek pressed against the place where his heart beat the hardest.

He kissed the side of my head, my temple, my jaw… honestly? Just any spot his lips could reach at this point, soft and frantic, like he didn’t know where to land on first.

“You flew all the way from Calgary?”

“I had help,” I said, grinning as Lux slipped out quietly, giving us space.

“You didn’t tell me… Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at me.

“Because I wanted to see that face.”

He laughed, his hand resting against my cheek, thumb brushing lightly under my eye. “Fuck, I missed you. You don’t even know.”

“I think I have some idea.”

He leaned in and kissed me. Not caring about anything else other than to show me how much the weeks apart were eating him up. His lips crashed soft against mine, and there was a faint taste of a fruity drink in his mouth.

When he pulled back, his voice dropped to that quieter, deeper register. The one he only used when it was just us.

“I was dreading this birthday, you know. Didn’t want to celebrate. Just another year of trying to keep up with everything.”

I touched the side of his face, traced my fingers down to his chest. “You don’t have to keep up with anything right now. You’re allowed to slow down.”

He nodded slowly, forehead resting against mine for a moment before he whispered, “Best birthday surprise I’ve had in years.”

We sat in a shadowed corner of the rooftop, where the noise of the city faded into something soft and distant, like waves you knew were there, but couldn’t quite hear. His leg was pressed against mine under the table, not even intentionally at first, but neither of us moved. That kind of contact that’s said it had been too long. Lux was somewhere in the middle of the place with—seems to be—a friend.

Pedro flagged the waiter with two fingers and ordered our drinks like he always did. Whiskey for both of us. Mine with a single rock, his neat. It always light something inside me to hear him say “She’ll have what I’m having, just colder.”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said again, voice low as he turned his body fully toward me, elbow hooked over the back of his chair.

“You’re going to keep saying that until midnight, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “Maybe. I still think this might be one of those dreams where I wake up and Franklin’s yelling at me about deadlines.”

I laughed into my glass. “I thought I’d get here earlier, but the flight was delayed and Lux had to sneak me past the front desk so it didn’t blow the surprise.”

“She told me she had ‘plans’ tonight and to not call unless I was bleeding.” He shook his head. “I should’ve known.”

The whiskey hit warm in my chest… Or maybe that was just him, watching me like he had every intention of memorizing this version of me — hair down, flushed cheeks from the wind, smiling like I was finally whole again.

“So,” I said, stretching the word out, “How’s the circus?”

He rolled his eyes and took a long sip. “Tiring. Meetings, fittings, press scheduling, more meetings. Everyone wants something. I’m either supposed to be charming or mysterious, and I can’t keep track of which.”

I smirked. “You’re usually both.”

“I try.” He looked at me with a softened smile. “And what about you? How’s Calgary... or wherever you’re at now?”

“Yeah, still Calgary. Only moving to Grand Prairie next month, remember?,” He nodded and smiled. I just kept going. ”We had to reshoot the mall sequence with Bella and Storm.”

Pedro took another sip and hummed. “They told me. Said it was one of the hardest days they ever had on set.”

I nodded, wrapping my hands around the glass. “I got another one of my favorite shots. You had to see the mall set when it all lights up. It’s pure magic, I barely touched the photo after. It came out like it was already finished.”

He stared at me for a second. “I hope you know how ridiculously good you are.”

I shrugged, pretending not to glow from it. “I’m starting to believe it.”

The conversation flowed the way it always did when we weren’t on opposite coasts. Effortless. He told me about the premiere coming up, the questions he was dreading, the people he was pretending to be excited to see. I told him about the project offers flooding in since the award — the meetings I’d taken, the ones I’d skipped, the two jobs I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

“Where are they shooting?” he asked.

“One’s in Berlin, and the other in the countryside of Finland right after.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’re gonna disappear off the face of the Earth then.”

“Exactly.” I met his tired eyes. “And so are you.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Just took another sip of his drink and looked past me, at the skyline. The wind tugged a curl of his hair loose, and I watched his fingers twitch like he was thinking about a dozen things at once.

Pedro knew what I meant, his second half of the year would be less crowded, but he still had a movie in Spain, a other projects line up

“I don’t want this to turn into something we just remember fondly,” I said, voice quieter.

He turned his eyes back to me. “It won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he agreed fiercely. “But I can promise I’ll fight like hell to make sure it doesn’t.”

I looked at him for a long time. The lines near his eyes, and the way his throat moved when he swallowed. How his hand reached for mine under the table and didn’t let go for a second.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Whatever it looks like. You and me? This is the good part.”

I wanted to believe that, and I found in his eyes the strength to finally calm down my thoughts and truly trust that we had the bigger chance to make this thing something unbreakable.

We stayed at the bar a little longer. Lux returned eventually, sliding into the seat beside us as if she’d never left, ordering champagne and raising a toast “to two idiots trying to date in show business.”

Pedro laughed and made a dramatic bow of agreement. I tipped my glass against his and said, “To fools in love,” with a smile that maybe meant more than I intended.

And when the check came, he insisted on paying it. “It’s my birthday,” he said, even though he always did that.

Outside, the wind cut sharp through the city as we stepped into the night. His hand found my lower back, guiding me to the uber like I hadn’t spent weeks getting used to not having that hand there.

The car dropped us off on a quiet block in Brooklyn, where the wind carried the smell of curry and something vaguely floral — probably from a nearby window box someone still believed in, despite the city air.

Pedro unlocked the building with a worn key and led me up two flights of stairs. The old hallway creaked with every step. “Sorry,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s got charm, I promise.”

But the second he opened the door, I didn’t need convincing.

His apartment was everything the one in Calgary wasn’t.

The place I knew ever since I met him had been sterile and it screamed temporary. Clean in the way a hotel is, with not much to say about who he really is.

But this… this was home.

The walls were warm tones and cluttered in the best way — books stacked in mismatched piles on the floor, Polaroids taped to the fridge, a guitar on a stand in the corner, half-buried under an old hoodie. There were movie posters almost everywhere, some old, some signed. Framed art pieces and a bulletin board filled with tickets, scribbled notes, and a Time magazine cover tucked in the corner like he was trying to forget it was there.

The whole place smelled like cedar, pepper, and coffee. Just like him.

I stopped inside the doorway, struck by the sheer intimacy of it.

He watched me take it all in while staying behind me, his hands slipping into his coat pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You weren’t kidding,” I said. “This is you.”

He gave a small smile. “Yeah. It’s a mess...”

“It’s perfect,” I said with a dreamy voice, meaning every word.

He moved past me, shrugging off his jacket, dropping his keys into a ceramic dish shaped like a hand. “Want anything? Tea? Whiskey? Food I probably shouldn’t still have in my fridge?”

“I want to see more of this place,” I said, toeing off my boots and hanging my jacket.

He chuckled, and nodded toward the hallway. “Come on, then.”

There was a second bedroom he called his ‘reading cave’, though it looked more like a chaotic library full of thick scripts, and huge books. A tiny office with two screens, half a dozen notebooks, and a framed photo of him and his dad. The bathroom was surprisingly tidy for a man living by himself. Then we reached the bedroom.

It wasn’t big. But it felt like him in every single small detail.

A navy-blue comforter, linen sheets slightly rumpled. A stack of books on the nightstand — some fiction, some not — and an incense tray next to a worn leather-bound journal. I walked over to it, noticing the corner of a photo sticking out from between the pages, and from where I stood, I could only recognize half of my work-jacket. It was a picture of us just before he left to come to New York.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching me with a softness I knew too well.

“You really live here,” I said so low, I thought he didn’t hear.

“I do.”

“I think I’m in love with this place.”

He tilted his head. “Is that a dealbreaker for Canada?”

I gave him an amused look. “Don’t push your luck.”

He smiled wider. “You hungry?”

I stopped for a second, looked right at him, and my voice came out syrupy “Yeah, just not for food.”

That shifted the air between us. I felt it immediately — the warmth that pooled in my stomach when he looked at me like that, like we hadn’t just spent weeks pretending not to need each other constantly.

I walked over to him, slipping my hands onto his shoulders, then into his hair. He leaned into the touch like he’d been waiting for it.

“I missed you, Pascal,” I whispered. “but not just you… I missed this… Seeing you in your space, seeing more of your world.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against my stomach. His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me there like I was the only steady thing in his life for a second.

“I hate that it’s rare,” he said with his eyes closed as I caressed his hair. “I hate that we have to fly across time zones just to remember what this feels like.”

I slid my fingers through his curls again. “We’ll figure it out.”

He looked up at me. “Promise?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “But we'll fight for it, that's enough.”

He pulled me down into his lap as if it was the easiest thing in the world — and it was, because my body was wired to his, pulling like opposite poles of magnets. His hands slid to the small of my back under my shirt, holding me there and touching my skin at the same time, and I could feel the warmth of him even through my clothes. The way his touch could calm the static in my chest with just the press of his palms… I will never get used to it.

We kissed slowly, tasting each other after weeks apart. And we should look like two people who were rushing to tear each other’s clothes off, but we were acting sure of what we knew: At this point we knew every inch of each other, and we wanted to savor it.

His lips moved against mine, memorizing the curve of my mouth all over again. One of his hands tangled in my hair, his fingers brushing behind my ear as he deepened the kiss just slightly, pulling me closer with a quiet sigh that vibrated between our bodies.

I didn’t even notice how I was breathing until I felt it start to sync with his.

The room faded. The city outside — the occasional honk, a voice down the street, the low noise of Brooklyn being Brooklyn — it all melted into some background noise. What stayed sharp was the scratch of his stubble under my chin, the little inhale he made when I kissed the corner of his mouth, the way his fingers tightened at my waist when I moved in closer, chest to chest at this point.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he murmured, his mouth barely brushing my skin as he said it. “My days were so boring.”

I leaned my forehead against his. “Same. It’s… stupid, how much Calgary feels empty without you.”

He laughed quietly, but it wasn’t mocking. He knew the feeling, he went through the same ache, but Pedro was still full of disbelief, like maybe he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that this was real. That I was here, in his apartment, in his arms, on the night of his birthday.

“I’ve had dreams about this,” he whispered. “About you walking through my door like this. And not just for a night. For the kind of quiet moments people don’t get in rental apartments.”

“Then maybe we stop dreaming…” I said, voice soft, hand coming up to trace his jaw.

He tilted his head and kissed the inside of my wrist, his eyelashes fluttering closed and right there I believed that him feeling the rhythm of my pulse beneath his lips was something holy.

We stayed like that for a while — lips brushing, breath mixing, the weight of us settled into the shape of each other. My knees rested on either side of his hips, and he adjusted me gently, so I was even closer. I could feel every part of him then.

I felt the steady beat of his heart against my chest, the heat of his hands slipping under my shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin with intention but no rush. And I felt him getting harder with each kiss.

His mouth moved to my jaw, then the edge of my neck, making me shiver all over. His nose brushed against the sensitive spot beneath my ear, earning a soft moan from me, and he caught it with a hum, lips returning to mine like he couldn’t stay away for long.

“I wish I could stop time,” he said against my mouth. “Just… keep you right here. In this apartment, on my lap. Forever.”

I smiled into his kiss. “That sounds incredibly inconvenient.”

He huffed a laugh, brushing his nose against mine. “I’d make it work.”

I kissed him again, deeper each time. Let myself sink into it. There was so much I wanted to say, but nothing that felt better than this. Than his fingers stroking the small of my back, the gentle roll of his hips that told me he wasn’t immune to the way I was pressing into him.

His mouth parted just enough for me to feel the catch in his breath, and his hand moved slowly, lifting my shirt inch by inch. My fingers threaded through his hair as I leaned back with just my bra covering my chest. Our mouths brushed twice before he crashed his lips back into mine. I pressed my hips into his again, and this time he groaned into my mouth — a low, involuntary sound that lit me up from the inside out.

He stood with me still in his lap, hands sliding down to the backs of my thighs as he lifted me easily, making me wrap around him. I let out a soft gasp and tightened my grip on his shoulders, feeling the way his body was solid beneath mine.

My body was laid back carefully on his soft bed and then he hovered above me, looking at me the way he always does right before we forget everything else in each other.

“Is this okay?” he asked, brushing my hair out of my face. “Tell me if you’re too tired. I just…”

I reached up and cupped his cheek. “I’m not too tired, Pedro. I came here for this too.”

The confession made something melt inside him, bringing his wide smile, and the start of the soft kisses on my skin. Our clothes found the floor of his bedroom one by one with no rush whatsoever. This was about proving something to ourselves, and to each other. That even after weeks apart and all the uncertainty and the distance, the way we fit hadn’t changed.

The slow trace of his lips dipped lower every time they found my warm skin. Earlobe, neck, collarbone, the middle of my chest… He left open mouthed kisses and small hickeys. My nipples went hard just by touch alone, and when his mouth sealed on the left one I arched my back to him with a hitched breath.

I rolled my hips twice, searching for friction to relieve the ache I felt. But Pedro’s hips pinned mine, and I felt his smile on my skin.

“I’ll get there, hermosa” He purred as his fingers rolled the other nipple “You’ll need to be patient.”

Little tease knew how to undo me.

He sucked the skin of my left boob again. The hand over the other going a little rough now and I loved it. The sensation growing hotter, pulling small gasps from me.

“Pedro…” I called as soon as I felt him hard and pressing against my inner thigh. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“I fucking need you” The words left my mouth in a hurry. A plea from a body that wanted more.

“But I’m having so much fun.”

I was about to lose it against him when his hips made one small thrust, the head of his cock grazing my clit once and sending a bolt of electricity from there straight to my mind.

He felt it too. Pedro dropped his forehead to my chest as he did it again with more intention this time. The hand that was needling my breast going down to guide his hard cock. Pressing harder against my swelling bean. I moaned a little louder this time.

“That’s it, baby” Pedro said, doing the same movement over and over. “That’s fucking it.”

His length getting a coat of arousal as his hips rocked against my folds and he moaned against my skin.

There was no need for him to put it inside me, I was getting off with just this. Just him pressing and rubbing the head against me, groaning with the sensation. My hands found their way to his neck, pulling just a little at his hair.

It could be minutes or hours. He brought me to the edge at least three times and then he denied my orgasm each time with the change of pace. And that only made me call for his name over and over again.

The explosion behind my eyelids made me press the heels of my feet to the back of his thighs.

“Pedro, I’m coming, I’m fucking—” I could finish it, the air left my lungs so fast.

It swiped over me, heavy waves making my body move on its own, riding the feeling for the longest minutes until I was overstimulated. He stopped when I tried to get a distance in between us. My clit was pulsing now.

But we only paused for a few seconds so I could take a breath.

“I need to feel you, Cariño” Pedro’s voice sounded desperate now. “Need to be deep inside you.”

No teasing, no more rubbing against me.

He was acting on pure instinct by now. Sweat gathered on his temple as his hands brought my legs up to my chest and in one single thrust he buried himself inside me, with a delicious and stinging stretch.

“Tightest pussy I’ve ever had,” His hips rolled slowly as he spoke and we both moaned. ”Best birthday present.” He was babbling now.

Pedro lost himself so easily. And what started as a slow roll of his hips, turned to a hard snap, each time deeper, and rougher.

The sounds on his bedroom were from a hard fuck. His arms hugging my legs as he drove inside me, over and over again, hips snapping into me at a fast pace, his balls slapping against my ass cheeks.

I love when he lets himself get lost into this.

“H—harder” I asked, getting a primal growl in return. The sound dizzying, messing with my mind.

The weight of him pressing me against the mattress was something delicious. I was folded in half taking what he gave me, gasping and moaning loud. Not caring that the upstairs neighbor could hear everything.

He smiled, biting my ankle to repress some of his grunts. “That’s it, cariño… let it go, I got you, got you…” He shifted down my legs right then, settling in between them, hugging me tightly. His head dropped to the side of my neck and his hips picked up speed.

The friction was almost too much, and the snap of hips sent jolts of pleasure around my body.

“Gonna cum so deep inside you” He said against my skin, bed creaking lewdly with the weight of our bodies moving fast.

“Do it, I want to feel all of it.”

My hips were trying to keep up with his pace as my mind started to fog up with too much pleasure. I could feel every inch of his big and fat cock against my walls, and I could hear him painting for air against my collarbone, moaning and grunting.

“Shit, I’m—I’m yours Pedro” I said, rolling my hips to meet his “Yours to fuck, I’m so yours” The fire inside me started to burn too hot.

“Mine, my girl, all mine” He said in between thrusts.

One of his hands came in between us, his pace never slowing down, and he started to rub my clit while still pounding into me. And as if involuntary, his head lift to watch me while I came undone.

“You’re gonna cum? Right here while I stuff you full—” He didn't get to finish, because I crashed my lips upwards to his. My hands fisting his hair and my tongue deep inside his mouth.

My ankles dug into his calf as my legs started to shake. “Your cunt is squeezing me so tight, baby” He said against my lips as I was cumming hard, coating him with every gush of juices that left my pussy.

I arched my back just a little, digging your nails into his shoulders as wave after wave washed, making me spasm my whole body. Pedro’s name was the only thing I could manage to say, over and over again. He groaned loudly at the way I was so tight in that moment, his thrusts stuttering as his hands held me open, grinding into my deepest point.

It was obvious now how he was only holding back by a thread this whole time.

“Fuck—fuck baby, I can’t…” He left the words hanging while still pounding into me.

“Cum for me, Pedro” I said ruskly into his ear. My legs were made of jelly now, and I still had the aftershocks going around.

His body pushed so damn deep inside of mine, and then it stilled with the deepest groan. Hot ropes of his cum spilled deep inside, the pulse of his cock thick, insistent and warm. “Take it, take all of it” He mumbled with his hips jerking in small thrust, filling me until it leaked down the sides of my thighs.

Just when he started to weight too much on top of my body, easing from his own orgasm, his body fell sideways, leaving me empty still pulsing and clenching around nothing now. We both had this stupid smile on our faces, a little breathless, and wrecked.

Silence settle around us, as if the wrong word would break the spell of this dizzying happiness we both were into. But eventually, I found the the courage to say something, and just whispered, “I missed you.”

He smiled softly, eyes on me “I missed you more.”

Pedro reached for a towel from the side of the bed, and gently began to clean me up. Little dabs around my skin trying not to not leave anything behind. His concentration with the aftercare was the cutest thing ever.

Towel was tossed aside when he finished. He tucked the blanket back around us, pulling me close to his warm chest. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles over my shoulder as our breathing evened out.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The city outside was distant through the windows — low sounds of people passing by on the sidewalk, a flicker of light against the wall coming through a gap on the closed window. In here, though, it was quiet, the safest place on Earth.

I could feel the rhythm of his heart behind me, steady and strong. “Do you ever get scared of this?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His hand paused, then resumed. “Of what?”

“This.” I hesitated. “Us, you know? Not the feelings part, but… the reality. What it means when everything isn’t wrapped in our flats and the same set, or the same city.”

Pedro was quiet, thinking. After a while he took a deep breath and spoke softly “Yeah, yeah, I do.”

I nodded, grateful he didn’t lie.

“But then I think,” he continued, “what’s scarier… Trying and maybe messing it up… or walking away and wondering forever if we could’ve made it work?”

“I think about that too. A lot, actually.”

He pressed his lips softly to my temple. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now. Neither do I, but I want to figure it out — with you.”

I turned toward him with those words, shifting so we were face to face, our foreheads almost touching in the dark.

“I don’t want us to lose what we have,” I said softly, every word carrying the fear of a possible broken heart.

Pedro’s eyes were already on mine, dark and soft in the low light. He didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced over my skin, slow and rhythmic, almost absently, grounding me while his silence stretched just long enough to make the heaviness settle in the room.

My mind was in a panic mode. Anxiety kicked in just by having this conversation with him, making my skin tingle and my heart pound inside my chest.

“I don’t either,” he finally said. “Not even a little bit.”

I exhaled, eyes fluttering shut. “It scares me,” I admitted. “Like, sometimes I lie awake at night thinking about how everything is changing ahead of us...”

He pressed his forehead against mine, his hand moving up to tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear. “We knew this wouldn’t be forever,” he murmured. “But we can make it work outside of Calgary.”

“What if it’s not enough?” I asked, and I hated how small I sounded. “What if love isn’t enough to balance all the chaos? All the traveling, and the time apart, and—”

“Then we adjust,” he interrupted gently. “We learn how to be in it with the time apart, together.”

I opened my eyes to look at him again. There was no panic in his expression, no hesitation either, just a kind of quiet confidence that made something shift in my mind.

“You always sound so sure,” I said, half-smiling to him to hide the anxiety away.

“I’m not,” he admitted, brushing his fingers along my cheek. “I’m scared too. But I also know what it’s like to feel alone in a room full of people. I know what it’s like to feel unseen even when everyone’s looking right at you, and with you, I don’t feel that way. Not for a second.”

I blinked, and tears welled up without warning.

“I don’t want to have to dim some of my life,” I said quietly. “And sometimes I wonder if I’ll have to, just to keep things steady.”

He shook his head. “You never have to shrink for me. Never.”

I nodded, but it was the kind of nod you give when you want to believe something but aren’t quite there yet.

Pedro leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth. “You’re on fire right now,” he said, kissing it again. “Your career, your work… the way people talk about your photos, the way you’re changing the way stories are told — it’s brilliant. And it’s yours. You earned it.”

I let out a shaky breath, eyes searching his even in the dark room. “So what happens when our lives go in two completely opposite directions?”

He smiled, but not the kind you see happiness, this one was soft and understanding. “Then we walk in opposite directions. But we keep holding hands.”

That image — of two people moving through the world together while life pulled at them from different angles — it stuck in my head.

He saw me and saw some of my anxiety so he did the only thing that made sense right now: He leaned in for a kiss, slow, deep, with both of us sighing into it.

We stayed like that, our bodies tangled under the covers, his hand resting lightly on my waist, and after a long stretch of silence, he whispered, “You wanna know what I was thinking the second I opened the door tonight?”

“What?”

“That you’re right where you’re supposed to be: Right here with me.”

I could see right then, the relief he has whenever I’m around, something that it’s not there when we talk through the phone. Pedro was happy and that, for me, was worth everything. Every doubt, every ache, every hour to get to him.

***

It took me a while to fully wake up the next morning. The first thing I notice was the soreness in between my legs, as if I could still feel his huge hands still holding me open to him. Some of the sunlight crept in through a crack in the curtain and there was the steady rhythm of Pedro’s breathing behind me.

Warmth pressed against my back — a tangle of limbs and soft sheets, the kind of cocoon you never want to leave. His arm was draped around my waist, hand splayed lazily over my stomach, and I could feel his breath brush the back of my neck in even waves.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

This huge, kind and loving man was mine. Hard to believe something like this could happen to someone like me. Someone who grew up with not much love around. And now I get to be loved loudly, with every action, every touch, every word.

I rolled over slowly, careful not to wake him, but he stirred anyway, his arm tightening around me before his eyes opened, bleary and heavy-lidded with sleep.

“Hi,” I whispered, brushing a thumb across the edge of his beard.

“Hi,” he rasped, his morning voice cracked and warm from hours of sleep, he then smiled, slow and genuine, and blinked up at me. “God, I forgot how good this feels. Waking up next to you.”

I leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You forget things fast.”

“I remember the important ones,” he murmured, pulling me closer until my head rested against his chest.

We stayed like that for a while, letting the morning stretch out around us, not in a rush of anything. Outside the city was alive, but kind of distant and muted by thick closed windows . In here, though, time moved slow.

I had to force myself to be fully here, and not to think of work, or the future.

Pedro kissed my forehead and whispered, “You hungry?”

“Starving.” I replied looking up to him.

“Bagels?”

“Obviously.”

He threw that boyish smile in my direction. “I make a mean breakfast sandwich. Don’t let the IMDb credits fool you.”

We eventually shuffled out of bed in pajama bottoms and sleepy limbs, making our way to his small kitchen that somehow still managed to feel cozy. He moved around like a man on a mission. Bare feet on tile, humming some tune I didn’t recognize, pulling eggs and cream cheese out of his almost empty fridge.

I sat on the counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him slice an everything bagel with way too much concentration.

“This is serious work,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Don’t distract the chef."

“You’re literally using a butter knife, Pedro.”

“Art takes time,” he said solemnly.

I laughed at that, full and easy, always easy with him. He looked at me like he was storing it somewhere in his memory, and I knew what he was seeing. It was me, dressed with his clothes, in his kitchen, hair a mess because of last night, and a smile that didn’t leave not once.

We ate his masterpiece of sandwich right there in his kitchen, him leaning at my side while we shared a mug of coffee.

And we talked — about nothing at first. A movie he saw last week that had him crying afterwards, then I brought up questions about his plans for the premiere here in New York and also the one later in Los Angeles. He asked me about my plans for when I went back to Calgary.

Eventually we moved to his couch at such a lazy pace. I melted inside his arms and stayed there on the best Tuesday morning ever.

Then, as the sun climbed higher and the clock ticked closer to his first meeting of the day, we got quiet again.

He looked at me like he was memorizing me, thumb tracing a line down my forearm. “I wish I didn’t have to leave in an hour.”

“I know,” I said, leaning into him. “But I’m glad we had this. Even if it’s just one morning.”

“Me too.” His voice dipped, and he kissed me once more — longer this time, teasing me by biting my lower lip.

He held me close for as long as he could, until his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, pulling him back into the world.

When he was ready to leave I walked him to the door, hoodie thrown over my body, bare feet on the cold hardwood floor.

“Tonight?” I asked, even though I knew his schedule was a mess.

“I’ll make it work,” he promised, cupping my jaw. “You’re here. That’s enough reason.”

Then he was gone, and the apartment felt a little too big without him, and too silent. I reached for my phone, and called Lux. She was about to become my company for the rest of the day.

PEDRO’S POV

It was just past two in the afternoon and I was already halfway through my third espresso. And I wasn’t even allowed to have that many, it all made my hands jittery and my brain too loud, but the warm caffeine was the only thing keeping me upright in this boardroom right now.

My phone buzzed in my pocket for the third time in ten minutes, and my body acted before my brain could stop me. I knew Sue was talking, but I reached for it anyway, unlocking the screen to find her texts coming through.

Lux just took me to a bookstore that looks like a movie set. We might move in. 14:37 - Cariño.

I put the phone away, but not really. I kept my hand there holding it, and five minutes later another text arrived.

Send help. I’m knee-deep in vintage photography books and I might never leave. 14:42 - Cariño.

I smiled, wide and stupid with the image of her in between shelves and too many books inside her arms, and then my smile widened even more before I could stop it. God, I missed her when she wasn’t around. And now that she was in the city? I was struggling to keep my feet planted in the right dimension.

“Pedro,” Franklin said, snapping his fingers in front of me. “You with us?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I’m here,” I muttered, slipping the phone face down on the table. “Let’s keep going.”

Sue’s eyes were on me. She wasn’t having any of this distracted actor in love thing.

“You sure?” Her voice came out sharp, “Because you’ve reread the same page of that script for ten minutes.”

“It’s a dense scene,” I lied.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, dry as hell. “Look, I’m all for romance, but you’ve got a red carpet in five days, another one eight days after, and a packed shooting schedule after that. So unless she’s offering to run lines with you or organize your call sheets—”

“She’s not a distraction,” I defended myself, but it was a little too fast. “And she’s not that kind of person.”

“Didn’t say she was,” Sue said, raising a brow. “But you are. When you're in love, you're the guy who disappears. You forget this part of your life needs just as much attention.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I said, rubbing my thumb along the edge of the script. “I just… haven’t had this before... You know? Not like this. The way she grounds me it’s the opposite of what this industry does to me.”

Franklin sighed and leaned forward. “Okay. So let’s figure out what we’re dropping to make room for this new version of you then.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m serious. You’ve got five films potentially lined up next year, maybe six. So something’s gotta give, we don’t have time to waste.”

“I’m not dropping anything until I read everything,” I snapped, then took a breath. “Don’t push me into making decisions based on fear of what my new relationship might mean.”

“Pedro,” Sue called gently this time, “you’re not twenty-five. You know how this works, if you take on too much, everything starts to crack.”

I leaned back in the chair, dragging my hands down my face. The weight of them being right and me not wanting them to be was getting hard to ignore.

My phone buzzed again.

Lux says we’re taking you out to dinner tonight, and it’s her favorite place in the city. 14:49 - Cariño.

Also, she says if you’re late, she’ll tell the waiter it’s your birthday again so they make you wear a silly hat. 14:50 - Cariño.

I fucking love this girl.

My smile was shorter this time. I forced myself to focus on what I had to go through to end the day and to run back to her.

“Fine,” I said to both of them. “Let’s get through the rest of today. I’m not dropping any projects. Not unless one of them feels wrong.”

Franklin nodded. Sue gave me a long, unreadable look.

The afternoon stretched ahead like a chore — a long tunnel I just had to run through to get back to where I wanted to be.

Dinner that night was at a little place in the West Village. Lux was the best at choosing the coolest places here. This one had dim lights, linen napkins, wine glasses that caught the soft amber glow above us. It was small and cozy, the kind of place that made you whisper even if you didn’t have to.

I felt full even before dinner started. Because my girl was there, looking sexy as hell, and my sister somehow announced that they’re both best friends now, since they spent the whole afternoon together.

We were sitting at a small table for three, the conversation flowed as this was the only right place on Earth to me. We were all flushed from the wind and glowing from the city, laughing at something they saw when they crossed Central Park.

My eyes couldn’t leave hers, and I felt hypnotized by the way her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her wine glass, that familiar tiny dimple showing up on her cheek.

It came to me right then, how much I’d missed her, how much I needed her presence to feel like myself again, as if the version of me I liked better only showed up now when I’m around her.

Lux carried the conversation most of the time, a pro at being the centre of the attention. But there were these moments where she'd pull back just enough to let me and my girl fall into our own rhythm. Our own kind of language, made of looks across the table, half-smiles, a brush of her knee under the table.

I caught her hand just before dessert. Held it across the table and ran my thumb along the inside of her wrist.

“I know this isn’t much,” I said, soft enough that only she could hear, “but it’s everything to have you here.”

The small squeeze her hand did to mine told me that she agreed. Told me enough to know that she would do this crazy last minute flight to wherever I was, just to feel me beside her when the time apart feels like too much again.

That night we made love slowly, almost at a too lazy pace for what felt like hours on end. I kissed her too many times as I took her deep, inch by inch, feeling her squeezing me, feeling her nails digging into my back as she orgasmed over and over again until her body was limp. I followed still deep inside her, and she stayed pressed against me.

We both knew the next morning would be the part that would always hurt. It’s never enough time together, not nearly. But we both had grown up jobs to attend to in different places.

When the morning came, gray april sky outside, overcasting everything in this blue tone I hated… I knew the sleep I got that night wasn’t resting enough for what’s to come.

She moved quietly, packing up her things, folding a sweater she’d borrowed/stole just so she could have my smell a little longer.

Breakfast was cereal, because I chose to stay in bed a little longer just to have her warm body against mine for as much time as I could.

It never gets easier. And I swear, those goodbyes will break something in me every single time. But she had to go, the car I called was already outside waiting, her bag closed by the door, and she was checking her passport and all that travel stuff.

Her eyes scanned my face like she wanted to take something with her.

“I’ll text you when I land,” she said, quiet but clear enough for me to know she’d practiced it on the way to the door.

A shaking hand hovering over the doorknob was all it took for me to reach for her once again. My apartment felt too big, too still... The space she’d just filled — with her shoes by the door, her voice in the kitchen, her head on my chest last night — already felt like it was hollowing out.

“I hate this part,” My voice came out broken as I stepped forward. My hands finding her waist, her arms, her face. I wasn’t sure what I was doing — kissing her goodbye again? Holding her together? Holding myself together?

“Every time,” She whispered against my neck as we hugged. “It gets harder.”

Her breath hitched — that little catch that told me she was right at the edge. And fuck, so was I.

We held each other as if it was the last time, my arms around her back, her fingers digging into the back of my hoodie. The familiar smell of her hair filling my lungs one last time.

It wasn’t just that she was leaving. It was that there was no fixing this part. I mean, no matter how much we planned, or texted, or FaceTimed — we still had to do this part right here. Still had to watch each other walk away.

She pulled back just enough to look at me again, and her eyes were glassy but strong.

“Do good,” she said. “With the premiere, and everything.”

“I will.” I tried to smile. “I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.”

“Good.”

She brought a hand to cup my cheek and I leaned in for a last kiss. My lips smashing hers, and moving into it with purpose. This one we’d be replaying in our heads for weeks.

And then she opened the door.

A gust of cold New York air swept in, and then she was walking down the hall. Not much tears, and hiding the drama of two people trying not to fall apart in public as we followed our lives apart one more time.

I didn’t shut the door after she left, just stood there, watching the empty hallway. Listening to the quiet of a monday morning. And it almost hurt physically.

This was the price of loving someone whose life was as full and wide as yours.

And damn it — it was worth every ache. Every goodbye.

Even the ones that split you in half.

Taglist: @kellyxo1 ; @joelmillerpascal ; @sarahhxx03 ; @sara-alonso ; @needz1nk ; @sassyispunk ; @flow33didontsmoke Again, I'm sorry it took so long for it to come out. But life's a chaos all around. Hope you still enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. Leave your comment. See yall soon.

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#pedro pascal #the last of us #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #production #rpf

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 06

CW: Halloween birthday, food and alchool consumption, cheating (if this is not your cup of tea, it's ok, just don't come for me), dry-humping, make out.

7.1K words

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06 - Twenty Four

Kings’s County, October/2009

Slow nights always feel longer under shitty orange pumpkin lights and plastic skulls.

The bar was mostly empty — two regulars nursing beers at opposite ends, and one trucker guy halfway asleep over a basket of cold fries. Fake spiderwebs hung off the edge of the TV playing some old halloween movie. The fog machine had already broken twice during this shift, and I had a plastic bat clipped into my ponytail and eyeliner wings sharp enough to gut a man if I needed to.

Three more days ‘til my birthday.

Not that anyone besides Shane and my coworkers ever remembered.

“Okay, hear me out,” Mariah said from her usual perch on the barstool behind the register. “We dress as vampires. But like, hot vampires. You and me, leather jackets, fake blood, no regrets. Markus can be our willing victim.”

Markus looked up from wiping down an already wiped table, his brows lifted. “I didn’t agree to being sacrificed.”

“Relax,” The brunette grinned. “You’d look good in fake bite marks.”

I snorted. “He would. Maybe you can finally get laid, Markus. On my birthday, no less. I’ll feel like a fairy godmother.”

“I’m not having sex with anyone in plastic fangs bite marks,” he muttered.

“Lame,” I said.

“Coward,” Mariah added.

He gave us both that tight, resigned smile he wore whenever we double-teamed him into verbal submission. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance with the both of us together.

Mariah leaned her elbows on the bar. She had dark hair piled up in some kind of intentional chaos, and her lip ring caught the light when she smirked. “We should throw a party after our shift, Sammy.”

I arched just one eyebrow “Here?”

“Or somewhere less tragic. Your place?”

“Can’t. My dad’ll be there, drunk or worse… Probably half-naked, and the last thing I need is him trying to slow dance with you guys.”

Markus grimaced. “Jesus.”

Mariah bit back a laugh. “Okay, not that then. Somewhere else. Parking lot bonfire, anyone?”

“I can bring the beer,” Markus offered.

“I’ll bring the chaos,” I said. "Only thing I can afford right now”

Mariah leaned closer, conspiratorial. “If I invite your brother, is that weird?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean Shane?”

“Who else, Sam? Your other hot brother?”

“You think Shane’s hot?”

She flushed a little with the question. “I think Shane’s a problem. But a hot one.”

“That’s disgusting,” Markus muttered.

“You’re disgusting,” Mariah shot back, then looked at me again. “So. Can I?”

I smirked. “You can invite him. But be warned — he’s currently on a streak of hooking up with girls who look like they got kicked out of a Chuck E. Cheese.”

Mariah shrugged. “I’ve survived worse.”

“You’ll need armor,” I said. “And pepper spray.”

“Deal.”

The bell above the door jingled with another regular shuffling in to drink something and forget everything, so I got up to pour him what he needed.

But in the back of my mind, that familiar noise started — the one that always showed up when Halloween got close. Of course I was born around the time where the weirdos got to be even more weird, where monsters and ghosts were common. And no matter how many years passed, there was always this feeling like something was waiting for me in the dark.

***

The bang at my door was almost the same rhythm of the pang of my headache that morning.

“Get up, birthday brat,” Shane’s voice barked through the wood. “You got twenty minutes to be in the car or I’m leaving without you.”

I groaned into my pillow. My body protesting like I’d aged twenty-four years overnight instead of just one. I rolled over, hair a fucking mess, mascara smudged because I was too lazy to wash my face last night, the faint smell of smoke and bar food still at the surface of my skin.

Happy birthday to me.

I threw on the first semi-clean pair of jeans I could find, pulled a hoodie over my head, washed my face the best I could in a hurry and stumbled out to the front room of the trailer. Shane was leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, keys in the other.

“You look like shit,” he said, smug as ever.

“You say that every morning.”

“Don’t mean it’s not true.”

I flipped him off, but followed his steps outside.

Early mornings like this one where something is meanfull, where I get to reflect on how my life is a mess, and how I have no fucking idea on what I’m doing, the silence was needed, and not a choice. Shane respected that, he didn’t talk much, not early in the morning, not when the radio could fill the gaps with Johnny Cash and static.

He took me to the nearest waffle house — the old one just off I-20, the place with the sticky floors and the same four waitresses who’d been working there since the ‘80s. I hadn’t been in years. But the smell of bacon and syrup hit me like a warm punch to the chest.

“Your birthday, your call,” Shane said, gesturing toward a booth. “But don’t go ordering anything weird. I’m not made of money.”

I gave him a mock salute. “Yes, dad.”

He rolled his eyes but smirked.

Once we’d ordered, he leaned back in the booth, arms stretched across the top as if he owned the place. “So... Twenty-four.”

“Yeah,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Feels about the same as twenty-three. Just slightly more disappointing.”

Shane laughed. “You always get morbid on your birthday.”

“Comes with the Scorpio rising and a lifetime of family trauma.”

He gave me the kind of look that said cut the bullshit. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“You’re doing better than you think, you know.”

I felt it coming, the emotional part he always had to bring, so I tried to cut him off.

“Shane—”

“No, shut up and let me say it,” he said firmly. “You’ve been busting your ass, working double shifts, saving up. Hell, even taking care of dad even when he doesn’t deserve it. I see it.”

I didn’t know what to say. When he gets like this, I also get too emotional to reply with a come back. So I didn’t say anything.

He shrugged, suddenly awkward. “I know I don’t say this kinda stuff often. But I’m proud of you, Trouble.”

He hadn’t called me Trouble in that tone since I was a kid — back when it was affectionate, not just sarcastic.

I cleared my throat, blinking fast. “You gettin’ soft on me, Shane?”

“Shut up.”

“You cryin’, bro?”

“Swear to God, Sam—”

I grinned, then looked at him with some tears blurring my vision “I love you too, dumbass.”

He huffed, but looked out the window, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So… this party you’re throwing,” he added casually. “Mariah’s called me, said she’s bringing my favorite beer, which I don’t remember sharing that with her...”

“I might’ve let it slip during one of my shifts” I shrugged and he laughed.

“She also told me how I could change up the guest list…”

I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of guest list?”

“The kind that includes a certain sheriff with stupidly broad shoulders.”

My heart gave a little traitorous kick. And the bastard had the audacity to smile, having his fun with the little sister who has a crush on his best friend.

I sipped my coffee slowly, giving him a look. “You’re evil.”

“Yeah,” he smiled wide. “But I’m your evil.”

***

The day wasn’t bad so far. Breakfast with my favorite dummy, he even paid for my favorite stack of pancakes. We came back to the trailer just so I could get my work stuff and head out with him.

I finished smudging out my eyeliner in his jeep mirror while he sat in the driver’s seat eating the last half of my birthday muffin from the waffle house.

“Really?” I muttered.

He shrugged. “You didn’t finish it.”

“It was part of my breakfast.”

“Now it’s my pre-lunch. You’re welcome.”

I rolled my eyes, zipped up my black hoodie, and shoved open the passenger door. Boots hitting the pavement in a statement: I was officially twenty-four and officially clocking in to serve beer to costumed drunk idiots for the next six hours.

Pete’s parking lot got less and less cars since summer’s out till next year, and fall came in with its full force. There was just the usual rust buckets and the bartender’s cursed Saturn. But then I saw a familiar figure standing off to the right, just outside the bar’s neon glow.

Three people waiting for me to stop by.

Shane looked over. “What the hell are they doin’ here?”

“I have no idea,” I said, blinking.

Carl spotted me first.

“SAM!” he shouted, holding up a paper bag wrapped in a lopsided ribbon. He took off running before Lori could stop him.

I bent just in time to catch him mid-jump, stumbling a little from the impact. His bag crinkled between us.

“Careful, buddy,” I laughed. “I’m old now. My bones can’t take all that.”

“You’re not old,” Carl said, grinning up at me. “You’re just… cool and tired all the time.”

I barked out a laugh. “Damn, you really do listen when I talk.”

He held out the bag. “I made this at school. Mom said I didn’t have to give it to you, but I wanted to.”

I took the bag gently, my throat doing that stupid soft thing whenever I was about to cry but had to hold up, so I swallowed hard that lump and smiled as I opened the bag. Inside was a handmade card, drawn in glitter pen and crayons — a cartoon version of me with a crown on my head and flames behind me.

“‘Queen of Trouble,’” I read. “Damn Kiddo, I love this.”

“I made sure you had fire powers,” Carl said, matter-of-fact.

“That’s the coolest version of me, for sure.”

Rick had wandered closer while I knelt beside Carl, and when I looked up, he was right there — in jeans and a dark henley that made him look maddeningly off-duty.

His eyes lingered on me for half a second too long.

“Happy birthday,” he said, voice lower than necessary.

“Thanks, Sheriff,” I said, teasing just enough to cover the way my eyes were burning. “Didn’t expect to see you all here.”

“Carl insisted,” Rick said.

“I was going to say that,” Carl muttered.

Rick smiled and ruffled his hair.

Lori stepped up last, arms crossed, offering me a tight smile, the same as always with just a little bit more pretend to it, enough for anyone to believe she was really wishing me a happy birthday. Her clothes always making me feel like I didn’t try hard enough. She was the perfect house-wife, and I was just, Trouble.

“Happy birthday, Sam,” she said. “Carl’s been talking about it all week.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to be polite.

The tension settled right then in between us, a thick fog of uncomfortable feelings. I wasn’t exactly sure what she thought of me — but I could feel her watching. The way her husband kept looking at me like he wanted to say more.

“Guess I should go clock in,” I said finally, holding up Carl’s gift bag. “This is going right in my locker.”

The kid smiled so big I thought he would explode, then he followed his mom to their car.

“See you tonight?” Rick asked, lingering a little longer..

I glanced at Shane, who was still leaning against his car, watching with mild amusement. “Yeah,” I said. “Party starts at nine. Bonfire, booze, probably one guitar too many.”

“I’ll pass by when I get off duty,” he said, already walking into his family’s direction.

My heart was doing it again, beating too fast, reminding me that even though Shane thought this was just a casual crush, for me this is something more intense. And I’m starting to believe that for Rick this was something else too.

The minute I pushed through the swinging back door, the smell of beer, bleach, and fake fog hit me in the face like a slap from a friend you kind of liked.

Both of my favorite co-workers already there, Mariah behind the bar, rearranging the top-shelf bottles with the kind of mood she only gets when something exciting is coming our way, her spiked collar glinting under the orange pumpkin lights. And Markus was stacking fresh pint glasses, moving with that quiet purpose he always had — like he was doing tai chi instead of prepping for another hell-shift.

“Look what the witch dragged in,” Mariah called, smirking.

I dropped my bag behind the counter and tugged off my hoodie, revealing my snug black tee that read Spooky, but cute in glittery print. “Don’t start unless there’s a cake behind that register.”

“No cake,” Markus said, voice amused. “But I made you a birthday playlist.”

Mariah pointed to the beat-up iPod docked in the corner. A moody alt-rock song with distorted guitar kicked in right at cue and I laughed at it.

“You made me a fucking playlist?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t know what else to do. You don’t like people spending money on you.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, glad they knew me that well. “Because then I owe people emotional gratitude, and that sounds exhausting.”

Mariah grinned. “We accept sarcasm as payment.”

Before I could say anything else, I heard a familiar cough — deep and phlegmy — followed by the scraping sound of a barstool moving just a little too slow.

Dave. Resident drunk, last I saw him was when Shane was throwing him out for harassment, and we all knew he’s the only one who’d been here longer than the barstools, that’s why he’s back here again.

He once claimed he saw Prince in concert in '83 and also once pissed himself telling the story.

He raised his glass in my direction, eyes a little brighter than usual.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he rasped.

I blinked. “Damn, Dave. You remembered?”

“I always remember the good ones,” he said, tapping the rim of his glass like it was some sort of toast. “You give better banter than the rest of these clowns.”

I gave him a two-finger salute. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He slid a crumpled five across the bar. “This is for your tip jar.”

Markus quietly replaced the bill with a crisp ten when Dave turned away. I caught him doing it, and he just shrugged again like it was nothing.

Shift was better than I expected to be — low music, early regulars, the noise of conversation building slowly through the late afternoon/early night. Maybe that’s all because we’re all expecting the party and talking about it every break we got.

It was a good birthday, I realized — in the weirdest, messiest way.

And it wasn’t even dark yet.

***

Someone had dumped a pile of dry wood in the middle of the field and called it a bonfire. It crackled loud and wild, licking the sky in bright orange streaks. Smoke blew sideways every time the wind shifted, mixing with the smell of beer, weed, and fake blood from some halloween costumes.

I stood a few feet back from the flames, plastic cup in hand, watching the chaos with a stupid little smile on my face.

It wasn’t a real party. Not the kind you see in movies.

It was better, because this was mine.

Mariah had gone full vampire-punk: black corset, leather skirt, glitter smeared across her cheeks like blood. She was hanging off the edge of a rusty folding chair, eyes tracking Shane like a hawk on the hunt.

“He’s not gonna notice you if you keep staring at his shoulders like they owe you money,” I said, sidling up next to her.

She took a sip from her flask. “I’m waiting for the shirt to come off. It’s a long game.”

“He’s emotionally unavailable and has the emotional intelligence of a root vegetable.”

“Yeah,” she sighed dreamily. “Hot, right?”

Markus walked past with a tray of deviled eggs — because of course he brought deviled eggs to a bonfire — and muttered, “Y’all are gonna need therapy.”

“I’ve been needing therapy since the second grade,” I called after him.

Mariah elbowed me. “Hey. For real now, you having fun?”

I looked around at the firelight bouncing off some familiar faces, people dancing badly in the grass., one group trying to roast marshmallows with sticks that were definitely just tree branches. My brother llaughing too loud, beer in hand, leaning against someone’s truck acting like someone who hadn’t just scared a guy to death at the bar last week for getting too handsy with me.

And for a second, I let myself take this all in.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling at my best friend. “I am.”

That was when the headlights cut through the field.

A truck pulling in slowly, tires crunching over the dirt. The music dimmed just enough for the new arrival to matter.

Dark jeans, worn boots, flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a case of beer in one hand, and that look in his eyes.

Same look he gave me the other week at a greasy diner over a basket of fries and my rootbeer float.

Every part of my body went still.

He walked toward the fire a little lost, out of place. Maybe because he shouldn’t have come, at least not tonight... Not when I was already buzzing from heat, and attention, and the cheap liquor we got from Pete’s.

But he was there.

Mariah’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“He came alone?”

“Yup.”

“Shane invited him?”

I blinked a little, trying to find the words. “I did… I mean, he kind of invited himself this morning.”

He reached the edge of the circle, nodding at a few people who waved. Beloved new sheriff Rick Grimes, just got off duty and came to a totally legal bonfire party of his best friend’s little sister.

His eyes found me and he smiled coming to greet me.

The world resumed to this man walking towards me. The way his shoulders relaxed every step closer, and how the corner of his blue eyes crinked and that damn dimple appeared. I was a goner.

“Brought the beer,” he said, holding it up like proof.

“Good man,” I replied, voice just a little too shaky.

“You’re the birthday girl, right?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

His mouth curved, soft. “Happy birthday, Trouble.”

That nickname in his voice, I felt it hit directly to my chest, my knees, somehow threatening to buckle at the sound of that raspy voice.

Mariah made a not-so-subtle exit. “Gonna go… look at the moon or whatever.”

Coward.

Rick stepped in closer. “Didn’t get to talk much earlier. You looked like you had your hands full.”

“I always do.”

He passed me a cold bottle, and our fingers brushed.

The whole place could be empty now and I wouldn’t notice the difference. HIs presence was the only thing I knew from this point on. The fire popped loud behind us, but I didn’t look away from his face, someone was in a chug competition and I didn’t care enough to glance at it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, only for him to hear it.

“I know.”

“Lori know?”

He shrugged and took a sip of the bottle he was holding. “Shift stretched longer than it was supposed to.”

I took a long sip of my beer to stop my mouth from saying the wrong thing at the wrong fucking time. His eyes found my face then, watching my mouth around the bottle like he was memorizing the shape of it.

“You disappeared after that shooting session the other day” I pointed, meaning something else.

His jaw worked the tension, and he knew what I meant — You backed away after I kissed your cheek a little longer the other day.

“Long hours at the station,” Rick simply said, as if this excuse would be enough.

Everything pointed to the fact that he had changed lately. He was noticing things more, his eyes searching more than just comfort, more than just reassurance. Rick was looking for trouble.

And I was right here.

Before I could provoke him a bit more, Shane’s voice cut through the night.

“Rick! You finally showed up, you son of a bitch!”

He jogged over, slinging an arm around his best friend like they’d known each other since birth. Kind of true if you count the ‘since birth’ part as since elementary school.

I took a step back, moment shattered, just like that.

Rick looked at me one more time, and then he turned to greet Shane, slipping back into his good ol’ boy smile, hiding the fact that he was watching my mouth seconds ago.

Privacy around this place with Shane around would be a difficult thing, but lucky for me he was off duty the next day, so he was drinking and flirting more. Leaving me alone to do whatever the hell I wanted.

And I wanted to do his best friend. The fire was still going strong, a little taller now, wild like it had caught some of my own chaos and ran with it. Someone had hooked their phone up to an old stereo system in the bed of a truck, and now there was electronic music pulsing through the ground like a second heartbeat. More people came by, more people dancing, and drinking all around.

I’d had three beers and half of Mariah’s spiked apple cider. My body was wired, my lips tingled a little and my boots were muddy. I could find the will in me to care about the state of my mind.

I was twenty-four, officially, and for once I felt alive — not exhausted, not cornered, not like I was just surviving the day, not taking care of grown man who had drinking problems.

I was here.

And I was dancing.

Hands in the air, eyes closed, my hips moving on instinct, slow and teasing when the bass dropped, sharp and bold when it picked up. I laughed, hair sticking to the back of my neck, sweat glistening on my collarbone.

When I opened my eyes, I looked into his direction.

Rick was standing near the edge of the firelight, alone for once because Shane was out to grab another drink. He had one hand wrapped around a bottle, the other hanging by his side like he’d forgotten what to do with it.

His eyes were locked on me, watching like a starved man. Holding back like a married one.

I moved a little slower, the beat coiling around me like smoke. I swayed toward him — not close enough to cross any real line, but just close enough to make him want to.

My smile turned wicked.

Come on, Sheriff. Let’s see how long you can hold that leash.

Across the field, Markus was deep in conversation with a woman in a leopard-print dress and heels that had no business being in a muddy pasture. She touched his arm and he giggled, like a frat boy with a crush on his sociology professor. It was funny actually, to see him finally let go of that facade of the responsable guy all the time.

“Markus is gonna regret that tomorrow,” Mariah muttered beside me, drink in hand, watching him and dancing at the same time.

“Let him live,” I said. “He deserves some chaos.”

“Not as much as I do,” she replied, tossing her drink back “Wish me luck.”

But she didn’t give me time to do so. She was already walking straight over to Shane, bold as hell, swaying every once of her hips.

I paused my dancing just long enough to watch it happen.

Mariah cut right through his little crowd of hangers-on, grabbed the beer from his hand, took a swig, and said something low into his ear.

Shane raised his eyebrows, smirked in that boyish way he always had when he was about to have a good time with some girl.

“Well shit,” I said, hands on my hips. “You go, girl.”

Someone turned the music up louder, and I felt the bass under my ribs again. I turned back to the fire, my skin still electric.

The pair of blue eyes were still on me. He had the same stance, right there in the same spot. But now his jaw was tight, lips parted slightly like he’d just realized he’d stopped breathing for a longer period of time. The bottle in his hand was more like a prop now, and the look he gave me set a fire inside my body.

I tilted my head at him, just a little, and danced again.

Slower now.

I was dancing just for him, not caring who was around… Or the right or wrong, or even Lori’s tight smile from early that morning. I didn’t fucking care for the fact that I’d have to wake up in six hours or so to go back serving drunks again.

The only thing I cared about right at that moment is that Rick Grimes was standing at the edge of a fire — burning just as hot — and the only thing holding him back was his own damn sense of control.

And I was ready to see it break. So I set the plan in motion to push him to the end of that edge, that ache, that storm was sitting in Rick Grimes’ chest like a gun about to go off.

The plan was simple, really. I just had to sensualise myself long enough for him to break. There was a guy near the cooler, maybe mid-thirties, salt-and-pepper scruff, strong jaw, looked like he worked construction or security, just something physical. He’d smiled at me earlier, confident in that older man kind of way.

Perfect.

I sauntered over, beer in one hand, the fire painting my skin in gold and shadows. He saw me coming and smiled wider, straightened up like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said with a deep voice. “You got moves.”

“Yeah?” I asked, cocking my head. “Wanna see more?”

He didn’t even blink. “Hell yes.”

That’s all he needed to come close.

I danced like I had sin running in my veins, danced like every part of me was heat and sweat. I turned my back to him, pressed against his chest, let his hands settle just above my hips. I set the rhythm, rolling my body in slow, sensual waves.

My eyes never left the Sheriff.

Dare was the only thing I could use. I dared him to do something about it, but he stood stiff as stone across the fire, one hand holding tight around his beer bottle, jaw clenched so hard I could see it twitch. And the volume inside his jeans told me what I needed to know.

I smiled and kept moving.

The guy behind me told me his name was Jake. But yeah, I didn’t care about him, or his name. He was just someone I could use to get what I wanted.

Jake leaned down, said something against my ear, his moustache scratching my skin just when Rick fucking Grimes started to move.

A laugh escaped my lips with the fact that I was winning this whole game.

Rick crossed the field with purpose, Sheriff stance working with him, sending shivers all over my body. The steps of a man walking into a storm he didn’t plan to survive.

By the time he reached us, my body was thrumming.

The poor guy behind me didn’t know what the hell Rick was doing there just a couple of steps from us.

“Come with me,” Rick said, leaning in just a little with his voice low, rough, only for me.

That wasn’t a question, he was commanding, taking charge of the situation.

I wanted to disobey, just to see what he’d do, but instead I leaned in, real close, and whispered against his ear.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Jake laughed behind me, awkward and confused as I peeled away, not sparing him a glance.

Rick’s hand brushed the small of my back as I passed him, guiding me away from the fire, away from the noise, away from the eyes that might notice too much.

And I followed. Because Rick Grimes didn’t just look at me like he wanted me anymore, the look on his face was of a man who was about to do something about it. He stopped behind the old house far away just enough that no one could see us. Rick turned his body to me, looking like a man who wasn’t sure if he’d just dragged me out here or if I’d somehow dragged him.

The music thumped in the distance, muffled by trees. A breeze kicked up and pulled the smoke scent through the air. Fire, beer, and fall leaves, but all I could smell was him.

Rick stood with one hand on his hip, the other scrubbing over his mouth like he was trying to rub away the words stuck behind it.

“You got any idea what you’re doin’?” he asked finally, voice hoarse.

I leaned back against the wooden wall of the house, arms crossed, a slow smile crawling up my face.

“Yeah. I’m being me, Trouble.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl. “You don’t make this easy.”

“I’m not here to make things easy, Sheriff.”

Stepping into my direction just once felt more like a spasm of his body than anything else. The restrain from months enduring something was slowly falling, piece by piece. Gravity shook everything inside me.

“You shouldn’t’ve danced with him,” he said. “That guy.”

“Why?” I tilted my head. “Because he’s older?” Now I was testing te waters around his response.

“Yeah.”

I bit my lip.

“You don’t get to be jealous,” I said, keeping my voice light even as my pulse picked up speed. “You’re married, remember?”

He flinched, but didn’t back up.

If he decides to do something about all this, or not, I want him to be fully aware of everything its been going on around us. Every single detail of his life and my life. Because I deserve something solid, I deserve not to be the reckless choice he gets to make when he’s just feeling sad or lonely.

“I ain’t blind, Trouble” His voice was firm, harsh even. “And I ain’t dead.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Could’ve fooled me the way you keep walking away from me.”

He stared at me, his hands forming fists beside his body, as if this is taking everything in him to not reach out.

“I’ve been tryin’.”

I swallowed.

He took another step.

“Tryin’ really hard to stop thinking about you for a long time,” he admitted and my senses went numb and then cold spread all over “Long before tonight, before you wore that little smirk, before you danced like that in front of me… Before you started lookin’ at me like you know.”

My throat went dry. “Know what?”

“I shouldn’t want you.”

“But you do.”

He was close now. Too close. His gaze dropped to my mouth, as his tongue went out to wet his lips, then those blue eyes flicked away. Telling me the story on how he already sinned, and the rest would be just a reaction to it.

“I’ve had dreams,” he said, voice thick. “About you, Sam.”

I raised my eyebrows. “The sheriff dreams about me? Now that’s dangerous.”

He smiled, a breath of a thing. “You’re dangerous.”

I tilted my head up, just enough to brush the edge of his breath with mine. His hand hovered near my hip, so close I could feel the heat irradiating from his skin.

“You want me to go back out there?” I asked, voice low, pushing every word between us like a dare. “Dance with someone else? Maybe let ‘em kiss me?”

Rick groaned, the sound buried in his throat, shaking every once of restrain that remained holding him up.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, “you keep talkin’ like that, I’m not gonna walk away this time.”

“That’s the idea.”

Our breaths hitched at the same time when his hand finally landed at my waist. Body coming even closer to mine, our chests almost touching. My brain screamed: It’s fucking happening. My hands found his chest, fingers digging into his shirt holding him afraid of one small moment of reality hitting him and this would all fade away.

“You’re gonna wreck me,” he whispered.

“Already did.”

That’s the final say before his lips crashed into mine. Scared at first, not really knowing what to do after that, as if he only had planned it all out until this exact point. He tasted like beer, his mouth was warm against mine, and this was everything I’ve been dreaming up for years on end. It was slow, aching, like we’ve both waited too long to ruin it with greed.

I leaned into it, mouth opening just enough to feel him shiver. And what it started soft, uncertain and scared, turned into something heated. His tongue slipping into my mouth and his broad, warm body caging mine, crushing me against the wall.

When he pulled back, barely an inch, we were both breathless.

“I’m gonna hate myself in the morning,” he said.

“No,” I whispered, brushing his lips again. “You’re gonna think about it every night after this.”

The words got swallowed by a hungrier kiss. Sounds of relief on both parts, my arms going around his shoulder to pull him in — when it was almost impossible to be closer — His hands were everywhere, skating around my body, touching me in every inch he could get. Our tongues dabing against each other, making our mouths open more to fit.

And we fit so fucking well.

His knee nudged my legs open, and it pressed against the heat of me. I moaned against his lips which only made his mouth trace a line from my cheek to my neck. With all this sensation, with his nose pressed against the vein on my neck I rolled my hips against his thigh, and he groaned.

We both were chasing the friction, chasing more. There was no thinking through in this, we only had heat, want, and this dizzying feeling of finally letting something good happen to us.

I brought his head back up, and crashed my lips against him one more time. Rolling my hips at a rhythm now, gasping in between kisses and whining when the friction hit just right.

“You taste like beer,” I whispered against his lips, breathless.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, down to my jaw again, and then lower — his stubble dragging a raw path to my neck.

“You taste like trouble,” He growled, digging his fingers into my waist.

“Damn right I do”

His teeth scraped just beneath my ear, and I shuddered — my whole body tightening under him.

“Rick,” I breathed, voice nearly gone. “I swear to God—fuuuuck”

He cut me off with another kiss and then pressed his hips forward until all I could feel was how big and hard he was against my inner thigh.

I let my hands slide under the hem of his shirt, tracing skin and muscle, trying to do something more than just kiss. I wanted to feel him, I wanted to get lost into him.

He hissed through his teeth, his whole body twitching like he might snap.

But he froze.

Pulled back. Hands still on me, lips raw, plushy and a mess just barely apart from mine.

His eyes were dark, blown wide with heat — but there was something else too. That damn guilt, some restraint back in place and a dash of regret. I pushed him too far.

“Sam—”Hhe whispered, his forehead dropping against mine, “—I can’t.”

My heart pounded in my ears. “Why not?”

“It’s just,” he rasped. “If I don’t stop now…”

Yeah, I knew that. I could feel how close we were to the edge. This was the part that there’d be no turning back from.

His hand slid up, cupping my cheek, thumb brushing across my bottom lip like he was already missing the taste of it.

“This isn’t fair to my family.” he murmured. “And it sure as hell ain’t fair to you.”

I closed my eyes, trying to slow the pulse between my legs, the ache under my skin, and those damn tears trying to make the fool out of me.

“I know,” I whispered. “But for a second there, it felt like the only thing that was fair.”

He leaned in one last time — pressed a kiss to my forehead. The act alone told me how much he cares about me, and how much I would break after this.

Letting him go was like a punch to the gut. Rick stepped back, dragging a hand down his face like it physically hurt to leave too.

“I’ll see you around, Trouble,” he said, voice low and wrecked as he turned around and left.

Taking with him the control I had to not cry in front of him. He left me against the wall, lips swollen, heart racing, still chasing the ghost of his mouth on my skin.

Shame crept in like a snake. I felt dirty in that dark place, and all I wanted to do now was to go back home to let myself feel all of it.

When I walked back, wiping the tears from my face, I noticed that no one knew I was gone, the fire was still burning like nothing had happened, the music was still loud, but in slow waves, a song I didn’t recognize bleeding out of the same truck speakers. People were laughing, bottles clinked.

But me?

I couldn’t feel my legs. Only the heat still clinging to my mouth. The hollow ache where he’d just been.

I stepped out from the trees like I was walking into someone else’s life, hand shaking not from cold, but that ugly shame. My shirt was still crooked from where he’d pulled me close. My breath hadn’t fully come back.

When I got to the bonfire it was just in time to see him past the flickering shadows of the fire, walking back toward his truck. His head down, and hands jammed in his pockets. Shoulders tight like he was barely holding himself together.

There was no point in looking back to me, he was just… Gone.

Suddenly, the music felt too loud. My throat burned from the smoke coming from the big fire, and I wanted to leave.

Searching for somebody—anybody would do. But Markus was nowhere in sight. Probably still off with that cougar in the leopard print. Good for him.

Shane was about ten feet away, pressed up against Mariah like the world had narrowed to just them. Her hands were in his hair, and he was grinning into her mouth, drunk and happy and totally lost in it.

Everyone was busy, happy, laughing too loud. Letting the night carry them somewhere warm.

And I?

I was standing in the dirt, heart breaking in the quietest way possible, because all I did tonight? Was the wrong fucking thing. I kissed a married man… I tried to fuck a married man, and he rejected me in the most polite way possible in that situation.

My arms came around myself, sudden chill settling in my bones.

“Happy birthday, Sam,” I muttered.

Then I turned, walked back toward Shane’s truck, boots kicking at the dead leaves on the ground. No one noticed me, no one to ask what happened.

I slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. The distant music muffled instantly, like I’d slammed the world shut behind me.

Stupid. That’s what I was.

Rick would never get his hands dirty with the mess that my life was. He had the perfect suburban life. A kid of his own and a marriage — even if its broken. He was the sheriff, people respected him, and I was just… Too messy.

***

The ride home was quiet.

Shane didn’t ask what was wrong, which almost made it worse. He just drove with the windows cracked and the radio low, some old country song playing, filling up the space where my mind was too loud.

When we pulled up to the trailer, he gave me a tired look. “You okay, Trouble?”

“Yup,” I lied.

Either he was too tired to argue or he was just giving me space. I was just glad he went inside and straight to bed.

The little joint I stashed in the junk drawer was still there, waiting for a day like this to take the edge of my mind off. I waited until the lights of Shane’s room were out, climbing the back railing of the trailer with the last beer of the fridge and that joint.

I sat back, popped the cap off the beer, and took a slow drag of the joint. The smoke burned on the inhale, but I welcomed it, looking up at the stars of that november sky.

Birthday was over.

The day that started as a promise, with some good laughs ended in a pile of guilt, shame and that awful feeling of something cracking and breaking at the same time.

Knowing what it felt like to have Rick Grimes’ mouth on mine, his hands on my waist, his body saying he wanted me — and then the feel of him pulling away like as if I had a contagious disease.

It shouldn’t have surprised me, honestly.

I wasn’t safe.

I wasn’t simple, no… I was Shane’s little sister, the girl with scars on her knuckles and bartending tips crumpled in her pockets. The one who talked back, who rolled joints on the porch, who got too loud when she laughed.

And Rick? He was supposed to be better. He was never gonna be brave enough for a girl like me.

This wasn’t sustainable, it wasn’t something we could chase like teenagers.

I took another drag, then a long sip of beer. Not to fix anything, but it dulled the sharp pain my heart was sending to my brain.

“You’re such an idiot, Sam,” I whispered.

I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare

TROUBLE | CHAPTER 05

CW: Alternating POV's, Yarning, failing marriage, solo masturbation (m). MDNI. Attempt of SA (someone stops the asshole), shooting session

6.6K words

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

05 - Trouble In Flesh

Kings’s County, September/2009

I didn’t stop anywhere after Pete’s. The apron was still inside my bag, my hair half-wet, half-sweaty from too many runs around the same crawded kitchen, twisted up with a pen I’d swiped from Markus earlier that afternoon. The smell of grease, stale beer, and lemon cleaner stuck to my skin… Like a shift that followed you home whether you wanted it to or not.

I told myself not to care. I really did.

But the second Lori opened the door and looked at me like I’d dragged poop in with my shoes, I knew it. I wasn’t exactly welcome here. Not by everyone.

“Hey,” I said, flashing her my best ‘I promise I won’t set your house on fire’ smile. “Sorry I’m late. Double shift.”

She stepped aside, her smile tight and practiced. Fake as my old ID. “It’s fine. We’re just finishing the roast.”

Inside, the smell of real food hit me hard. It felt like walking straight into a life I didn’t have the opportunity to have. A clean life, nothing like my place, the trailer park. The difference was so sharp it felt like crossing some invisible line.

Shane was already sprawled on the couch, a beer in his hand, Carl tucked in close to him, grinning like I was the best news of his night.

“There she is,” Shane drawled. “Trouble in flesh.”

Carl’s nose scrunched up as he sniffed the air around me, amused and honest in that way he always was. “Sam! You smell like the bar!”

“Wow,” I said, not even trying to hide the grin as I messed up his hair on my way past. “Thanks, kid. You smell like Cheetos and bad choices.”

He laughed, bouncing up from the couch. The kid grabbed my hand like it was already decided. “Sit with me, Trouble.”

“Carl,” Lori called, clearing her throat without looking up. “How bout we wash our hands. Now.”

He groaned but went anyway, twisting back to give me a look like we were in on something together. Same team. Same secret. I was very aware that I’d probably cave to just about anything if he asked nicely enough.

Rick came out of the kitchen with the rest of dinner, sleeves rolled up, forearms still just a little wet. He stopped short when he saw me, then smiled, like he hadn’t realized how tight he was holding on and I was there to loosen him up.

His smile was easy. The one who reserved just for me these past months.

That damn smile always did stupid things to me.

“You made it,” he said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I answered, suddenly aware of the sweat behind my knees, the way my shirt clung to my back, the way I didn’t quite belong anywhere I was standing.

He didn’t seem to care. Rick’s eyes moved over me once—slow, like he was checking for something he couldn’t name. Present. Attentive in all the ways that counted. We held each other’s gaze for a second too long.

Lori saw it. Of course she did.

She sat across from me at the table, posture perfect, watching everything like a hawk dressed in pearls. I could feel her disapproval settle over me, heavy and sticky, like it was trying to become part of me.

Halfway through dinner, Carl leaned into my side, voice low and conspiratorial, telling me how boring school was and asking if I’d teach him how to play poker again sometime.

“Sure,” I said, grinning down at him. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”

Rick chuckled. “Don’t go teachin’ him how to hustle already.”

“He’s got the face for it,” I said, tapping Carl’s nose. “Nobody ever suspects the kid with those freckles.”

Carl snorted. Shane laughed.

Lori didn’t.

She set her fork down a little too carefully. “Maybe we should stick to card games that don’t encourage lying.”

I smiled—teeth and all. “Lying’s a life skill. Just ask any politician.”

Shane nearly spit out his beer. Rick dropped his gaze to his plate like it had suddenly become fascinating, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. Carl giggled, trying to hide it.

And Lori?

She sipped her wine slowly, as if it were the only thing keeping her from stabbing me with the salad tongs.

After dinner, I helped clear the table, mostly to get away from the frost forming over Lori’s half of the room. In the kitchen, Rick brushed past me once—close enough that I caught his cologne under the smell of roast and dish soap. A dangerous thing.

“You doin’ alright these past few days?” he asked quietly, eyes dropping to the floor like he didn’t trust himself to look at me.

I nodded, arms full of plates. “Living the dream.”

His gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. Trying to read in between the lines.

Then Lori’s voice cut in from the other room, sharp and sweet. “Rick? Can you help me with the wine opener?”

Of course she needed help with a screw-top bottle.

I rinsed it all quietly, until the last dish and dried my hands on a towel, my jaw too tight.

She didn’t like me. Not even a little, and I think her subconscious was finally catching up to why.

By the time the cards came out, my body was already giving up on me. Double shifts had settled into my bones. After ten minutes of half-listening to the conversation and one quick game, I made my excuses.

Rick walked me to the door. Like a gentleman. Like a friend. Like a man carefully not touching the thing he wanted too much.

The air shifted the moment we stepped outside. Cooler now, but thick, like the house behind us was pressing into the back of my neck.

I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Thanks for dinner.”

He nodded, eyes meeting mine before darting away. “Thanks for comin’. And sorry about—”

He didn’t finish. Not like he needed to. We both knew exactly what he was apologizing for. The sharp smiles and loaded silences. The way his wife had tested me all night.

“I’ve had worse dinners,” I said with a shrug, forcing it light. “No one threw mashed potatoes. That’s already a win.”

That small joke earned me a small smile, but the quiet stretched again.

A rare pocket of silece where neither of us was braced. Where, for once, we were alone.

“You gettin’ home okay?” he asked, voice low and careful.

“Yeah,” I said with a shrug. “I’ll walk. Just gotta cut through the schoolyard.”

His brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t walk alone.”

I lifted a brow. “Why? You gonna arrest me for loitering near the jungle gym?”

He didn’t laugh this time.

Rick’s blue eyes found mine and stayed there, his face calm in that unreadable way of his, like he was holding something still inside himself. “Want me to drive you?”

The answer came fast. Yes.

Yes, leave your wife inside. Yes, come with me. Yes to every bad idea lined up in my head.

I didn’t say any of it.

But I saw it anyway—the way his fingers flexed at his side, like they wanted to move, like he didn’t trust himself not to follow through on whatever his eyes had already started every time they landed on me.

I blew out a breath. “It’s fine, Rick. Really.”

He nodded once, then nodded again, slower, like he was forcing himself to accept it. “Alright.”

That should’ve been the end. I should’ve turned and walked away. That was the right thing to do. The smart thing.

Instead, my feet stayed planted where they were. And his eyes stayed on me.

“Sam,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

His jaw tightened. I could see the effort in it, muscles working like he was biting back words that didn’t belong out here in the open. For a second, I thought he’d let it go.

“You shouldn’t let guys put their hands on you in a parking lot like that other night.”

The world shrank. Porch light buzzing overhead, flicking every other second, and night pressed in around us. Everything narrowed down to the space between his shoes and mine.

“I know,” I whispered, my voice barely there.

I stepped closer without thinking. Or maybe thinking too much. Rick didn’t move from where he stood, he didn’t pull back, didn’t make a single move to stop me.

But like a ghost I could never quite outrun… Lori’s voice cut through it all.

Reality snapped everything back into place. The porch, the light suddenly too bright, washing everything clean and exposing it. She called him inside to fix something Shane had broken, and just like that, Rick stepped away, shaking off whatever haze we’d been standing in.

He smiled at me like nothing had happened.

“Goodnight, Sam.”

I walked down the steps with my heart thudding, knowing I’d crossed into something dangerous. I couldn’t make myself look back—but I felt his eyes on me the whole way down the sidewalk.

The walk home was a blur. I should’ve said no to dinner. Should’ve called in sick. Made up an excuse—bad ankle, food poisoning, anything.

Anything but this feeling.

But I went. And now I was in bed, staring at the ceiling like it might explain something, jaw clenched, thighs pressed together like that could hold the ache in place.

It didn’t.

I shifted under the sheets, restless. Too warm. Too aware of my own skin. My mind stuck replaying and reliving that porch like it was burned into my skull.

The way Rick looked at me. How his voice dipped when he said my name, or when he called me Trouble. The way he said he wasn’t my brother—like he needed me to understand it, this feeling wasn't fraternal, it wasn't some family bond. It was like he’d been holding it back for too long and it finally slipped.

That night I only slept after taking care of that little monster inside of me. The hot sensation inside my lower belly, the wet patch left inside my panties. I took care of it like I always do: Pretending my fingers are his, listening to his voice ghosting over my ear, calling my name, and telling me I could come.

It’s torture, I tell ya. To want a person so badly you could hear his voice in the dark hours when everything is too damn quiet. But it’s a feeling I don’t want to stop.

Rick’s pov

I could’ve climbed back in. Laid there. Pretended everything was fine. I was getting good at that. The pretending had started to feel automatic.

Instead, I eased out of the room and closed the door as quietly as I could. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway. My body felt wound too tight for that.

I left the bathroom light off. Turned the faucet just enough to make noise—something to sit on top of the silence that always filled the house this late.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Even in the dark, I could see it: jaw clenched, chest pulling in deep breaths, like I’d been holding them since dinner and just hadn’t noticed.

And all I could see was her.

Trouble.

In that tight little T-shirt that hugged her chest just enough to make my palms itch. Her hair up in that messy knot, work sweat around her collarbones, eyes like she’d just dared me to do something about the thoughts she had to know were living in my head.

Goddamn, she was…

I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles went white. Tried to breathe through the slow rise of the heat inside my body. But then I heard her voice again inside my head… Low, husky, teasing. Always teasing.

She wasn’t the girl Shane used to drag everywhere just to stay away from their drunk father. No, Sam Walsh was becoming someone way more complicated. She’s the one who was and still is always there for me.

My hand drifted down before I could stop it . So automatically that it didn’t even seem like mine anymore. Like my body was already making the decision for me.

I hissed through my teeth as I gripped myself, already half-hard and aching like a goddamn sin. My other hand braced on the sink. Head bowed, with the knowing that I couldn’t look at myself in that mirror while I was doing this.

One small stroke and my body shivered from head to toe. I tried to ignore, really did. But my body was moving on its own.

And in my mind?

Sam was already on her knees. Looking up at me with that mouth parted, that dirty little smirk on her lips. Saying something like, “You gonna be good for me, Sheriff?”

My hips jerked forward, involuntary, desperate.

I started moving slow, hand going up and down, my hips chasing it slowly, but it was just enough to feed the burn. My grip tightened. Wrist flicking with practiced rhythm, teeth clenched to keep myself quiet.

I pictured her stripping out of that T-shirt from the bar… No bra underneath, of course. She’s a damn tease, and she’d be ready for whenever I lose control.

I’d press her back to the wall, lift her by the thighs, bury my face in her neck while she begged for more.

I’d make her come twice before I even got inside.

And then I’d ruin her.

Take my time, stretch her out, make her remember my name in every damn nerve of her body.

“Rick…”

The sound of the wreck in her voice, her small gasps, her moaning my name over and over, so close to my ear. I was losing it, moving faster now, rougher, chasing that end like I was dying for it. Fucking my hand hard over the edge of the sink. Moving my hips like I was fucking her hard.

Maybe the only time I felt alive anymore was when I was thinking about her.

Not Lori. Not the house. Not my badge and this small city. Just thinking about Trouble was enough.

The smell of her skin, her voice, her hips grinding against mine, chasing it like I was. We would fuck hard, she’s the type of girl who would want it rough… Until sweat was the only thing in between our bodies, until she was aching so bad the only thing she would do was moan and grip to me to hold on.

My cock was so damn hard now, precum spreading all over while I kept going. In and out her cunt so damn hard. I knew I was trying to fuck her out of my mind.

The orgasm hit me hard, the first string of sticky cum up the wall just below the mirror with a repressed moan. And the rest spilled into my palm. Hot and almost endless. I cummed so hard, it’s been so long since I’ve done something to release this repressed feeling.

My breath came in shallow bursts, as I rinsed the evidence of this secret want I had. But this didn’t help, because the truth was? She was still out there.

And next time I saw her?

I knew I’d want her even more.

Sam's POV

The place was packed. Someone broke the hell’s gate loose.

Hot air of too many bodies together, loud with some old country/blues song, sticky with beer and sweat and the smell of grilled meat around the air like a fog.

I was four hours into a six-hour shift and already running on fumes. My feet hurt, my ponytail was damp at the nape of my neck, and my apron was stuffed with tips and a few phone numbers I’d toss out the second I clocked out.

Table nine was being rowdy again. Bunch of out-of-towners who clearly were here to have a good time with loud laughs, sloppy hands, and that one guy… Stereotypical red-neck, the one with the trucker cap and the smirk that made my stomach twist every time I brought their drinks. He was on his third whiskey and leaning a little too far into my space when I passed around their beers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he drawled when I dropped the check to his buddy. “You gonna smile for me or what?”

I gave him the tightest smile I could manage. “I smile when I’m gettin’ paid to.”

He laughed, too loud, and his hand brushed my hip. I tensed because his touch was not something casual. Not something you can let it slide, no, this was deliberate.

My body turned fast enough that my elbow knocked into his arm.

“Watch your hands.” My voice came out sharp.

He just grinned, like I was cute for even trying. “C’mon now. Don’t be a bitch. You’ve been shakin’ that ass all night, I just figured you wanted the attention.”

That was it.

I leaned in, voice low and flat. “Touch me again, and you’re leaving with fewer teeth than you walked in with.”

But he didn’t flinch. The bastard didn’t take the warning. In fact, he stood. Body taller than mine, broader than he had the right to be. Reeking of entitlement and cheap bourbon.

And then — with a movement too quick for someone under the influence of alcohol — he grabbed my wrist hard with his calloused hands.

“You think you're too good for the guys that pay your rent, huh?”

My heart kicked in and slammed inside my body. The whole bar was too loud now, at the peak of the night, so nobody noticed, not a single soul was looking in our direction.

“Let go,” I snapped, trying to yank free.

His grip tightened. “Or what?”

The door slammed open behind me.

I didn’t even have to look.

I knew that sound too well.

Boots heavy on wood. A voice, low and cold as a blade—

“Let. Her. Go.” Rick said each word as a warning.

I turned my head just as the guy loosened his grip in surprise — only to catch a blur of movement from behind him.

Shane didn’t say a word. He just grabbed the guy by the collar and slammed him up against the nearest wall so fast the air left my lungs in shock.

“Touch my sister or any other woman in this county again,” Shane growled, nostrils flared, “and I will break every goddamn bone in your hand.”

“Jesus—what the hell—”

“You okay?” Rick was suddenly at my side, hands gentle but firm, looking me over like he needed proof I was still whole.

“I’m fine,” I breathed, voice trembling. “He just... He grabbed me, that’s all.” My right hand rubbed my left wrist, where I’ll definitely have a bruise tomorrow.

Rick stepped forward, face unreadable, but something sharp flashed in his eyes. “You put your hands on a woman in this county,” he said calmly, “I’ll make sure you don’t see the sun for the rest of your fucking life.”

“Bullshit!” the guy spat, pinned against the wall. “She liked it... little tease—she was—”

Wrong move. Shane cuffed him right there. Didn’t even hesitate.

“No one talks about my sister like that,” he snapped, shoving the guy toward the door.

The bar was dead quiet now. All eyes on us and even the music was low now. The presence of two police officers still in uniform was enough to drag the attention of everyone. Markus and a new guy was in the same shift, but they just watched it too.

Rick stayed back with me. His hand brushed mine once — almost like he wanted to do more. Pull me in, or hold me tight…. Just Something.

“You’re shaking,” he said, quietly.

“Adrenaline,” I muttered back. “It’ll pass.”

But it didn’t.

He stood beside me while Shane dragged the guy out the front door, spitting curses the whole way.

I gripped my apron hard enough because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

This was nothing like in the movies where you can see the trembling movements, it was just this soft, annoying tremor in my fingers, like my body was still trying to decide if I was pissed or scared… or both.

When everything started to flow back again around the bar, I pushed through the back door, into the alley behind the kitchen. Cool night air hit my skin. A little damp from a light rain just moments ago, quiet and smelling like rust and wet concrete.

Smoke was not something I used to do regularly, but it should help. So I lit the cigarette with one of the cheap plastic lighters I kept in my apron. Flame flared, my lips were dry, but I didn't really care. As soon as I took a drag, the smoke curled into my lungs.

That shit didn’t help much. But it was something to do with my hands.

I leaned back against the wall, exhaling hard. My wrist was still red from where I’d tried to pull away. I should’ve hit him. Should’ve broken a bottle across his damn face. But when it’s happening, when it’s you and someone bigger’s got you by the wrist… you just freeze sometimes.

And I hated that.

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

I looked up, cigarette halfway to my mouth.

Shane stepped into the alley, hands in the pockets of his uniform, jaw clenched tight in anger and he was a little scared of me pushing away. His badge still clipped to his belt, and those hazel eyes were sharper than I’d seen in a while.

“You good?” he asked.

I took a drag, held it. Let the smoke seep out slow. “Peachy.”

He knew this was me calling for help. I wasn’t good, I knew better than to pretend otherwise. But Shane also knew that he wasn’t allowed to push me.

He didn’t say anything, just walked over and stood beside me, leaning against the same brick wall. Quiet for a second, before a deep breath filled his lungs.

“I should’ve broken his damn nose,” he muttered.

“You almost did.”

He shot me a look. “You were scared.”

I didn’t answer.

My eyes stared at the glowing tip of my cigarette like it held the truth. “I was handling it.”

“Not the point.”

I could hear it in his voice — that edge. That older brother fury that came out whenever someone got too close, or too rough, or even too stupid around me.

“Shane…” I started, but he cut me off.

“No, I mean it. You shouldn’t have to keep your guard up just to do your damn job.”

I turned my head. “You do realize where I work, right?”

He gave me a look. “Don’t mean I like it.”

“You don’t like anything that isn’t bubble-wrapped.”

“I’d bubble-wrap you if I could.”

That pulled a tiny laugh out of me. “Not with this body, big guy.”

He smiled, small but there. And when he looked back at me again, it was different. Eyes soft, and soul tired.

“You don’t always have to be the tough one, y’know.”

“Sure I do,” I said. “One of us has to be.”

He let that hang in the air. Didn’t argue.

His shoulder nudged mine, making me look back at him. “Next time someone grabs you like that, don’t warn ‘em. Just go for the nose.”

“Noted.” I smiled a little,

We stood there a little longer, side by side, not saying much.

He didn’t ask if I was okay again. Shane knew that didn’t help anything. Unfortunately our lives taught us that.

The first thing I noticed when the truck pulled up was that it wasn’t my dumbass big brother.

The second thing was that I knew that truck just as well.

Rick climbed out, still in uniform, button-down open, reveling his white undershirt like he hadn’t bothered fixing it after the shift. Aviators perched on his head, blue eyes tired but alert. His hat sat forgotten on the back seat, and his jaw was set in a way I recognized—the look he got when a drive had been too long and his thoughts had kept him company the whole way.

I blinked at him from the edge of the parking lot. “Where’s the dumbass?”

He walked around the truck and opened the passenger door for me, keys still dangling from his fingers. “Hungover,” he said. Then, after a second of thought, “Or horny. Possibly both. He asked me to fill in.”

I stared at him. “Wait—you’re taking me to shoot?”

He gave a small, almost casual shrug. “Qualified expert eight years straight.”

“Yeah, but you’re…” I waved a hand at him, searching for the word. “You.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Amused. “That a problem?”

No. It wasn’t a problem.

It was the problem.

Because I’d spent the last two weeks trying not to think about him. About how he looked when his mouth fell open mid-sentence and my name got caught there. Trying not to remember the way his fingers hooked around his belt, or how his voice could drop so low it felt like it hit somewhere deeper than my ears.

So yeah.

Rick Grimes teaching me how to shoot?

Bad idea.

“I’ll allow it,” I muttered anyway, throwing my gear bag over my shoulder as I climbed in.

***

The Richmond County outside range was quiet that day. Too quiet. Midday sun beating down on the gravel, heat shimmering just enough to make everything look slightly unreal. Empty lanes stretched out in a row, the occasional gunshot popping somewhere far off and echoing back like a reminder we weren’t really alone.

Rick checked us in with no problem, no rush or small talk with the owner. He led me to an open booth and set the ammo down with that same steady, practiced care he brought to everything.

I watched him without meaning to stare for too long. Just from the corner of my eye. It was unfair how good he looked doing absolutely nothing. Rick was just standing there, big hands busy, mind somewhere focused and quiet. This should not turn me on, but it did.

“You been practicing since last time?” he asked.

I nodded. “Dry fire every other night.”

“Good,” he said. “Show me your stance.”

I stepped up and loaded, settling into position. Everything Shane had drilled into me: Feet planted, shoulders squared, elbows loose enough not to fight the recoil. Rick moved behind me.

Too damn close.

“Your hips,” he said softly. “You’re locking them. Ease up.”

I shifted. His hand came to the small of my back, light but sure, guiding instead of forcing. My lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. I knew better than to take a deep breath—I didn’t trust myself with that.

“Better,” he murmured, close to my ear.

I fired.

The crack of the shot snapped clean through the air.

“Nice,” he said. “Again.”

I kept shooting. He stayed right there, close enough that I felt him without touching—heat at my back, his breath brushing my neck. I focused hard on the target, on keeping my hands steady, on pretending my body wasn’t registering every inch of him behind me.

Ten rounds later, I put the gun down at the table in front of me and blew the powder off my fingers.

“So,” I said, a little smug. “You gonna critique me or crown me champion of the world?”

He smirked. “Grip’s strong. You brace a little high. But your control’s solid.”

I raised a brow. “So I’m hot and talented. Tragic.”

He laughed, the sound bouncing off the empty lanes. “You’re dangerous.”

Don’t say it like that, I thought. Not with that tone. Not with that look, and specially not with us alone in here.

I leaned back against the booth. “Thanks for bringing me. Figured you’d have better things to do.”

He studied me for a moment, quiet, like his mind was running faster than he wanted it to. “I don’t mind.”

His voice didn’t match the words or the intent on them.

I swallowed. “Next time you’re teaching me how to load blindfolded.”

He snorted. “Planning on shootin’ someone in the dark?”

“You never know,” I said, grinning. “I get into weird situations sometimes”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Most times we can say everything we want with just the way we look at each other. And that only comes with knowing the person more than half your life.

Finally, he nodded toward the lane. “Let’s run another round.”

I nodded back.

Because even though part of me knew I should step away, put some distance between us... I also knew wasn’t ready to leave his orbit yet.

***

We didn’t speak much after we packed up.

Just walked in silence — me with my gear bag over one shoulder, Rick with the keys jangling in one hand and the quiet of a man who thought too much in the other.

Rick drove just ten minutes before declaring he needed to fill up gas. So he parked out front of a old gas station off the highway. Windows down, and some old Johnny Cash song rolling soft through the speakers like the world was stuck in slow motion.

The wind was warm, and the faint smell of gunpowder still hung on my hands. I was starting to like this whole going out to practice shooting thing. My mind always came back a little cleanner every session.

I didn’t realize I was staring until I caught him watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“You did good today,” he said, voice low, like he was afraid to speak too loud aroun me.

“Yeah, well,” I shrugged. “Turns out rage and trauma make for decent marksmanship.”

That earned me the smallest twitch of his mouth.

We went quiet again.

I leaned back in the seat, one boot kicked up on the dashboard. My shirt clung to my skin in places I didn’t want to think about. Sweat drying in all the wrong spots. And the problem was… I liked this kind of quiet with him.

“You ever gonna teach me the cowboy quick-draw?” I asked, glancing at him. “You know, spin the revolver and shoot someone mid-monologue?”

Rick looked over at me, brow raised. “And what makes you think I know how to do all that stuff?”

“Hey, you’re the Sheriff of our town. It’s in the job description.”

He smirked, shook his head.

Then silence again.

And fuck, it was heavy.

His fingers tapped the steering wheel once, like he was debating something. Then stopped.

I couldn’t even look at him without remembering the way his hand fit on my back earlier, the way his voice sounded just behind my ear, the way my legs went a little weak after the third round of ammo. And how that heat was still very much alive inside my panties.

“It’s getting late,” he said finally, glancing out the windshield.

“Yeah.”

“You hungry?”

I blinked. “What?”

He shifted, eyes still forward. “There’s a place on the way back. A Diner, good food... We could eat. If you want.”

I should’ve said no. I think he wanted me to say no, so he could be safe from whatever this was.

We both knew I should’ve said no.

But instead, I said, “I could eat.”

And his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel just enough for me to notice.

We pulled out of the lot, dust kicking up behind us. The sun slipping lower in the sky. And in the cab of that truck, with the radio humming, and Rick Grimes two feet away smelling like leather and smoke and restraint — I realized I was in so much more trouble than I thought.

***

He wasn't kiddin', The diner smelled like grease and burnt coffee and felt like it hadn’t changed since 1985. But the food looked amazing.

Rick picked a booth in the back, the one with the broken jukebox and the flickering overhead light. The waitress didn’t even blink when we walked in — just dropped two menus and called us “darlin’” without looking up.

I ordered fries and a root beer float like a damn child. He got a Pepsi and a burger.

The silence stretched between us while we waited — comfortable in the kind of way that only comes after you’ve spent the afternoon handling live ammunition with someone who gives you bedroom thoughts just by breathing.

Rick leaned back in the booth, arm stretched out over the top of it, flexing just enough that my eyes couldn't stop starin'.

He looked tired.

“You always this quiet after playing cowboy?” I asked, sipping the edge of my float.

He smirked. “Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous habit.” I joked promptly.

His eyes watched me like he was seeing something I hadn’t noticed in myself yet. Then he asked, “You still planning on leaving town?”

The question landed in my gut like a brick.

I shrugged. “Eventually.”

“You got a plan?”

I blew out a breath, shook the salt of the fries off my fingers and looked at him to answer “Sort of... Need to save money, maybe buy a car that doesn’t break down when I look at it. Move somewhere that doesn’t reek of my father’s beer breath and busted promises.”

Rick looked at me for a long second. “And how close are you?”

I stabbed another fry like it’d wronged me. “Not really that close. Rent’s high all around. Tips are crap lately. Shane keeps forgetting I’m not his personal bank. And Dad’s racked up another couple hundred I’ll probably never see again.”

He nodded like he understood. “I’ve been thinking about leaving too.”

That stopped me.

“What?”

He rubbed his jaw, eyes on his burguer. “Not the town. Just… maybe not being married to someone who hasn’t looked at me like I’m the wrong person since ’02.”

I blinked. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You said that way too calmly.”

He gave a slow, humorless smile. “That’s what happens when you’ve been trying to convince yourself things will get better for six years.”

The float suddenly didn’t taste as sweet, so I pushed it aside.

I could read the deep exhaustion in him. The lines around his eyes were deep, and the way his shoulders never dropped, never relaxed, like he was always halfway between staying and running.

“She knows?”

He shrugged. “Lori’s not stupid. She knows we’re not working. We’ve just been dancing around it long enough that it feels like choreography now.”

I fiddled with the straw in my glass. “So… what’s stopping you?”

“Carl,” he said immediately.

Of course.

“And the job,” he added. “The badge… it’s not just mine. It’s the town’s. Hard to walk away from something that built you.”

I nodded but the words left my mouth before I could stop them. “Harder to stay in something that’s breaking you, though.”

That earned a look. Sharp and quiet. Like he hadn’t expected me to say it—or maybe like he had, and just didn’t want it to hit home the way it did.

After a moment, Rick said, almost to himself, “You’re not what I expected.”

I lifted a brow. “What were you picturing? A cheerleader? A nun?”

“I’m serious,” he said, voice lower now. “You’re loud. Reckless. You push every damn button I’ve got.” He paused. “But—”

“But?” I prompted, biting into a fry.

His eyes met mine and didn’t slide away this time.

“But I think I’m enjoying myself.”

That stopped me cold.

For once, I didn’t have a comeback ready.

The air between us felt so damn charged, like it had weight and it was pressing down my lungs. I swallowed, suddenly aware of how warm it had gotten in that small space.

“Well,” I said finally, my voice a little too flat, “that’s a bad idea.”

He didn’t smile and didn’t look away either.

Just said, quietly, “Yeah. I know.”

Something was slowly changing in his eyes, something we hadn’t named and didn’t seem capable of stopping.

And God help me, I didn’t want to stop whatever this was.

We ate, sat around too many silent minutes, and he finally drove me home.

Rick had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the edge of the open window, fingers tapping lightly to the rhythm of a Waylon Jennings song that came on the local radio station.

I watched the trees smear together in the dark, one long blur after another. Kept thinking about the way he’d looked at me across the booth. About the things he’d said—about Lori, their falling marriege, their kid... The same kid I love to death.

I didn’t know what to do with all of it. So I stayed still, one leg pulled up on the seat, arms folded tight like that might keep everything contained.

When he turned onto the gravel road that led to the trailer park, the sound changed. Tires crunching. The world getting smaller. Our time together coming to an end.

The truck stopped in front of my place, same as always, Porch light flickering, fighting the bad eletric arrangement we have here. My dad's TV too loud through an open window. This place makes my skin itch with the need to leave.

Everytime someone drop me by here, I find a way to stay out of the trailer as long as possible. This night is no different. My hand didn't move to reach for the truck's door. His hands were still on the wheel. The engine was off, keys left in the ignition. He was just sitting there, staring ahead, like moving might crack something open he wasn’t ready to deal with.

So I spoke first.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, soft.

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

I reached for the handle, then stopped. Turned back toward him.

And before I could talk myself out of it, I leaned in—slow, so he could have time to stop me, and careful so he wasn't spooked—and I pressed my lips to his cheek.

Long enough to be remembered.

When I pulled back, his eyes were already on me. His breath so close to my face, that if I lean in a little closer, I could catch his lips with mine.

But I stepped out, shut the door gently, and walked up to my place without looking back.

Because if I look back to him, I didn’t trust myself not to turn around, climb back in the truck to finally chase the trouble we've been avoiding.

***

Rick's POV

The silence and the dark of the house welcomed me back.

I locked the door without a sound, let the quiet settle around me. My boots hit the floor one by one. Keys dropped in the bowl by the door. I moved slow — muscle memory more than anything else.

Lori didn’t wake when I passed our bedroom. Lights long gone and her back turned to the door. She hadn’t waited up.

She hadn’t in weeks. And I couldn't blame her honestly.

The distance in between us was thick in the past year, and no conversation or argument could mend us now.

I checked Carl’s room too, just enough to see the rise and fall of his chest, that stuffed dinosaur still half under his arm. My son, eight years old, and too damn smart for his own good.

My house was dead quiet, but my mind was loud. The whole afternoon made it impossible to be anything but it.

Sam was Trouble in flesh, she pushed and pulled me and my needs into every direction possible. I knew better than to stay close, but she was also the girl I could talk to so easily, the one who was always there for me. She's becoming the part of the day I'm excited about, and that was a problem, I knew it, and she knew it too.

But this is a game we can't stop playing anymore.

I have a taglist for this one, and if you want to be tagged, just let me know? taglist: @staley83 , @ravensare

tomhordy

a film where these 3 play your guardian angels but they’re different levels of professional

joelssimp

or just...

STILL | CHAPTER 24

CW: Mention of mental illness; fluff; boyfriend bonding with brother.

4.6K words

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24 - We Suck

There was no way in hell the temperature could reach this cold and still be liveable, or somehow humane. This is not normal at all. And to make it even worse, there were those big fucking fans, launching snow all over production for hours on end.

I had to keep blowing into my gloves just to get a little sensation back on my fingers. Pedro would sneak some extra packages of hand warmers and foot warmers into my gloves and shoes almost every single day. And I’d thank him briefly around lunch time.

Production was focused on shooting the big scene today — the scene. Ellie in that burning lodge. David. The moment everything changes in the show. One of the darkest pieces of media I’ve seen so far.

I’d prepped the angles the day before, walked the space with the AD and camera team, watched Bella run through choreography like their whole body was on fire even before the crew lit the match. And now, standing there on the edge of the chaos with my camera pressed to my face, I knew this one mattered. This was the shot.

Everything about it screamed capture this — the ash in the air, the way the firelight painted Bella’s face in shades of horror and survival, the wild, unfiltered scream in their eyes as they fought off Scott in character. It wasn’t just a good performance. This was feral, raw in all the right places and so honest.

I don’t even remember hitting the shutter.

I just felt the moment pass through me like lightning — saw it, felt it, knew. Bella’s silhouette framed by fire, a blur of movement, and the bloody hands, shaking. Their eyes glassy, red from smoke and rage and grief. I caught it right as the flames licked the edge of the screen and there was the scream that broke through the static in the air.

Click.

I lowered the camera.

I couldn’t feel my hands anymore, from all the excitement, but I didn’t care. I cradled it like something sacred, already knowing it was one of those shots. The kind you wait your whole life to take. Raw. Messy. Human.

The second AD yelled cut and the world shifted again — people running in with blankets, safety checks, someone handing Bella a thermos. I stood still for a second, adrenaline pumping slower now, until I remembered how to breathe.

Pedro wasn’t on set today, he stayed back at the room we’re sharing. But I knew I’d show him this photo and he would be so damn excited for me, even if he didn’t understand the technical terms for everything. He would see the beauty, the moment. He’d know the weight of it, and that made me want to go running back to him.

I walked over to Bella, careful not to interrupt anything important. They were sitting now, wrapped up, steam rising from her shoulders as they sipped hot water. Still half in the scene.

“You good?” I asked softly, crouching next to them.

There was a small pause and then their eyes looked up to me with a tired, crooked smile. “I think I just unlocked a new trauma, but yeah. Killed it, right?”

“You did,” I said. “And I have proof.”

Bella raised an eyebrow, eyes lighting up despite how drained they looked. “Oh, you got it?”

I nodded, lips twitching into a smile. “You’re gonna lose your damn mind when you see it.”

The laugh came out low, more like a breath. “I believe you.”

I gave their shoulder a gentle squeeze and stepped back again as crew swarmed in to reset, my fingers finally starting to thaw. The cold was still everywhere, in the air, in my bones — but something in me burned steady now.

This was what I came here to do. And God, it felt good to do it again. No judgement, no prying eyes, no one whispering something about me. Just me and my camera in a set full of passionate people trying their best for the sake of art.

It was late when I came back to the room. Not late-late, but the kind of cold dusk where everyone started hibernating in fleece and hoodies, burritoed in blankets with mugs of tea, leaving only the faint hum of heaters and the distant sound of someone laughing down the hall of this hotel we were all packed in.

When I got to our shared room, Kate was sitting on her bed, laptop open but clearly not watching whatever was on screen. Just staring.

I hesitated for half a second — the sd card still in my hand, still warm from my camera and still humming with the weight of the best picture I’ve taken in my career. I'd been meaning to show Pedro first. He’d understand the weight of it without needing me to explain. But tonight wasn’t about him.

I closed the door gently and dropped onto the other bed, kicking off my boots with a tired sigh. I sat there for a moment, then said quietly, “Hey. Wanna see something?”

She blinked out of her daze and turned her head toward me. “Sure.”

I slid the memory card into my laptop and opened the raw file.

There it was. Bella, smoke rising around their body, mid-motion, half-shadow, half-light — the fire illuminating like the end of the world. Their face carved in pain and rage and survival. I hadn’t edited it yet. Don’t think I need to. Some moments came out of the lens already breathing.

Kate leaned in slowly. Her mouth parted a little.

“…Holy shit,” she whispered. “You took that?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Today. During the fire scene.”

She stared for a few more seconds, then sat back, eyebrows raised so high they practically disappeared into her hairline. “Okay, I get it now. I get why you won.”

I smiled, just barely. “It’s not about winning.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But also, it kind of is, right?”

I thought about it for a second and the silence stretched a little. She looked into my eyes, preparing for something. Then she sighed and closed her laptop.

“I’ve been kind of a bitch to you,” she said, blunt as hell, looking down at her hands now.

I blinked. “What?”

“You know what,” she said, softer. “When I found out you’d been nominated. When you won. I got weird. Competitive, jealous, distant — all of it.”

She looked up at me then. “It wasn’t fair to you.”

I didn’t say anything. Not right away. I wanted to give her some space to finish.

“I think I was scared,” she went on. “Not just because you were getting all this recognition, but because… you’re actually good. Like, stupidly good. Like, you capture things the way people feel them, not just how they look. And that terrifies me. Because I’ve been working in this field for a long time, and people called me good. I thought I was this upcoming special talent, and then… Boom, there you are, with the stakes even higher than I imagined it could go.”

I stared at her for a second, processing it.

“You could’ve just told me that instead of making me feel like shit for succeeding,” I said. My voice was calm, not sharp, but it landed heavy on her.

She nodded, almost too fast. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I looked back at the laptop screen, at Bella’s face in firelight. That image would probably follow me for the rest of my career. Maybe longer.

“You’re allowed to be intimidated,” I said finally. “But don’t punish me for being good at something I fought really fucking hard to get good at.”

Her eyes softened. “I won’t. I promise. And… I’m really proud of you. Even when I was acting weird, I was. You’re not just some lucky girl who got into the big award because she was sleeping with the lead.”

I winced at that, but she kept going.

“You earned this. The award, the work, the respect. And even the guy — although I still think dating Pedro Pascal is asking for emotional whiplash.”

That made me laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

Kate grinned, finally. “You wanna share the rest of the pictures from today?”

“Only if you don’t cry from artistic envy.”

“I make no promises.”

We laughed, a laugh so sincere that hasn’t happened in a while. And something between us felt lighter. Communication fixing things I thought was beyond repair.

As I flipped through more of the files and Kate leaned closer to get a better look, I realized something: I hadn’t just taken a career-defining photograph today. I’d also earned something back. That friendship we made in the first months of being together. The bond so strong, no one could touch was slowly crawling back to its place. And it felt so good.

My fingers were already so fucking stiff before the sun had fully stretched over the snow-dusted rooftops of the small town. The frost crunched like glass under my working boots as I crossed the lot to find the action. Steam rising from the generators, mixing with the distant hum of chatter and the occasional shout of “Rolling!” echoing down the alley behind the set.

I’d slept well. Really well. Maybe too well, considering how late we’d gone to sleep — or rather, how long we spent just being, tucked together like the world couldn’t find us in his overpriced little room.

But today was work. Back to it. Back to the chaos and cameras and controlled fiction.

I slung my camera over my shoulder and headed toward the bigger noise and the bigger crew. My fingers flexing inside wool gloves, checking settings of my camera like muscle memory, shutter speed, f stop and ISO for an outside shoot.

That’s when I spotted them, just a little off the side of all the movement. Pedro and Bella.

Bella had their head on his shoulder, like somehow they were catching warmth from him, and he was listening to the conversation with that soft, patient smile I’d seen a thousand times, but never got tired of. His hand moved absently in small circles around their shoulder, playful and protective all at once, like a big brother, or maybe something softer, something harder to define.

They were both in costume — Joel and Ellie, blood still smudged across Bella's temple from the last scene, flannel hanging off his frame like armor. But at that moment, it wasn’t Joel and Ellie.

It was them.

And watching it made my chest ache in the best way.

I remembered what he’d told me, months ago. Quiet, nervous, in the front seat of his rental SUV, with burgers in our hands at an empty Five Guys parking lot.

“I’m a little nervous,” he had said. “At first. Scared to work with them. They’re so young, and I keep thinking people will twist it, make it weird. And I didn’t want to give Bella any reason to feel uncomfortable around me. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

But he hadn’t. Not even close.

He had shown up. Fully. Like he always did when it mattered.

The trust between them was built brick by brick, joke by joke, moment by moment — until it became something sacred. Something solid. A bond no headline could cheapen.

It hit me how proud I am of both of them.

So I just lifted my camera, almost on instinct, and snapped a quick photo. It was nothing posed, nothing perfect. Just Pedro, leaning into Bella’s quiet story, their hands gesturing as they spoke, his face open like sunlight through frost.

One of those in-between moments no one asked to be captured. The kind you steal, and then protect.

I lowered the lens and let myself smile.

Behind me, someone called for places, and Pedro gently nudged Bella’s shoulder.

“Time to go make people cry,” I heard him joking. Bella rolled their eyes and bumped him back with their forehead.

They both walked toward their marks together, bickering playfully, already slipping back into character. But for that one moment, just before the cameras rolled — I got to see it. That something true in the middle of all the pretending.

And it made everything the cold, the chaos, the long hours and headlines, it all felt worth it.

We usually don't get a lot of free time, and specially not all of us four together. This was a rare space of time, and that night felt like a break from everything.

No set calls. No freezing wind cutting through my jacket. No questions about Pedro or photography or fame. No one to bother us at all. It was just us — jammed together on the little couch and chairs in Pedro’s hotel suite, controllers in hand, absolutely sucking at playing The Last of Us part 1.

“Wait—wait—why is it dark again? I swear I had a flashlight!” Kate muttered, pressing every button like it might suddenly summon light.

Pedro leaned so far forward on the couch his face was almost in the screen. “It’s triangle. Or maybe R3? One of the… clicky things.”

“I’m dying. I’m dying again.” Kate announced it with the dramatic flair of someone being shot on stage. “Tell Joel I love him.” She said as dramatic as she could, making Bella laugh so hard it knocked the air out of their lungs.

“I’m right here!” Pedro gasped, clutching his heart. “I’m trying to save you and you just let me get eaten by a clicker?” He said with his Joel voice, which was a little different from his normal one.

We all groaned when the Game Over screen flashed again. For the twelfth time.

“I swear, I take better pictures than I do headshots,” I said, leaning back with a laugh.

The four of us dissolved into the kind of laughter that left your face sore. It felt good to be like this. Just people hanging out. No cameras, no headlines. We only had badly timed game mechanics and shared snacks for one whole night in a freezing town.

My phone buzzed against the coffee table.

I glanced down to read my twin’s name on the screen.

My chest pulled tight for a second, but then I saw the little photo I had set for him — one he’d picked, of both of us years ago, grinning like idiots after a full day at a water park. I answered quickly and stepped into the quieter part of the room, near the window.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey you,” he echoed, voice clearer than I’d heard in weeks. He sounded stronger somehow, like the Matt I knew growing up in a small suburbian part of London.

He looked good on the screen. Tired, but there. Fully present. His eyes weren’t darting around, and he smiled without it feeling forced.

“How’s the new place treating your spoiled ass?” I asked, curling a knee up into the chair.

“Better. A lot better,” he said, laughing at how I just called him. “It’s quieter. The routines help. People actually listen. I don’t feel like I’m fighting gravity just to be understood anymore.”

My eyes stung, but I blinked it back. “I’m proud of you, Matty.”

He smiled, then squinted at the screen. “So… are you with him right now?”

I laughed. “Define with.”

“I mean with,” he said, grinning like a teenage boy again. “You said game night. Is he there? Can I meet him?”

“Yeah,” I said, turning the phone so he could see the scene behind me — Pedro and Bella arguing over which buttons to press, and Kate curled up on the couch, legs draped over Bella’s lap, still munching on the sour chips she swears it’s the best thing she knows as a snack.

“Oh my God, that’s Bella Ramsey,” Matt whispered. “Tell her I loved her in Catherine Called Birdy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not the point.”

“Okay, okay—fine. Can I talk to the boyfriend?”

I was already up and walking with the phone. The word boyfriend made Pedro’s head turn in my direction. I leaned over his shoulder and angled the camera so it was both of our faces inside the limited space the screen offered.

“Matt wants to meet you.”

Pedro blinked, then smiled instantly and reached for the phone, his voice shifting into that warm, deep register he used when he really wanted people to feel seen. We walked back to the place close to the windown, and sat side by side.

“Hey, Matt. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Matt chuckled. “She tell you how good I am at skateboarding or how many times I’ve convinced her to eat gas station sushi?”

“Both,” Pedro grinned. “Also that you’re one of the best people she knows.”

Matt glanced at me and then back at the screen, quieter now. “I haven’t always been. But she never gave up on me.”

My throat closed up again. Those damn tears that the words—never gave up—always brought to me.

Pedro still had the phone in his hand, and I watched him settle more comfortably in the chair, angling the screen so Matt could get a proper view of him.

“Alright, Matt,” Pedro said, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve officially flattered me. What else you got?”

Matt leaned in closer to his camera. “Okay, so listen. First of all, I knew I recognized your face. You were in Game of Thrones, right?”

Pedro’s shoulders dropped with a mock disappointment. “Damn, I thought I was gonna get away without hearing that tonight.”

Matt threw his head back laughing. “Bro, you got your eyes gouged out on national television. That scene haunted me for like a year.”

Pedro chuckled. “Tell me about it. I still flinch when I see a thumb.”

I let out a laugh as I settled beside Pedro, curling my legs up under me, phone angled so I was back on the screen next to him. Matt’s smile widened when he saw me again.

“I’m still mad at you for making me watch that, by the way,” My brother said to me. “You were like, ‘No, trust me, it’s art,’ and then BOOM—eyeballs.”

“It is art!” I defended, elbowing Pedro playfully. “Disturbing, bloody art.”

Pedro laughed. “Look, I’m just glad you didn’t say Narcos. That’s when I start sweating.”

“Wait—you were in Narcos too?” Matt said, clearly teasing him, because he knew Pedro’s performances. “Man, this is weird. You’re like… actually famous.”

Pedro winced dramatically. “Oh no. Don’t say that.”

“I mean,” Matt went on, pointing between the two of us, “that means my sister is dating a guy who had his face on HBO, Netflix, and every meme account for a solid decade.”

“Every meme account,” Pedro repeated, nodding. “Even the weird ones.”

Matt laughed, and I felt my whole body start to relax. This — this — was the version of him I remembered. Sarcastic. Observant. Bright-eyed in a way that hadn’t been there in months. I leaned my head on Pedro’s shoulder and played with his curls while they kept talking.

“So,” Matt said, suddenly shifting tone just slightly, “are you, like… serious-serious?”

Pedro looked at me first, checking. I didn’t mind. I nodded gently, letting him handle it.

“I’d say yes,” he said, voice softer. “I mean, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here as long as she’ll have me.”

Matt looked at me through the screen and wiggled his brows. “That means you do have a hot boyfriend now. Guess you were telling the truth.”

“Stop,” I groaned, burying my face in Pedro’s shoulder. “I should never have let you near Instagram.”

Pedro chuckled. “She talks about you a lot, you know.”

Matt looked pleasantly surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Pedro said, darting his eyes from me to the screen. “Always saying how proud she is of you. You’ve been through a lot. And she’s been right there with you.”

Matt blinked a couple of times, the smile faltering just a little. Not in a bad way — just in that way people do when something hits deeper than expected.

“I wouldn’t have made it this far without her,” he said quietly. “She found me a place that actually works. One where I don’t feel like I’m losing my mind every day. That… that means more than I can put into words.”

I sat up straighter, my heart tightening.

“I just want to get better,” Matt added. “So she doesn’t have to carry so much of me all the time.”

“You’re not a burden,” I said, voice firmer than I expected. “You’re my brother. My twin. I want you to be okay. I don’t regret anything I’ve done to help. Not one single thing.”

He sniffed, but kept his cool. “I just… I really like seeing you like this. You look so damn happy..”

Pedro gently squeezed my hand. “I'll try to keep it that way.”

“Keep doing it,” Matt said. “Because she’s kinda everything to me. And if you hurt her—”

“Oh no,” Pedro interrupted, eyes wide in mock fear. “Is this the brotherly threat part of the conversation?”

“—I’ll write a strongly worded Yelp review of your entire career,” Matt finished.

Pedro laughed so loud, Bella and Kate behind us shushed him. I glanced over and saw Kate draped across Bella’s lap now, both of them pretending to still care about the game, but very obviously eavesdropping.

Pedro wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “That’s the most Canadian threat I’ve ever received.”

“I aim to impress,” Matt said with a grin.

They kept chatting a little while longer — about music, and movies, and Matt’s newest obsession with editing short films on his iPad. Pedro offered to send him some soundtracks he liked, and Matt pretended not to freak out about it.

Before the call ended, Pedro said, “Hey — when I’m not working like crazy, I’d love to come visit. Meet you in person.”

Matt’s eyes lit up. “For real?”

“For real,” Pedro nodded. “We can get sushi. Or, like, whatever gas station snack you approve of.”

I watched my brother smile, genuinely, and for a moment he looked like the version of himself I used to see before everything cracked open. My heart did a loop inside my chest with that.

I thought I couldn’t love Pedro more than I already do, but seeing him talking to my twin made me realize I was wrong. I can, and I will love him more than I did yesterday.

“Deal,” Matt said. “But I’m warning you. I’m really good at embarrassing my sister.”

“I’m counting on it,” Pedro said.

“Love you,” Matt said to me.

“Love you more,” I whispered.

The call ended. Pedro set the phone down gently, then turned to me. His face was soft, his brown eyes so damn warm.

“You’ve got a really good brother.”

“I do,” I said, tears stinging behind my eyes again. “And I’ve missed him so much.”

Pedro pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

“He’s lucky to have you.”

I smiled through the emotion, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“No,” I murmured, “I think I’m lucky to have both of you.”

We lingered in that quiet for another few seconds, curled into each other while the warmth of Pedro’s sweater and his skin made me feel almost weightless.

But the sound of Bella shouting, “No! That was not a clicker, that was just a guy with a stick!” snapped us right back to the chaos happening across the room.

Pedro tilted his head toward the noise. “Should we go save them?”

I wiped under my eyes quickly and stood. “Only if we want to witness the worst gameplay in history.”

He took my hand and tugged me gently back toward the couch. Kate had paused the game and was currently arguing with Bella about ammo conservation. The TV was paused on Joel crouched behind a brick wall while Ellie stood off to the side, awkwardly twitching in NPC stance.

“We suck,” Bella announced when they saw us coming back. “Like, unplayable levels of suck.”

“You’re not wrong,” Pedro muttered, dropping down beside them and grabbing a controller. “Give it here. I’ll at least make it look cool.”

“I highly doubt that,” Kate said, crossing her arms. “You walk into traps like it’s your job.”

He gasped. “Excuse me, I have a method.”

“Your method is dying.”

I dropped next to Kate and laughed. “This is chaos.”

She leaned toward me a little, and her voice was softer now, tucked just under the noise of Pedro and Bella restarting the level.

“Hey,” she said, nudging my knee with hers. “Before I forget — I meant what I said earlier this week. About being sorry.”

I glanced at her, a little confused.

She clarified, “Not just the award stuff. I mean… the way I spoke to you before I knew everything. About Matt. I was so sharp about things I didn’t understand, and I didn’t ask. And that’s on me.”

Her eyes searched mine. She meant it. Every single word. And I can’t say I forgot about the way she told me I was only getting the good stuff because I was sleeping with Pedro. That he gave the dream lens just because I was on his bed, when the truth was that I spent my money on the idea of bringing the human side of my brother back again.

I exhaled slowly and gave a small shrug. “It’s okay, Kate. We’re good now.”

She frowned. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We were all carrying too much back then. I didn’t explain, and you couldn’t have known. So… really. We’re okay.”

There was a small moment of silence before she smiled, and it fully reached her eyes this time.

“Well… Matt seems like a great brother. Really.”

“He is,” I said proudly. “He used to be my best friend growing up. Still kind of is.”

Kate gave a little sigh. “I’m jealous, you know. Of that kind of bond.”

I looked at her, surprised.

“I’m an only child,” she said. “Always wondered what it’s like to have someone like that — someone who just… knows you from the start.”

“It’s messy,” I said with a smile. “But when it’s good, it’s irreplaceable.”

She nodded. “That came through tonight. I heard it, you two have something special.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Bella laughing so hard they nearly knocked the controller out of Pedro’s hand, and he was grinning like an idiot, probably proud of some very dumb in-game victory. The sound of them pulled Kate’s attention too, and her expression softened.

“You two have that in common. He talks about his siblings like they own the Earth,” she said. “When I met them back in December I saw… They’re just like him. Loud, dramatic, too charming for their own good.”

I smiled. “He does talks about them a lot. I think it’s his cutest version to be honest”

“They love him, and he loves them too” she added. “That was really obvious.”

I looked over at him just then — the way he was leaning in, explaining something to Bella, hands moving wildly as if the stakes of this digital showdown were life or death. He caught my eye mid-sentence, and just smiled.

It was small. But it was real. And it warmed something in me that I didn’t even know had gone cold.

Kate bumped my shoulder. “They’re gonna keep teasing you, you know. The minute you two go public.” She said. And I knew that she was referencing the media and his fans and how they still were lingering in the image that leaked of us by the airport.

“Then we’re never going public,” I joked.

She laughed. “Fair.”

Bella turned around suddenly. “Okay. One of you needs to take this controller from this old man before he throws it out the window.”

I held up my hands. “Nope. I’m a spectator.”

Pedro tossed me the controller anyway. “Come on. Show us what award-winning artists can do under pressure.”

“Absolutely nothing useful,” I said, laughing as I caught it.

And just like that, the night went on — full of bad aim, exaggerated yelling, and the kind of light that only comes after you’ve made it through a stretch of darkness.

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STILL | CHAPTER 23

CW: Switch POVs; Complicated relationship with a parent; makeout sesh interrupted; fluff; smutty-smut (MDNI) — Fingering, unprotected p-in-v, dirty talk, creampie; Aftercare. (let me know if I missed anything).

8.7K words

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23 - Back at It

Being back in my flat felt familiar, even with the kind of cold that makes your teeth ache if you breathe too hard. The wind in Calgary got sharper enough to carve through three layers of clothes. The mornings were filled with a soft glow of a shy sun, and everything outside the window got white, snow-covered roofs, parked cars, the sidewalk down below where some poor delivery guy kept slipping on black ice no matter how careful he walked. This was way different from California, and it made me happy somehow.

I had the kettle on for tea, some random playlist going low in the background, and my laptop on top of the coffee table with Lightroom opened and some emails from a few different productions trying to book me for the second half of the year. Kate was working from the bedroom, headphones on, a giant hoodie swallowing her whole frame.

It was the kind of day where I thought I might actually get some peace.

Then my phone buzzed.

Dad (Mobile)

My stomach turned before I even tapped to answer. He never called. Not without a reason. And we hadn't really spoken to each other except for a couple of awkward texts since September.

I answered with a quiet, “Hi.”

There was silence, just for a short second. Then, his voice, careful as if not to scare a wild animal “Hey. Are you somewhere you can talk?”

I hated that I said yes. But I did. I stood by the window, watching the snow fall, phone pressed tight to my ear like it could keep me steady somehow.

“I’ve been seeing… things,” he started, “online.”

I blinked. “Right.”

“They’re talking about you. About you and… Pedro.”

I closed my eyes. “So?”

“So, I’m just… I’m a little concerned. There’s a lot of noise. You’ve never had to deal with this kind of attention before.”

“And suddenly you care?” The words slipped out sharper than I meant. No, actually, exactly as sharp as I meant.

He sighed. That long, exhausted sound he always made when I pushed back too hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you pretend I’ve never cared about you.”

“I’m still resentful.” I snapped a little with my voice still quiet “I still think on how when Matt was at his lowest, when he almost… God, Dad, I came home, and you let me sit across from you, in the kitchen, like everything was fine. You lied to me. You looked me in the face and pretended my twin wasn’t trying to disappear.”

“I didn’t lie,” he said, sounding offended. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“Oh, right. That’s much better.”

“I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“You think knowing the truth would’ve made things worse? I could’ve helped. I could’ve…, something, I could’ve done something right then. But instead you shut me out and now—now you call because people are talking about me on the internet? That’s what gets you to pick up the phone?”

He went quiet for a second. I could picture him there, in his office, probably pacing like he always did when he was trying not to lose his temper over something he couldn’t control and over someone he was trying to get back to.

“I made a mistake,” he said finally, like it hurt him to admit. “I thought I was protecting you. Maybe I was trying to protect myself too, I don’t know. It was hard, seeing your brother like that. Not knowing what to do.”

“I would have known what to do,” I offered like it was a solution. “Or I would’ve tried. I could’ve talked to him, I could’ve...”

“You weren’t here.” He almost yelled over my words.

Those words hit harder than I expected. He said it as a fact, not an accusation. But it landed like one anyway. A sharp stab right into my chest, tightening up everything inside me to the sound of three simple words.

No, I wasn’t there when it happened. I was out, living my fantasy with the man that held my heart so tight on every single occasion. Pedro made the days that followed the episode easier. He made me breathe in the midst of every single fear I had.

I swallowed hard, my voice thinner than I liked. “Yeah. I wasn’t.”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m just… He needed you. And maybe I didn’t want to admit how much.”

I stood there, blinking back something that felt dangerously close to hot tears. The heat from my struggling breath made the window fog up in front of me. I drew my fingertip through the mist without thinking, a shaky line that didn’t go anywhere.

“You should’ve told me,” I said again, quieter. “I was there. In the same house.”

“I know,” he said. “I know I fucked that up.”

We sat in that silence. He didn’t rush to fill it. And neither did I.

Eventually, I started back again, “He’s better now.”

“I know. He calls me sometimes. Said he’s been talking to you too.”

“Yeah. We’re… trying.”

“I’m glad.”

Another pause. Then, with an edge of hesitation he spoke softly “I saw the picture.”

Of course he did.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” I said quietly. “But I’m not hiding either.”

“I didn’t say you should.”

“Didn’t say I shouldn’t either.”

He sighed again. But softer this time. “I don’t know this guy. I’ve only seen his movies and his tv shows.”

“He’s good to me, pops” I said, letting my love for the guy my father didn’t like escape a little. “He’s kind. He listens. He’s there for me even when I think I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s all I care about, kiddo.”

For a second, it almost felt like peace. The gentle pet names we had for each other falling into a place of familiarity. But I couldn’t pretend that the crack between us wasn’t still there. The one where he let me walk through the door, back in September, without saying a single word. The one where the nurses had to tell me how Matt had barely made it through the week before. The same one tugging my heart from the inside out.

So I said, clear as the day ahead of me “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I’m not ready to forgive you yet,” That fact must’ve hurt him because the words didn’t come out bitter. Just tired and honest as hell. “I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

There was another pause. The kind that stretched out like an ache. Then, finally, he said, “Okay. I’ll wait.”

I hung up before I could change my mind. Tired of it all. The way I couldn't let go and he couldn’t accept my relationship like I was still 15 and living under his roof. That conversation had scraped open things I wasn’t ready to clean up yet. I sat there staring at the screen for a few seconds, the dim winter light making everything feel a little more fragile than it already was.

“Damn,” I whispered to no one.

Then the front door opened without a knock. Bella used their key, because they were probably rotting in the apartment above Pedro’s, and wanted some company. So they just strolled in, kicking the snow off the black boots.

“Yo,” They called, holding up two steaming cups. “I brought whatever you’ll let pass as coffee.”

I offered my weak smile, standing up. “You’re an angel. A small, aggressively loud angel.”

“Rude,” Bella said, handing me a cup. “But fair.”

Their body flopped onto the couch like they owned it, already unzipping the layer of their coat and dragging out a hoodie from the backpack. Bella had basically moved in for the week. At some point, Kate gave up on fighting it and now existed in a state of quiet surrender, hiding in her room whenever her crush came over. I don’t know if it was because she was still mildly starstruck, or because Bella teased her within an inch of her life every time they interacted. Probably both.

“She here?” Bella asked, already scanning the hallway with mischief.

“Yup,” I said. “I think I heard her scurry into the bedroom five minutes before you got here.”

Bella grinned, and said loudly, “I come in peace, Kate! I even smell nice today!”

“Leave me out of your chaos!” Kate yelled back from behind her door.

We both laughed.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Bella dum-scrolled, showing me whatever they thought was funny. I half-watched something on mute while working on some old pictures and triying not to think about everything too hard. It was cold outside, bitter cold, somehow very different from Ontario’s cold, something I've never experienced before. But inside, it was warm, and familiar, and a little messy — like every good friendship should be.

We were trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do for dinner when the FaceTime call came in. Our profile picture lit up the screen, something about the way he looked at me in that frame, eyes half closed and his lips searching for the skin of my cheek.

I didn’t even bother pretending I wasn’t giddy. I answered it mid-grin.

“There she is,” he said, like he’d been waiting hours. His face filled the screen, beard a little more grown in, hair fluffed from taking off the Mando helmet. He looked good. Sexy in the best way.

“And there you are,” I said. “You look like you just fought a sandstorm.”

“I did,” he said, deadpan. “It was full of green screens and stress.”

Bella leaned into the frame. “Oi! Look who finally remembered we exist.”

Pedro’s face lit up. “Look at my little putas.”

“Plural,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Kate’s still hiding though.”

Pedro smirked. “You guys are going to make her lose her damn mind”

“She’s recovering from Bella existing in the same postal code,” I said.

Bella winked. “I’m irresistible.”

Pedro laughed, the kind of laugh that filled the whole pixelated screen. That sound always settled something warm in my chest. His eyes were tired, but always searching for mine with that deep devotion he has. He scanned me for five seconds, reading everything I didn’t say.

“How you doing, Cariño?” he asked softly.

“Had a talk with my dad.” I confessed, knowing this was a fragile subject between us.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Showing his concern but somehow careful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was overdue. Not fixed, but… started.”

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

And somehow that landed harder than the rest of the call. I smiled down at my coffee cup. Bella nudged me gently with her shoulder like they could read my mind.

Pedro leaned back and I saw the half-done Mandalorian costume — chest armor off, but the protective undershirt and the cape were still on. “I’m back by the end of the week,” he said. “Already counting down.”

“That means I don’t have to cross the cold streets of Calgary if I want to see you,” Bella added, pointing to me.

“I’m not moving to Pedro’s place.” I said laughing at the face he made.

“No, but you’re there almost everyday.” We heard Kate two rooms away and we laughed even more.

Pedro softened a little. “Can’t wait to see you.”

Bella pretended to gag. “Get a room.”

“You’re literally in her apartment right now,” Pedro said.

“I own this apartment now,” Their voice sounded convincing in that thick British accent. “Squatter’s rights.”

We didn’t stay on long. Production called his name after a few minutes, he sighed and went back on his star wars adventure. And I had to keep Bella from making Kate jump out the window. But he blew me a kiss before hanging up, and I caught it without thinking this time.

Bella watched me catching it and made a face. “You’re gross when you’re in love.”

“You’re just mad we’re cuter than you and your hypothetical British girlfriend.”

“I’m aromantic, thank you very much.”

Yea, right!

The wind in Okotoks didn’t blow so much as it meandered. It crept between buildings, curled around my scarf like it was nosy, then moved on, lazy and sharp. Smaller than Canmore, quieter than anything I’d lived in lately. I sat on the edge of a low stone wall by the production trailers, sipping coffee that was already going cold, watching grips set up stanchions for lighting that wouldn’t be used for hours.

Kate was inside reviewing continuity notes, her head down and her sleeves pulled over her hands like always. I should’ve joined her, but something about the slowness of the town, the quiet before the work began, made me want to pause.

Pedro will be here tomorrow. We’d be back in that strange rhythm of shared glances and timed exits. But for now, it was just the snow, the wind, and the feeling that I wasn’t entirely the same person who’d stepped onto a plane for LA a week ago.

“You hiding or just enjoying the view?”

Craig’s voice pulled me out of my head. He walked up beside me with a paper cup in hand, steam rising lazily in the cold.

“Little bit of both,” I answered.

He nodded, settling on the wall beside me, coat zipped high and his little to none hair messier than usual. We sat in silence for a moment. He wasn’t someone who filled space unnecessarily. That was something I’d grown to appreciate.

“I meant to tell you,” he said, “I’m the one who sent your portfolio to the Still Unit Association. The one that gave you the award.”

I blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

He sipped his coffee, eyes on the empty field across the street. “Seriously.”

My stomach twisted in a weird feeling. Pride and gratitude and a little heat in my cheeks all tangled together. “I didn’t know what to say when I got it. Still don’t, really. But… thank you. That means a lot.”

“I didn’t do it for thanks,” he said. “You earned that recognition, whether or not you think you belong in this mess of an industry.”

“I don’t think I don’t belong,” I said, slower now, measuring the words. “I just… worry that people think I’m only in it because of him now.”

He glanced at me, and I didn’t have to explain who he was.

“Yeah. That’ll follow you for a while,” he admitted, without sugarcoating. “This industry’s got a long history of turning talented women into accessories if they happen to be dating someone with a bigger spotlight.”

I didn’t say anything. But I was glad to have a wiser voice in the middle of this mess of mine.

“But,” he continued, “it also has a way of chewing up people who think they can fake their way through it. You’re not one of them. You’re already doing the work. And people who matter will see it.”

“I just hate that now every headline is about us and not my work.”

“I know. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Sometimes you only get one chance to prove yourself before the noise drowns you out. But I’ve also seen people like you, people who aren’t in it for attention, outlast all the ones who are.”

I looked down at my hands. I could still see the ghost of the neon — girlfriend — label hovering over me. Still hear the first interviewer calling me Pedro’s mysterious flame.

Craig tapped his fingers on his knee. “You know, Pedro’s a good guy. A damn good guy, actually. But his world comes with a lot of flashing lights, and you're the one who have to decide how close you’re willing to stand without going blind.”

I let out a quiet breath. “Is that a warning?”

“It’s a truth. Not everyone can handle the glare. But from what I’ve seen? You’ve already figured out how to keep your eyes open.”

He stood then, brushing snow from his jeans. “Come inside when you’re ready. Call time’s moved up a bit for tomorrow.”

I nodded, and Craig left me with that. It was not exactly comfort, but somehow it made me think this was better. Honesty. No frills, no flattery.

Just the truth, cold and steady like the wind curling at my back.

I opened the door without knocking.

It was habit, really. The kind of thing that happened when you shared cramped hotels and apartments and trailers with someone long enough. Kate and I had been practically glued together since June, and in places this small, personal space was more of an idea than a reality.

So I pushed open the door with my gloves still half on, scarf loose around my neck, and walked right into—

“Oh—shit—!”

Kate’s voice came out sharp, panicked.

Everything was too fast and too slow at the same time. I blinked trying to focus on what was going on, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.

Bella was sitting on the edge of the twin bed, her hand still half-lifted, and Kate… Well, Kate was leaning back like she'd tried to move away but hadn’t had the time. Their faces were flushed, bright red going from ear to ear. But I could see it was not just from being caught, it was from before… Whatever they were doing.

My heart stuttered in the weirdest, most intrusive way. Surprise took a hold of me, it was almost this physical need to not be standing there. Witnessing whatever the hell my poor eyes landed on.

“I—I’m sorry,” I said, stumbling over the words as I stepped back out and pulled the door shut behind me like it burned. “Shit. I didn’t know… I’ll just… I’ll go.”

“Wait—” I heard Kate’s voice through the door, muffled and fast. “It’s not—fuck, I didn’t think you’d be back yet.”

Yup, I wasn’t supposed to see that. And now that I had, there was no going back from it.

I walked fast, as fast as I could. Went down the narrow hallway, past the small warm lobby filled with people, all the way to a little alcove where the vending machines hummed like background static. I leaned my body against the wall, head tilted back, exhaling hard from the gateway.

What the fuck just happened?

I wasn’t mad at them. Not even uncomfortable… Just… caught off guard. So many layers of “I didn’t know,” swirling through my brain. I didn’t know Kate liked Bella that way. I didn’t know Bella liked Kate that way. I mean, I suspected, since they’ve been acting weird since I came back from Los Angeles. But I didn’t know that was happening behind our weird friendship triangle.

I was not the wrong one here. I knew that, but this felt like I was entering someone else’s diary page. A private part of their life that somehow never made it into one of the conversations.

Was I overthinking the whole situation?

Probably.

But I also knew Kate. This weird indie photographer that became my best friend and kept things close up most of the time. She didn’t do messy. And yet, this was a hundred shades of messy. There was something about how her voice cracked when I caught them. About how she didn’t even try to explain, just reacted.

There was a time not long ago when Kate and I were… closer than close. Not romantically, never that. But still in a way that maybe didn’t have a name yet. She’d been my person, someone closer than a best friend. The one I leaned on when I needed, when Calgary felt too heavy, when Pedro started to be more than a thing I should’ve ignored. She was always there for me, even when we fought.

And all this time, while I was out falling in love, trying to be discreet about it and failing miserably. Kate was doing something similar right under my nose.

I sat there a long time, just breathing.

Eventually, I’d have to go back up to our shared room, let them explain, or not. Maybe even pretend I hadn’t seen anything, though I think this is the weirdest take I could make. But for now I just need to let my heart rate go down, wear the surprise off my body, and let this weird feeling settle a little into something quieter.

In the mist of my spiralling thoughts, my phone started to buzz in my coat pocket. The vibration bringing me back to reality.

The same ID picture that takes my breath away. I smiled even before I could hear his voice.

“Hey, stranger” I started, trying to keep my voice quiet.

“Hola, mi amor,” Pedro said, sweet and tired voice. The last month took most of his energy away. “I just landed. Trying to figure out where the hell this van is supposed to be. I swear I’ve walked around this parking lot twice already.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Is it the one with the peeling sticker that says film unit in Comic Sans?”

There was a pause. “Oh my God—yeah. That’s the one. That’s really the van?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He huffed a dry laugh. “Jesus. Okay. Getting in now.”

There was some shuffle on his end of the call, he was probably wrestling with his luggage. A couple of muted Spanish curse words until I heard the door of the van being closed with a hard slam.

“You okay there?” He asked, his voice dropping a little lower “You sound weird. Distant weird.”

We’ve discussed this once, always lean on each other when something was off, I knew better than to lie to him. And having just experienced the full walking-in-your-friends-making-out-session was the thing that made me tell him the truth.

“I walked in on Kate and Bella kissing,” I let it out so quick, I had to sit in the silence for a moment while he made a surprised sound.

“We are sharing a small room for this leg of the production,” I added. Apparently the shock was still going on in my body, so I couldn’t shut up. “ I wasn’t supposed to be back so early, but, I don’t know… I just opened the door and there they were. It happened too fast, so I backed out and came down here.”

I paused so he could say anything. But it took him a while to find anything at all.

“Well…” Pedro’s voice came out slow, “I mean, we talked about it. You saw something in the way Kate was acting. But Bella?”

“They were running from each other not a week ago.” I stated the fact going through all the weird interactions between them. And yeah, it kinda made sense now.

“Sometimes that’s what liking someone looks like.” He said as if this was a simple thing.

“I just think I was so open about our relationship with her from the beginning, and just… I don’t know, thought she was going to do the same.”

“Kate’s vibe is different from yours.” He was comforting me now, like he always does. “She’s not exactly subtle when she likes someone, just thinks she is. But she’s private about it.”

“I’m not actually mad,” I replied. “Just… surprised?” That came out as a question, I wasn’t even sure about my own feelings “And it hit me weird. Not in a bad way. Just—I’ve been holding on to this version of Kate that maybe doesn’t exist anymore. The version who was always mine first.”

“That’s fair,” he said softly.

A cold gush of wind came through the crack of the window close to me, and I let my head lean against the cool wall behind me.

“She didn’t even say anything. Just looked like I caught them doing something illegal.”

“She’s probably freaking out,” he said it laughing. “And Bella’s probably pretending not to be.”

I followed his laugh with my own under my breath.

“You think it’s a thing?” I asked. “Them?”

“Could be,” he said. “They’ve got that push-pull energy. But who knows. Maybe it’s just a moment. Either way, it’s not on you to figure out.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Still… It's a lot.”

“I know.” I could hear the low noise of the van now, pulling onto some main road, on its way to this small town. “Do you want me to come straight to you when I get there?”

“No,” I said quickly, before I even realized it. “You just landed. Rest. I’ll be fine. I just need a minute. I think… I think I needed to see that the world was still shifting. Not just for me.”

He didn’t argue. He never did when I set boundaries.

“I’ll text when I get to the hotel,” he said. “And tomorrow we’ll do something stupid and warm and distracting, deal?”

“Deal.”

“Nos vemos.” (See you)

“Nos vemos,” I echoed.

And when I hung up, I didn’t feel so knocked over anymore. My thoughts were still all over the place, but I was somehow a little proud. Those two deserve some good in their lives.

Forty minutes out.

The van smelled like someone else’s cold brew and those artificial cherry lozenges people pretend aren’t candy. I had my head against the window, my black carie hoodie pulled low over my forehead, counting the snow-covered silos and distant fences like I could measure time in prairie landmarks.

She’d told me not to come find her first thing. That she was okay. That she just needed space. But screw that. Forty minutes felt like too many already. I wasn’t going to sit around while she spiraled in some vending-machine corner of a tiny-ass town, pretending she wasn’t overwhelmed.

When the van pulled up in front of the hotel, I barely muttered a thank-you to the driver before dragging my bag out and heading straight for the front desk of this tiny hotel. Same crew-run place as usual. It was clean enough, kinda modest and cozy. Couldn’t expect much of a small Alberta town.

A few familiar faces passed me in the lobby, eyes flicking up in recognition before going politely back to their phones or coffees. They were all here together waiting for me to come back from L.A to resume production.

I just asked for my room key, dropped off my stuff, and started texting her as I walked down the hall.

Where are you? 21:45 - Pedro P.

Three dots.

Then:

Pedro, don't be reckless. You just got here. 21:47 - Cariño.

Too late for that.

I turned the corner and nearly ran into one of the assistant camera operators. He raised his brows at me.

“Hey,” I said casually, like I wasn’t speed-walking through the hall in search of her. “See Still around?”

He blinked. “Uh. Think she went toward the back stairwell like twenty minutes ago?”

I nodded, already moving and kept walking until I found her. It didn’t take long. She was alone, arms crossed, standing near the big windows at the end of the hall. The light from outside painted her profile in blue-gray and the tiniest bit of gold. She looked like she belonged on one of her own film rolls.

When she saw me, her shoulders dropped.

“Pedro,” she sighed. “I told you not to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, already pulling her into a hug. “You should know by now I never listen.”

She didn’t fight it. Something about the way she folded into me like she’d been waiting all day to do exactly that was enough to make me smile. Her cheek fit perfectly under my jaw, and my hand found the back of her coat, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring me to the feeling of having her inside my arms again.

Last time I held her this close was on Christmas Eve. If you ask me, that’s too long.

We stood like that for a while. I didn’t care who saw us.

“I’m fine,” she murmured eventually, muffled against my neck.

“No, you’re not. But you will be,” I said into her hair.

She leaned back slightly to look at me, her mouth a little twisted like she was trying to decide whether to argue or let me win.

I grinned.

“Come sleep in my room tonight.”

“Pedro—”

“It’s nicer than yours,” I tried to convince her. “I checked, and I have an actual couch, and windows that open.”

“That’s not hard, though” she muttered. “Our room looks like it used to be a supply closet.”

“Even more reason to jump ship.”

She shook her head slowly, but I could already see the yes creeping in behind her eyes. She was tired, I could feel it on her. The weight of everything—Kate and Bella, her dad, the press, the short winter days, and the tiny town closing in.

“I just want you to rest,” I said, softer this time. “Let someone take care of you for a night.”

Her eyes searched mine. Then, finally, she nodded.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “But you’re carrying my bag.”

“Deal.”

We snuck back to her room first. Kate wasn't there with Bella anymore, they probably left after being caught.

She packed light, and I didn’t ask questions, just grabbed her duffel and guided her down the hallway like we weren’t the talk of the production already. I saw the heads turning when I first got here, they all probably saw the picture from the airport, confirming every thought they had of us, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about the fuzz.

She stepped into my room and blinked at the space.

“Wow,” she muttered. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Told you.”

It was warm, the heat turned up just enough to melt the chill off my chest. Two full beds with white sheets over them, a view of some frozen field and some streetlights, and a tiny fake fireplace crackling orange light against the wall.

I kicked off my boots, dropped her bag, and watched her stand there, taking it in. When she looked back at me, something in her face had shifted. Less armor, more home.

I didn’t need a formal invitation and It didn’t take us long to find our way to the bed.

I kicked off my jeans, pulled my hoodie over my head, and flicked the light off before slipping under the blankets beside her. She was already tugging her socks off, the hem of her sleep shirt riding up her thigh as she shifted onto her side to face me. Her skin was cool from the walk we did from her room to mine, but the second I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, she exhaled like she’d been waiting to breathe properly for days.

“This is better than I was imagining,” I murmured against her hair.

She didn’t answer right away, just pressed her forehead to my chest and slid her leg between mine, her fingers tracing lazy circles along my ribs. That was her answer. A damn good answer.

We fit together too well. Like the hundred nights before this had taught our bodies exactly where to go — her tucked into me, one arm around my middle, the other tucked beneath her cheek, skin against skin in all the places we needed it most. No pretense, no questions asked, we were made to be together like this.

“I wasn’t ready for everything to feel so… loud,” The silence was cracked by her voice, barely above a whisper.

“I know,” I said looking down to meet her shiny eyes. “I hated not being able to be there when it all started.”

“You were working half way across the city.”

“I would’ve dropped it if you’d asked.”

She tilted her head up a little more, and even in the dark, I could read all her emotions. Eyebrows were drawn together in some effort to concentrate.

“I didn’t want to be the reason you lost something.”

I let out a small laugh, kissed the edge of her brow.

“You’re not the reason I lose things, Cariño. You’re the reason I get through them.”

She went still after I stopped talking, a slight change going through her body and mainly her mind. Then her fingers tightened on my side, just a little. Her leg shifted again, bringing her hips closer to mine until we were tangled completely, warmth against warmth under the soft hotel white blankets.

“It’s weird being so close to you and still feeling like I’m trying to find my way back,” she confessed softly.

I nudged her chin with my nose, made her look at me again. “You’re not lost.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Pedro,” she admitted. “The award, the press, the attention—none of it feels real. And I feel like everyone wants something I don’t know how to give.”

“They want a version of you,” I said. “Let them want that. You don’t owe anyone the whole story.”

“What if they only care because I’m… Because we’re—”

I stopped her with a kiss. My lips crashed into hers, swallowing every question. A reassurance in place of the arguments yet to come.

“Then fuck them,” I said quietly when we broke apart. My lips still so close I could feel hers in every single word. “Because I care. Not because of a picture or a headline. Just… you. We should be enough for each other.”

I felt her breath hitch against mine, the kind of sound that told me everything I needed to know without her saying a single word. So I kissed her forehead first, a slow, deliberate press of my mouth to her skin. Then the space between her brows, always so worried with everything. Then her temple.

Every little kiss was a promise: You’re safe. I’m here. Not going anywhere without you. We’ve got time.

Her body softened with each one, her tension unwinding like thread. I let my lips trace the line of her cheekbone, then the bridge of her nose, the corner of her mouth. She exhaled softly. Her mind hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath again until that very moment.

My hand slid up her side beneath the shirt she was wearing, fingers brushing her ribs in a featherlight touch, learning the ways she reacted to my touch all over again as if it was the first time. She made a soft sound, satisfied, low in her throat, and it shook something deep in me.

I kissed the corner of her jaw, then lower, the curve of her neck. She tilted her head, gave me more access, and my lips were right there on her skin. I gave her neck a sloppy and wet kiss and I heard her giggle. Her fingers dug gently into my back, her leg sliding further between mine, letting me feel her warm core pressed to my thigh.

I pulled back just enough to see her face, the flushed cheeks, the way her eyes fluttered open and locked with mine.

“Doing okay, Cariño?” I asked softly, thumb brushing her hip.

She nodded, almost shy, but there was something stronger underneath it too. “Yeah… Just… feels good to be touched like this. To feel safe in it.”

I didn’t say anything. Just kissed her again. This time on the lips. Mouths open and our tongues crashing into each other with the kind of intimacy that it's earned.

Her hands slipped under my shirt, fingers dragging lightly across my stomach, and I caught the way she sighed into my mouth like she needed more. Like she missed this as much as I did, and the almost two months without this kind of privacy were too much to bear.

I felt the pull in her, the way her body leaned into mine, not tentative now but with this quiet urgency. We needed to forget the rest of the world for a while. So I kissed her deeper, tilting her jaw with one hand as the other slid lower, gripping her waist, grounding her. “You sure you’re not too tired?,” I whispered against her lips.

Her hands tugged my shirt up, and I pulled it off only breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second. She was already in one of mine—one of the old ones she’d claimed months ago, stretched at the collar and the edges, soft from too many washes over the years. She didn’t stop me when I pushed it up, just raised her arms so I could get it off her.

She was so beautiful, all flushed and warm, like she was lit from the inside. My hand skimmed up her side, over her ribs, the curve of her breast. She arched into my palm with this breathy little gasp that went straight through me.

“Tell me what you need,” I murmured, going for a bite to her chin.

“You,” she said, voice catching a little. “I just need you.”

That’s all I needed too. My mouth trailed down her chest, taking my time, listening to every soft sound she made—like a melody only I knew how to play. She whispered my name more than once, breathless, in between soft moans, fingers buried in my hair.

I should’ve been tired from the day of travel I had. I kinda was. The weight of endless nights alone in L.A sat heavy on my mind. But none of it mattered—not when she looked at me like that, not when her body trembled under mine, every inch of her, asking to be held, to be loved.

“Let me take care of you,” I told her, voice low and certain. “Let me take care of my needy girl.” My lips were close to her ear, voice so low and syrupy.

She didn’t have to, but her head nodded once, giving me permission for the night. Permission to love her like I wanted to since the last time we were together like this.

Her hips rolled once and a gasp came to her mouth when she felt how hard I was for her already. A small and growing wet patch clinging to my boxer briefs where the pre-cum was already leaking. I pressed another long kiss to her neck and nosed my way up just to crash my lips into hers once again.

“Let me see…” I started, dragging one hand all the way down, making her shiver in the process. “Oh, baby—” I wasn’t mocking, just stating the fact. She was soaked. To a point where her underwear was sticking to her puffy lips. “We went too long without each other.”

“Yeah?” She asked as soon as I nudged her panties to de side, and her head found its place against my collarbone “Then fuck me extra hard to make up for the time we lost.”

Two of my fingers slid against her folds, and I heard her tiny gasps while her body shivered “As you wish.” I said as my fingers sank down inside her.

I loved how responsive she was already. My thumb found her aching clit, and the fingers inside her sweet cunt didn’t move inside and out, but I curled them right at the spot she loves, pressing forward to her walls gently.

I could easily get her off just by doing this. I knew that by now. Her moans were muffled against my neck, and my thumb kept working tight and slow circles. Her slick soaking my fingers, making a filthy sound as I started to pump her to get even more friction.

“Gonna cum on my fingers, Cariño?” I asked. Fingers in and out in a steady rhythm. She nodded with a whimper on her lips.

My head fell back just a little. Enough for me to see her eyes closed tight. Her moans getting higher.

“Hey, look at me” I called and her eyes opened into that well-fucked expression with her eyelids heavy “Can you take a third?”

She didn’t have time to answer. The third finger breached with the others and her mouth opened into a silent cry. “Yeah, I think you can.”

I was stretching her pussy so good, and her clit didn’t even have a second to rest. My thumb was rubbing faster now. The sounds of her wet pussy echoing with her moans and my groans.

She was close.

“Give it to me, before I fuck this pussy so good, you’ll feel me for the next few days.” My voice came as a whisper, so I was not sure she heard me right. But her body was starting to shake.

In, and out. Three big fingers, stretching that pretty pussy of hers. In, and out, faster, sloppier.

“Pedro, I’m— Oh my fucking…” Her hands fisted the sheets around us. Body shaking, voice almost lost “I’m, I’m…”

“Cum for me, Cariño.” I kept doing exactly what I was doing. Knew that once she gets into this stage there’s nothing to change.

She chased it. Body fucking into my fingers, hips rolling to meet my hand with a moan I had to kiss her lips to swallow it.

Her pussy started to pulse, and I fingerfucked her through it all. My name was the only thing she could say inside my mouth. And I kept the rhythm until her thighs started to close around my hand and she reached down to grab my wrists and physically stop me.

“god-fucking-damn-it” She said breathless, coming down from the first orgasm I was going to give her.

“That good, hun?” The smirk found its home on my lips. Proud of what I just did.

“Come here” She reached for me, going for a slow and breathless kiss. And I knew she was buying some time before we could go back at it again. “Remind me to not go this long without you again.”

“Noted.”

For a few more seconds she got to regulate her breathing well enough to be the one reaching out for the hem of my underwear. I just let her take it off, cock springing free and sitting heavy between us, but as soon as she reached down to pay back for what I just did, I stopped her.

“Let me…”

“No. I want to do good by my promise.” I said, smirk still on as I notice her confused look “You asked me to fuck you extra hard. Can’t do that with you jerking me off”

A little ‘oh’ left her mouth and I pushed the blankets off to the ground. Our bodies were enough for this cold evening, because inside this room it felt like we had a small fire just for us. I could feel some drops of sweat starting to come down from my temples.

I laid flat on my back beside her, and reached for her body, wanting to try something.

“What—” Her voice echoed as I easily pulled her to top my body, with her back against my chest.

“Do you trust me?”

Her body went still for a couple of seconds. Heart beating so strong and heavy inside her chest. Then came a nod, another yes. Another moment of trust between us. And that’s all I care about — Her feeling secure enough to trust me.

“Then relax for me, baby. Let me take care of you”

One of my arms locked across her chest. Her head was lying just under my chin, heart still the only thing I could hear as I adjusted our bodies — Both my knees up, as her legs lifted with mine. Myfeet flat against the mattress — My other hand came to rest on top of her belly. And I was painfully hard… So hard that I didn’t need any help lining up my swollen head against her entrance.

The warmth of her always took my breath away. I pushed it slowly, inch by inch, a low sound vibrating right into my chest. Her head moved up, with that hot breath hitting just under my jaw. That angle was raw, deeper, she was fuller than ever.

When my pubic bone grazed her asscheek we both let out a deep breath. I was all the way inside, stretching every single inch of her, almost to a degree where I could feel myself while my hand displayed and made pressure to her lower belly.

“This is incredible” She murmured as her teeth scrapped my chin “I’m so full. You're so deep.”

“You’re so goddam tight.” The praise left my lips with a deep groan as I moved my hips back creating the perfect friction.

The second stroke was sharper, faster, and somehow deeper. She gasped and braced herself. Her hands held my forearm that was holding her body down to mine as I began to move. First movements were experimental, just until I found the rhythm that sent waves of pleasure all over my body.

Her moans were a mixture of my name, a couple of yeses, an occasional right there, and a few curse words in both English and her newly Spanish vocabulary that undid everything inside of me.

“Gonna pump you so full, you’ll be leaking for hours.” The words came out in between strokes. Our skin meeting in that obscene sex sound, slapping against each other and the bed creaking with every motion.

My hard cock slipped free a couple of times when my hips moved way too far from her cunt. But with minimal effort I slid right back in with more force. Sweat running from my hair to my face, and down to my neck.

With one of the rough strokes I knew I hit the right spot. Her reaction was immediate, toes curling, body stiffening, a whimper mixed with a moan. So I angled my body and started to hit that same spot over and over again. My hand came up to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her feel lightheaded.

“Oh you’re so close, aren’t you, baby?” I said, voice rough and teeth pulling her earlobe.

Her hands flew from my forearm to reach back for my hair. She didn’t have words, only desperate sounds with her body shuddering above mine.

“She’s squeezing me.” I stated as her walls started to pulse around me. “Choking my cock. You feel amazing.”

“Shit-shit-shit…” That was the only thing she could form as she orgasmed so hard. Toes curling tight and her fingers tugging my hair up with her body spasming so damn hard.

And I just fucked her even harder. Still hitting that same spot, over and over. Heat curling up my body, my mind going blank, all white behind my eyelids. My hand was still on her throat as my pace went on relentless. Chasing mine as if my life depended on it.

She was coming down from hers, her body lazy displayed on top of mine, and I couldn’t stop fucking her cunt so hard, gasping her name with every fast stroke, again, and again, and again.

I came with a last stroke, so deep inside her, I swear I was touching a place no one dared before, not even me. She turned her head up to mine, swallowing my lips to muffle my long moan. Rope after rope of hot sticky cum painted the inside of her. My hips bucking to go even further even when there was no more space for me.

It went on for the longest time, until I felt my cum overflowing her and trailing down to the inside of my thigh and mixing with her own release. We were a mess after. The flush on her cheeks, the sweat starting to bead along her collarbone, lips swollen—it was all mine.

Weeks of wait paid back in the most earthshaking orgasm I had in my life. I stayed inside of her, our breathing syncing into one. That body of hers felt like a weighted blanket on top of me. The best blanket of my entire life.

She was still catching her breath, chest rising and falling to the ceiling as I held her. Her skin was damp, flushed, her hair sticking a little to her forehead. I kissed her cheek — soft and reverent — then carefully shifted her body to lay beside me so I could try to stand up.

Not really sure I could, though.

“Hey,” she murmured, reaching for me like she didn’t want the warmth to go.

“I’m right here,” I promised, smoothing her hair back with one hand. “Just gonna take care of you, okay?”

She nodded, dazed but trusting, and that trust meant everything to me, it curled around my ribs, and my heart, pulling tight like string. I found a clean towel in the bathroom, wet the edge with warm water, and came back to her.

Her eyes were closed, a little furrow between her brows like she wasn’t quite ready to come back down yet. I took my time — I always did with her. Careful hands, gentle swipes of the towel across her thighs, her stomach, between her legs, cleaning as much as I could without hurting her. She flinched a little from the sensitivity, but didn’t stop me.

“You good?” I asked quietly.

She opened her eyes, soft and sleepy. “Yeah. Just… sensitive.”

I smiled at that, couldn’t help it. “Yeah, I know. You should see yourself.”

She gave a tired little laugh. “That was my favorite position ever.”

“Oh I know, heard it all” I said, and leaned in to kiss the inside of her knee before tossing the towel aside and slipping back into bed with her.

She let out a deep sigh when I pulled her into me. Her skin was warm now, clean, wrapped in my arms like we could stay like this forever. I adjusted the blanket over us and pressed my lips to her temple.

“You okay?” I asked again, quieter this time.

She nodded into my chest. “I forgot my own name for a hot minute… so yeah. I think I’m okay.”

I smiled, that slow kind of smile that came only with her — like my whole chest got warmer just hearing her say that. I shifted slightly, not to pull away, but to pull her closer, fingers brushing over her spine under the blanket. She was warm and soft, still catching her breath and smiling sleepily.

"You scared me a little," I murmured, pressing another kiss to her temple. "Thought you’d actually passed out on me."

She huffed a quiet laugh against my collarbone. “Not passed out. Just… rebooting.”

"Like a camera battery in the cold," I teased, and she nodded into my skin.

We stayed there, tangled up in the blankets, our legs knotted and bodies pressed close, the world outside irrelevant. I ran my hand gently over her back, not with any agenda, I didn’t have another one in me, my body was exhausted. I wasn’t trying to start anything, it was the king of touch I’m still here. She let out a little hum at that, a soft content sound that made my throat tighten with how much I loved her.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said back, quiet. “I missed you too, hermosa. So much.”

There was nothing rushed in this part of our relationship. Nothing frantic. Just warmth, and the steady rhythm of us coming back down to Earth. Heart full and mind in a bliss.

She shifted just enough to look up at me, her face half in shadow and half in the amber soft small light from the hallway bleeding under the door. Her eyes were softer now. Less defense as if she was letting those cold walls she built over the past month fall down to the ground.

“I needed this,” she said, honest in the way she always gets after our mind-blowing orgasms. “Not just the sex. I need you, here with me.”

I swallowed around the lump that rose in my throat. “I know,” I said again, voice lower. “I needed it too.”

I brushed a few strands of hair from her cheek, and she leaned into the touch. My hand stayed there a little longer than necessary. I think we both knew it didn’t matter — how busy things were, how small the town was, how many people were staying just across the hall. This was our quiet space. We carved it out of the chaos. And it was enough.

She yawned a little, and I nuzzled the top of her head, smelling the faint scent of her shampoo.

“Sleep here tonight,” I murmured. “We’ll figure everything else out tomorrow.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded against my chest, her hand settling over my heart like it belonged there.

We didn’t need to say more.

The outside world would come again in the morning. But for now — she was here, safe in my arms, and I wasn’t letting go.

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