anne

***I almost always respond to comments with my main blog!!!*** my sideblog for writing stuff main blog is cryptidvaquero 21 she/they USA

[ladybugkissing]

Masterlist - Intro Post - My ao3

John Price:

To Poke A Sleeping Bear (ongoing) pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3

Simon Riley:

Simon Introduces you to Soap (suggestive)

Manicures and Back Scratches

Meeting Simon at the Club

Simon with a paranoid partner

Kyle Garrick:

Kyle Carries a Fidget Spinner

Johnny MacTavish:

Johnny is a Belgian Malinois

Johnny is a Freak in Public (suggestive)

141:

My Unrealistic Headcanons

How They Show (or Avoid) Vulnerability

Phillip Graves:

Gun Safety

[tinyleafwritings]

Saw this at Costco...

Johnny and Simon seeing this on display and joking that you should get in it and try it out. Or at least you think they’re joking, but they stare at you long enough without moving on that you find yourself sitting on the little pet couch, nervously watching them through the bars while they take photos “for reference.”

[clinquantribbons]

kyle’s always been the pretty boy. the one birds fawn over at the pub, and in the cereal aisle at the shop, and on the midnight train after the captain bullies him into going home and getting some well-deserved rest. old ladies coo at him, waitresses draw hearts on his cheques, his own teammates tease him, for fuck’s sake.

“maybe if kyle bats his eyelashes at ‘em, we can slip past before they notice us.”

“the only way you’re comin’ out with us tonight is if you were a fuckin’ bag over your head. i never get laid when you’re around.”

“price might fall for those eyes, but i won’t. paperwork on my desk by noon, garrick.”

even when he was young, his ma’s girlfriends would laugh about how much trouble he’d cause, all the hearts he was bound to break, when he grew up. he still remembers how his sisters made fun of him come prom season, when he couldn’t decide which of the dozen invitations he received to accept.

kyle’s always been the pretty boy — until an untimely explosion melts the entire right side of his face into something unrecognizable and, in his eyes, horrific. gone is that heart-stopping grin, his silken skin, and quarter-deep dimples. no more of the cheesy winks he loved to throw around, what with his lack of an eyelid.

no-one’s swooning over him anymore. rather than the blood rushing to a handsome someone’s cheeks when he says hello, it drains from their face completely. no-one will look him in the eye nowadays. the pretty single mum down the street who he once had lunch with now goes out of her way to cross the road when she spots him, shielding her children’s’ eyes like the mere sight of him might traumatize them. the grandmas who used to compliment his warm eyes and soft curls stare at him blatantly, piteously, whisper behind their hands when he passes but won’t dare to address him directly. his favorite bartender turns his flirtations to johnny, who, uncharacteristically, doesn’t even have the heart to poke fun at him for it.

but he should be grateful, right? he could’ve died. he’s lucky to even be here. to be walking, talking, his limbs in tact, heart still beating. it could be worse.

that’s what he tells himself every time a toddler wails at the sight of him standing behind them in line at the coffee shop. whenever price gives him that look, full of worry and self-loathing. it could be worse, he tells himself, the first time he sees his mother after the explosion, and she gasps like she can’t recognize her own goddamned son. but he should be grateful.

he damn near throttles laswell when she suggests that he check out a local support group, saying that he needs to talk to someone since he clearly isn’t going to talk to them. talk about what, he wonders. it isn’t as though there’s anything that can be done about it. it’s beyond fixing, the doctors said so themselves. talking about it will only make him out to be some shallow, self-obsessed little prick, who obviously cares more for his vanity than his life.

he knows what he is. he certainly doesn’t need anyone to point it out.

the flier collects dust on his kitchen counter, gets lost in all of his junk mail and get-well-soon cards, damned to oblivion. he forgets about it — for a while at least, until his oldest sister forces her way into his flat and starts cleaning, claiming that their mother would have his head if she saw what a mess he’s made. she tacks it to the fridge, where kyle has no choice but to see it.

“what harm could it do, ky? you’ve been hiding from us for months — we’re worried about you.”

that’s what finally convinces him. not because he thinks he needs it, or believes it’ll do him any good, or even because he wants to soothe their spirits. simply because he wants them off his back, wants to be allowed to wallow in his misery, in peace, just for a little while longer.

so, he goes. he surrounds himself with a bunch of war-torn veterans, with stories so gruesome that even his stomach churns, he sits alone and speaks to no-one, doesn’t look anyone in the eye, and he listens.

he listens to them talk about their dead friends, their battles won, and their loves lost, about their journeys back to health, and their wisdom hard-earned.

one man — pushing eighty and missing both legs — says something that sticks with him.

“you can be mad, you can curse god, you can spend the rest of your life thinkin’ ‘what if’, but it ain’t gonna change shit. you either grow a pair and get over it, or you don’t — if you can’t make peace with that, you’re better off dead.”

yeah, maybe.

he goes again the following tuesday, and the next, until it’s become a regular part of his routine. he sits alone, still, he doesn’t talk much, to anyone, but they come to expect him. they recognize him. they smile when he walks in. no one flinches at the sight of him, no one’s pitying him, no one’s demanding answers he’s not ready to give. they accept him without expecting anything tangible in return, sans his company.

it doesn’t necessarily make him feel better, it doesn’t make him hate the man in the mirror any less, but it gets him out of his flat. it gives him something to tell the team about when they check up on him on sunday nights.

then, about two months into his newfound routine, he spots you, sat on the opposite end of the room, holding space like it’s been yours all along.

the last time your paths crossed was in boot-camp. a lifetime ago, it feels like. before the 141, before the incident. he was somebody else back then. and so, it seems, were you.

he remembers you as an over-eager, overly-confident recruit, like he, himself, was. you’re older now, battle-weary, weathered by war, grief, and the world itself. you sip your coffee through a straw because your hands tremble too fiercely to hold a mug. an angry, red scar cuts your face in two.

you aren’t new around here, that much is made clear by the way they greet you, with hugs and well-wishes. how long’s it been, he wonders, since you got out?

sammy, who runs the group, goes down the line one-by-one, like she always does, asking all the right questions. elijah saw his grandbabies this weekend. cody’s been cleared for active duty — he’ll return to the front lines next month, for better or for worse. olivia’s met somebody, she thinks she’s found the one. kyle listens, but pays especially close attention when it gets to be your turn.

“how was your trip?” sammy asks, and you laugh, albeit nervously.

“weird.” you admit, profoundly. “first vacation i’ve ever taken in my whole fuckin’ life, y’know? i tried to enjoy it, but— my friends wanna go swimming with dolphins, and tan on the beach, and, whole time, i’m thinkin’ that i’ve got no goddamn business flouncing around in a bathing suit, looking the way i do. i just couldn’t wait for it to be over, honestly.”

and, fuck, he gets it. he knows. it’s the very thing he’s been grappling with for the past year. nobody likes to talk about that part, the doubt, the insecurity. but you do, honest and unapologetic, and he wonders if this is what making peace with it looks like.

and then, sammy looks to him. “anything you’d like to share with us today, kyle?”

usually, he’d wave her off. offer her a tight-lipped smile and shake his head. he almost does, if only out of sheer habit. but he catches your gaze from across the circle. your eyes brighten with recognition, and the hard set of your brow softens. you smile at him, a little crookedly, as if you’re eighteen again, unburdened, naive as to what awaits you.

you might as well have grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him around, the way that smile knocks loose all of the things he’s allowed to fester in his heart. for the first time since he started attending the meetings, kyle’s honest. not only with this motley community he has infiltrated, but with himself.

“i had to take all the mirrors outta my flat. couldn’t stand the sight of myself.”

“i always wanted kids, but now— now, i’m scared they’d think me the fuckin’ boogeyman.”

“i dunno who i am anymore.”

his lungs feel tight, his palms slick with sweat, cheeks warm with an awful, feverish sort’ve heat, but he feels lighter than he has since his brothers dragged him from the wreckage. the old man from that first meeting, colby, lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

no one scoffs at him, or calls him petty, or reminds him of how lucky he is. sammy smiles, soft and empathetic. “sometimes, the man who comes back from the war isn’t the same man that left for it. it’s okay to mourn him, kyle.”

you’re waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk outside, stiff with an indefinite, inescapable ache, but smiling still, when it’s time to leave. he hesitates only momentarily when you open your arms for a hug — he’s careful, weary of whatever injuries you might’ve sustained on the field, but you grab him tight, like you know how desperately he needs it.

“s’good to see you, garrick. s’been a long time.”

“fuck, has it.” he laughs, and it sounds foreign in his own ears, before sobering. “it’s good to see you too. really. i didn’t know you were …”

“yeah,” you help him out before he can start floundering. he isn’t the smooth-talker he once was. “a couple years ago, now. s’a long story. one i’m much too sober to tell today.”

“another time then,” he offers, wryly. he understands. he doesn’t like to talk about it either. talking about requires thinking about it, which isn’t good for anyone involved.

you soften, and he watches the scar on your face stretch as your lips pull down. it’s been years, but he still thinks you lovely. “you haven’t been out long, have you?”

“not long enough, no.”

“hm.” you nod, like you understand, but you don’t say you’re sorry, or tell him that it’ll get better. he appreciates that more than you know. “fate’s a funny thing, ain’t it? what’re the odds,”

“it’s a small fuckin’ world,” he murmurs, and your laugh thaws the ice in his chest. “you live close by?”

“just a couple o’ blocks, not too bad.”

“i could walk with you, if you want. or we could—” he stops, swallows hard, trying valiantly to find his nerve. it used to be so easy for him to ask a sweet someone out, he hardly even had to work for it. hell, he’d flirted with you plenty, back in the day. “we could go get that drink,”

it’s soft, uncertain, timid in a way that kyle garrick is not. you simply stare at him for a moment, as if considering him, your gaze painfully soft, before, finally, “i’d like that.”

“yeah?” he murmurs, hopeful.

you laugh, but it isn’t mocking, or cruel. it’s mirthful, almost flattered.

“lead the way, pretty boy.”

[ladybugkissing]

friendly reminder that if there is a trope/topic/pairing in a piece of writing that you dislike, you are well within your right to block the person/people creating it, scroll, and/or move on! this isn't hateful to anyone, i just think it's important for readers to recognize that they aren't going to connect with everything they read, and that's okay! in the same breath, i think it's unproductive to talk about why you specifically think it's "bad," because we are writing fiction and we are not writing for one specific person!

[ladybugkissing]

sorry for no to poke a sleeping bear updates guys ive been given the ao3 writer curse and im going through it

[lilskippity]

ghost who sees you cry once because of work and makes it his mission to make your boss’s life hell

[ladybugkissing]

everyone commenting and/or asking to be tagged on to poke a sleeping bear: i am kicking my feet and giggling you all are so nice i appreciate it all mwah mwah

[ladybugkissing]

Weird idea, but imagine Simon with a partner who is just as paranoid as him.

He doesn't think anything of it on your first time getting dinner together. He instinctively takes the seat facing the door, but you're left standing by your chair for a moment too long with a furrow in your brow. Throughout the meal, you look over your shoulder any time his eyes stray or there's a loud noise.

As you progress through the relationship, it becomes increasingly obvious that you both are insanely neurotic about your surroundings. Simon moves to lock a door behind him to find that you've already done it. You go to sharpen the pocket knives you keep hidden around the flat to find them shiny and freshly oiled, thanks to Simon. In a way, it's almost comical.

"No no, you sat there last time. I want to face the door," becomes a regularly-occurring argument between the two of you. God forbid you're out with Simon's teammates, because they're forced to watch both of your heads scan the room periodically like you're both security cameras.

You can't even count on two hands the amount of times you've been deep into a makeout session - busy stripping the clothes off of each other - before someone hears a noise in another room and has to get up and investigate.

Yes, you're both in therapy. No, nothing will change as long as you're both feeding into each others' anxieties. But at least he doesn't think you're weird when you offhandedly wonder out loud if the car behind you is following you home. Because, truthfully, he was wondering the same thing.

[ladybugkissing]

i want y'all to know i'm doing some serious research for To Poke a Sleeping Bear rn

[ladybugkissing]

to poke a sleeping bear - ch. 3

bear shifter!john price x waitress!reader

warnings: none

“Alex, the burger from table 7 was supposed to have tomato and lettuce on the side.”

“Would it really kill ‘em to just take it off the bun themselves?”

Apparently not, as you’re sliding the untouched plate back to him. Alex rolls his eyes, chewing on a toothpick tucked between his lips. His mustache quirks to the side as his expression sits sour, but you’re all too used to his attitude during busy shifts.

You hear the door to the kitchen squeak open, the familiar timbre of Gaz’s voice sounding out as he mumbles out a firm “behind you.” You scoot forward to accommodate as he whisks an armful of plates to the sink to be washed, where Phil waits with an unamused expression. Watching the two of them interact was always akin to two cats who hated each other, always snarling and growling.

“Yeah I’ll be sure to wash these, princess,” Phil grumbles, making Gaz snicker when he sets down the last of the dishes. As he passes you to leave the kitchen, Gaz gives you a knowing smirk.

“Your regular is here, by the way.”

Your regular? As in..?

Following Gaz out the door, you take a peak at the last booth in your section and see him: John-fucking-Price. He’s here way earlier than he usually visits, and you’re unfortunately in that mid-rush-hour frenzy that leaves you looking like you were raised by feral dogs. Menu in his hands (as if he even needs it), you can tell that he just walked in.

And he looks fucking exquisite, too. His hair is messier than usual, and looks slightly damp. Fuck, he’s even in his park ranger uniform - he must’ve just gotten off of work. With no one obviously in need of your assistance, you suppose that now is a better time than ever to approach him.

“Hey John,” you hum, putting on that sugary-sweet smile. Your hands dart for the yellow notepad you keep tucked in your apron - anything to keep yourself occupied and from fiddling with your fingers like some kind of nervous schoolgirl. John looks up at you, smiles, and that’s when it hits you.

… Why the fuck does the whole room smell like fish?

In The Year of Our Lord, 2025, you never thought that ‘getting the ick’ was as real and as much of a kneejerk reaction as people insisted it to be. But right now? Shit, you think you just shivered down to your fucking bones.

The worst part, perhaps, is how you try to rationalize it within the 1 second that it takes for John to reply to you. He’s a park ranger, maybe he had to catch or handle some fish for work? Maybe it was his lunch? Maybe someone from another table ordered something entirely rank and disgusting? Maybe, just maybe, Alex is playing the biggest prank on you ever by deploying a whole can of Whoop-Ass right at your table?

However, considering how John’s eyes don’t seem to be watering quite like yours, you’re inclined to believe that it’s all him. And, while you want to say that that’s enough to squash the crush you’ve had on him for forever now, the pooling pit of shame and embarrassment in your stomach tells you that it would likely take a lot more to deter your desperate ass.

“Hey honey. Busy tonight?”

“No.” You speak without thinking. It is in the middle of rush hour. The few seats left available are the high-top chairs that everyone hates to sit in. Not necessarily indicative of a calm night, but you suppose that if John really cared, he would’ve come to that conclusion himself.

Is his beard wet, too? What the fuck was he doing?

John’s facial hair quirks up when he smiles. Some flecks of grey catch the yellow overhead lighting and shimmer slightly, but all it really does is tell you that you might have a thing for older men.

“Uhm- unsweet tea, then?”

He gives an affirmative nod, and you take great comfort in avoiding eye contact to stare at the notepad in your hand. Before you go to ask if he’s ready to order, he beats you to the punch.

“And my usual, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh, it never is,” You reply quickly, the smile on your face too trained and too obviously muscle memory. You never thought a smile could be so unapproachable, but the faux joy you wear like cheap perfume each evening is enough to make any customer ascertain that you’d rather be doing fuck-all.

Frankly, you’re just glad that he didn’t order the kitchen’s whole supply like he did the other night. You’re not sure you can prepare yourself to carry all those plates back into the kitchen again.

You jot down John’s normal order, a hefty stack of pancakes, three eggs (scrambled), and a heap of bacon. He always asks for the bacon not to be crispy. Why? You’re not sure. The idea of limp, greasy bacon doesn’t necessarily appeal to the senses in your brain that tell you it looks a little too close to raw. But John eats it, so it must be okay, you suppose.

You’re also becoming increasingly certain that maybe he has no sense of taste OR smell. There’s no way he doesn’t notice the briny, fishy scent. There’s. No. Way.

After telling John that his order will be right out, you make your way to the back to leave it with Phil and Alex. And there they are, perched at the stoves like some gossipping school girls with Gaz of all people. Looks like he made his way back to the kitchen before you had.

“I'm telling you, mate, that Mister Price must ‘ave fallen into a spawning pool or somethin’. Smells right rank.” Of course, Gaz is talking about John. You almost feel a swell of burning within your chest and cheeks, like you need to defend him from petty kitchen gossip. You pin John's ticket to the line, fully knowing that neither cook is at their station to receive it. No, they're more occupied with Gaz.

“I mean, he's a ranger. That's kinda what they do, right?” Alex tilts his head, an amused grin sitting on his face. His arms are crossed, almost skeptically. Gaz shakes his head.

“Nah, man! I'm mates with one of the other rangers that works with him - Si never comes around smelling like a week-old seafood boil.”

“Jesus Christ, Kyle. Don't make me picture that,” Phil tuts.

Finally, you intercept by clearing your throat. The three men look your way, wide-eyed like they know they've been caught snooping in the cookie jar. Your brows furrow, giving each of them a disappointed glare.

“Can you guys finish this conversation another time? Maybe during closing? I'm looking at 3 separate orders on the line right now and no cooks starting on them.”

They get moving.

You return to John's table not long after, only to see that both of the previously-occupied booths next to him have since been vacated. The tips left by each check look sparse, but you try not to think about that.

“Here you go, John. Nice and fresh for you.”

John gives you a smile that his whole beard follows. If it weren't for the smell radiating off of him, it'd be your chest fluttering in response instead of your stomach.

“Thanks, honey. As always.”

It's not hard to return the smile. You rarely get customers as respectful as him, and even rarer do you have ones that tip so well. Speaking of, you can't help but remember the tip he left you during his last visit to the diner. One hundred percent is enough of a tip for a regular meal, but ordering the whole menu? You're sure his bank - or Mister Shepherd - gave him hell for that kind of hit to his wallet.

“Y'know,” you say after a moment. You're hardly even thinking about it, moreso concentrating on trying not to wretch. “That was really nice, what you did the other night. You sure you meant to leave that big of a tip?”

John pauses, mouth partially agape as he holds a fork full of scrambled eggs to his lips. After a moment, he shrugs.

“I came in right before closing and made you run around like a chicken with its head cut off. You deserved it, honey. Least I could do.”

Fuck. You wish you could kiss him on the mouth (after he hoses himself down, of course). That couple hundred sitting in your bank account is gonna make your next grocery trip a full restock kind of day. Maybe you can splurge and buy yourself some of that lotion you've been eyeing in the drugstore. God knows you need something nice once in a while.

“Well- uh-” It’s not often that you find yourself stuttering like this while on the job. “I really appreciated it. Still do. That kind of made my whole night.” You can hardly fathom how easily he just forked over all that money. If you had to guess, a park ranger probably doesn’t make enough to eat out consistently AND leave such large tips. Whatever well John pulls from must be pretty deep. And yet, he chooses to spend it on a random waitress.

It’s at that moment that you hear the jingle of the door, only to catch another table taking their leave. The diner seems like the rush is coming to an end. At least, for now. You’ve got a few tables to bus and clean, but otherwise, everything seems peaceful. Just peaceful enough - you think - to sit with John and chat with him. It’s not the first time you’ve used your spare time to conversate with him. At this point, your nose is becoming used to the pungent smell of fish, too.

John looks up at you, half-hunched over his own plate of food, when you slide into the booth. He’s dragging forkfuls of food to his mouth with little regard for manners; it’s funnily both hurried and sluggish, like he’s trying to eat everything before he falls asleep.

“So… I was visiting the library earlier today. Haven’t been there in a while.”

“Mmh. Like it there. Y’find anything you like?” One of his eyebrows raises curiously. You think about telling John about the book you found - the very one with his name written inside. Maybe he’d find it funny or endearing, thinking about how you were both interested in the same book. But then again, he might find it creepy and assume you went looking for something of the sort. Which… isn’t entirely wrong. You did go to the library to find something to impress him, but not necessarily to find a book that he’s overly-attached to. That part just… fell into your open palms, is all.

Opting to play it safe, you feign ignorance. “Oh- you like the library too? I’ve been looking for some book recommendations,” you reply, giving John an earnest smile.

“I don’t think you’d like my favorite books much. They’re pretty boring, honey.”

“Oh yeah? What’s so boring about your favorite books?”

“S’ all wilderness stuff. Animals and tracking n’ hunting. Can’t say I’ve met many girls like you who’re into that kind of stuff.”

“Well… having someone to talk about it with would definitely make it less boring, I think. And who knows? Maybe you could teach me something?”

Are you laying it on too thick? Is it obvious that you’re flirting? Those are the thoughts permeating your addled brain as you rest your chin on your hand, your smile turning softer. John tilts his chin up just a bit, looking at you directly. His expression is remarkably hard to read, but you can’t help but feel like he’s somehow hypervigilant of every emotion skipping across your face like stones on water.

He waits. After a moment, John lets out a small, thoughtful hum. Then, just as he opens his mouth, you hear it:

“Is someone gonna clean these damn tables?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Mister Shepherd. You swallow thickly, eyes squeezing shut just as that small moment disappears between you both. Without another word, you slide out from the booth, a sigh leaving your lips.

“Sorry, sir. I’m on it.”

John watches you go - watches you dart in and out of the back, empty dishes in hand, and clean the place up. Something sticks to him like a fly in a glue trap, continuously buzzing just enough to catch his attention. Maybe he’s a bit too tired tonight and he’s mistaken, but that seemed to be quite a pleasant conversation shared between you. Not like you’ve never had one before, but this time it’s different.

He’s not going to naively pretend like the whole dinner rush ended early for any reason other than his smell. Maybe John’s big, hulking, thousand-pound bear could be excused for smelling like a spawning pool, but as a human? He’s astounding that you weren’t running for the hills. Astounded, and… impressed. It’s sticking with John how much you always want to socialize with him, even when he’s not necessarily in the sweetest of moods. No matter how weird he smells or how aloof he acts, you always feed him with a smile.

Something akin to a lightbulb fizzes to life in John’s brain. It’s like finding the key to an old, locked door. A stark realization that something has changed, that there’s a new route to take if he just chooses to step through.

Maybe you’re not as different to him as he always thought.

Before John leaves that night, he writes some book recommendations for you on a napkin and leaves it beside his check and a wad of cash.

masterlist

taglist: @lavenderloss , @motzglorp , @beebeechaos, @alils, @onceuponanightmareisawme, @pipsysstuff, @lostintransist, @neapolitan--girl, @yearning-ka, @cherriexicangel, @wowtheuniverse,

divider credits: @/cafekitsune (Wind Breaker sets)

a/n: sorry this took so long to get out lol the ao3 author curse reached across platforms and got me. this was the last pre-written chapter i had for this fic, so the next one might take longer just because i haven't even started it yet. anyways, i hope you like this sillier chapter :3

[ladybugkissing]

Hey guys! So glad ppl seem to be liking To Poke a Sleeping Bear. Im working on ch 3 rn but I dont really have a time frame for when it'll be out. I just started a new job and I have wayyyy less free time now. Ill try and get around to the taglist and other stuff today but ive got no guarantee that anything will get done

[ladybugkissing]

to poke a sleeping bear - ch. 2

bear shifter!john price x waitress!reader

warnings: none

Who the hell visits the library? You do, apparently.

Your small town’s library is right next to the Protestant Church, which is next to the park, which is right next to-

Okay, you get the point. Small town, small town stuff.

You comb through rows and rows of library shelving, hoping that you look intellectual enough to actually belong. No books in hand, no real clue why you’re even here, but a vague inkling of a desire to impress something or someone. At the very least, you’re impressing the clerk, who likely hasn’t seen anyone under the age of 50 enter the public library since the early 2000s.

Somewhere toward the back, there’s a database full of old local newspaper publications, as well as every issue of the National Geographic magazine published since 1950. It’s pretty cool, but you’re sure you’d spend more time staring at the pretty pictures than actually learning anything of value.

Come to think of it, you’re not even sure you have a library card. This is… what, the second time you’ve ever visited the library since moving in? The first time wasn’t even to check out anything. No, it was because the internet provider fucked your shit up sideways and your whole apartment complex was without wifi for a week, right when you had a sizeable stack of assignments to submit for some university classes you were taking at the time. So you came here with your laptop, a thermos of coffee, and a broken dream.

Would it be-

No, probably not here. Maybe, uh…

Maybe here? Hopefully? It should be over-

Ah, that’s it.

You manage to spare yourself the awkward conversation of asking the librarian where the wildlife books sit, finding them just adjacent to the collection of National Geographic magazines. ‘Birds of the Northwest,’ ‘Hunter’s Guide to Local Wildlife,’ ‘Foraging for Dummies’ - it seems that there’s no shortage of works to choose from. And finally, you find a book that really piques your interest: ‘A Field Guide to North American Mammals.’ Hm. Seems cool.

It also seems ancient, you note, thumbing through the worn and yellowed pages as you come across old colored prints that look to date around the 60s or 70s. Deer, rabbits, foxes, bears - this book has it all. Flipping to the table of contents, it looks like the book is split up by areas of North America, primarily focusing on the United States. In each section, it breaks down predators and prey, and then each individual animal has their own couple of pages dedicated to them. Seems like a nice read, and hopefully you can-

Wait.

As you turn a few pages toward the beginning of the book, you spot the familiar library check-out card that was probably glued in back when people used to write down who had checked out each book. There are several names you don’t recognize from dates as far back as 1998. However, most importantly, you see ‘John Price,’ written in neat print in a few lines. That’s right, a few. John had checked this book out multiple times from about 2015 to 2019.

And it occurs to you then, as a swell of warmth lingers in your chest and your cheeks, that you’ve been at this fucking library looking for wildlife books to impress this goddamn park ranger. And you’ve just so happened to find a book that he likes quite a lot. Part of you feels proud for having guessed so accurately a topic that John enjoys for you to learn about. The other part of you, though, is embarrassed for having wasted gas money looking for a book to impress a man. Jesus Christ, you never thought you’d stoop so low.

This needed to be worth it. If you were going to go through getting a library card, checking out a book, reading said book, and logging this information in your mind on a day when you could be sleeping in, then John Price better appreciate it.

Bechdel Test, your dignity utters. Are you even capable of not thinking about a man?

You close the book and listen to the creak of the broken spine, tucking it under your arm to check it out with the clerk. She’s a pleasant, older woman, who gives you a smile when you walk up to the desk. She’s eager to help you sign up for a library card, hoping - perhaps presumptuously - that you’re just aching to further your education.

“That’s a popular one,” She tells you in a quiet voice, nodding toward the wildlife book. “I’ve got someone who likes to come in and read it on his off time. Might break his heart to tell him it’s been checked out.”

Oh. So those times written down aren’t the only times John has read this book. You feel yourself burn hot, likely red from your chin to the tips of your ears. Would he notice? Would the librarian tell John that it was some random girl who had stumbled blindly through the rows of books and ‘coincidentally’ pulled one that he frequented? Did anyone really give a shit as much as you did?

“Oh- uh,” An awkward smile tilts your lips crooked. You scramble for an answer to the librarian’s observation, dumbly believing that somehow she must have ascertained that you and John know each other. It’s a small town, after all. “I… hope he won’t miss it,” is what you finally settle on.

The librarian shakes her head, waving her hand as if to tell you to take the book.

“He’ll live, hon.”

As you step out of the library, your phone buzzes. Phil and Alex are buzzing in your work group chat over something your boss said.

> I need another server to close tonight. Johnny canceled. Please get back to me ASAP. > Thought 1 server would be enough? > I bet it’s because he still owes me a pack of Newports > Alex, save the banter for private conversations. I do not need the kitchen included in this conversation unless you’re willing to take orders tonight.

You sigh. Without Johnny serving tonight, it just leaves Gaz. And, God knows, Gaz hardly gets along a shift without fighting with Phil. Your plans for the night had been, hopefully, to sit down with this book and eat the heaping ton of pasta you made the night before. However, Alex beats you to the punch before you can claim that you’re busy.

> There’s only one server I know who brings in the customers ;)

Alex, that bastard. You love him to death, but sometimes he has to go and open his big mouth. And, to make matters worse? He makes it exceedingly clear to old-as-dirt Mr. Herschel by following up the text with your name.

> Are you available to work tonight? Saturdays are busy during this time of year. We cannot do with one server.

Right, so. Apparently, this wasn’t as voluntary as Mr. Shepherd was implying it to be. With a heavy sigh and the roll of your eyes, you try and justify this shift by thinking about the money you’d get from it.

I’ll take the shift, Shepherd < > Thank you. I will see you tonight.

You’re looking forward to it. Totally.

Christ alive, John’s back hurts. He’s not even that old, he swears it. Fit as a fiddle, too. It’s just that, weirdly enough, he slept next to a river earlier today.

Sleep gnaws at him persistently, these days. Makes his brain sit heavy in his head, and makes gravity feel like his biggest present problem.

But he couldn’t help it. John was a victim of his biology.

There’s a satisfying crack that rings out when he stretches out, realizing when his arms fold back and touch rough bark that he’s been perched at the base of a tree. Blinking blearily, it becomes abundantly clear exactly what’s happened here.

Dead, devoured fish litter the riverbank. The air smells briny and metallic, but it’s closer than a few feet away; it’s right under John’s nose, coating his beard. A quick swipe of his tongue makes him grimace when he catches a piece of scale in his teeth. Gross.

Why couldn’t it have been berries or something? Even if his coworkers think he looks funny with the purple stain of fruit coating his lips, at least it wouldn’t smell so…

Well, one part of him wants to say ‘delicious.’ The part of him that’s sinking back deep into his chest, content to leave his human form to work out what remains of his bounty. The part that, at some point during the afternoon, had caught a whiff of something and reared its head and bared its teeth.

As John pulls himself to his feet, he curses his clumsy footing. Flat paws make it much easier to walk off the path, he thinks to himself. While he was thankful that some part of his more feral hindbrain reminded him to put his clothes back on once he shifted back into human form, there was realistically only so much that hiking boots could do. He walks past the fish carcasses by the bank to crouch down at the water. The pebbly soil is uneven and coarse, and nearly makes John fall straight in.

“That’s enough of that,” he huffs to himself, shaking his head.

It’s always strange to regain opposable thumbs. Being able to use fine motor skills is really something that he takes for granted - there’s no way a bear could clean viscera from their maw without dunking their head in the current. This way, John can cup the water and bring it to him, scrubbing his beard until he’s sure that the scent is as faded as it’ll get (which is hardly, where fish are concerned).

He sure hopes his coworkers didn’t need him. Simon knows well enough that when John traipses off into the woods that trying to find him is a lost cause. Hopefully, he dissuaded any of the greener rangers from trying to find him. He finds his phone nestled in a root back at the tree he slept under - no missed calls, unless the bad signal is misleading him.

There are a slew of things that he needs to do, yet the sun is hanging heavy and low in the sky as the evening settles in. John finds the trail as he backtracks the path his boots had left in the brush. He’s gotten clumsy; he knows better than to trample the local ecology like that. But with Winter setting in, his mind is always someplace else. He hopes that falling into routine might take the burden from his foggy brain.

It had rained recently, and the tires of John’s truck showed it. The ground was still soft, pliable, and damp. It was likely the last rainfall the town would have before it froze into snow. When he’d smell the air, the thickness of summer humidity evaded him, sometimes leaving his nose stinging from the bite of cold air.

John hardly cranks the heat when he clambers into his truck. He’s too drowsy for that.

Simon is the only one at the ranger station when John’s truck pulls in. Everyone else has retired for the evening. He finds Simon behind a desk, book in hand, some cable game show playing on a TV to serve as white noise. Simon hardly even looks up - he already knows the cadence of John’s footfalls and hears his subtle grumbling.

“Out seeing the Missus?”

“Oh yeah. She sent me off with a picnic basket and a kiss.”

Simon chuckles to himself at John’s attitude. Clearly, whatever he gets up to out in the woods leaves him a bit out of it. If only Simon knew.

John stands still in Simon’s office for a long moment, absently watching whatever show is on the TV. He doesn’t really pay attention to it, but it’s hard to keep his head clear. Eventually, he’s brought back when Simon sits up in his chair.

“Those uni students are arriving here next week,” He grumbles. “Laswell told me that she needs you around in case someone wanders off.”

“They’re adults,” John huffs.

“Hardly. None of my business, anyway. Only thing Laswell wants me to do is get copies of the trail cam footage to show ‘em.”

“We’re working you hard, huh?”

“Half. To. Death.”

John eventually makes his way out for the evening. Simon nods when he tells him to lock up when he leaves.

God, he needs some real dinner.

masterlist

taglist: @lavenderloss, @motzglorp, @beebeechaos

divider credits: @/cafekitsune (Wind Breaker sets), @/dividers-are-us (barbed wire dividers)

[ladybugkissing]

to poke a sleeping bear - ch. 1

bear shifter!john price x waitress!reader

warnings: none

It’s getting to that time of year when the sun starts setting earlier. Thick, evening fog settles over the small town you call home, and every couple minutes, a local walks through the door of the diner you serve at. A bell attached to the door jingles, probably put up years before you even moved here.

It’s the only place in town open this late. 11:00 pm, and the bastard of a manager still has the cook flipping eggs, and still has you receiving sub-par tips from local kids high out of their minds wanting waffles. The minutes tick by - you heave a subtle sigh of relief when you realize that the diner closes in an hour.

You liked the evening shifts for a few reasons. Usually, the crankier older residents retired at 7 pm when the sun had barely started to set; thank God for that. Things were quieter, more laid back. You didn’t get paid shit, but at least no one would wish death upon you and your lineage for bringing them a plate with eggs over easy instead of garnished with liquid-fucking-gold.

And your final, favorite reason? You hear the jingle of the bell, and here he is.

“Hey John. Rough night?”

Your manager greets the rugged-looking man who walks through the door. Six-foot-something, brown hair and beard, built like a brick shithouse, and dressed like a damned lumberjack. Like clockwork, local park ranger John Price blesses your godforsaken job at 11:00 pm and leaves within the hour.

It’s the best 30-45 minutes of your shift.

John gives a rough grunt, nodding his head in greeting toward your manager before making a beeline to his favorite corner booth. Rough night indeed.

“He’s in your section, hon. Don’t forget he likes his t-”

“-Likes his tea unsweet. Yes, I know.”

He gets the same thing each time. Unsweetened iced tea, two waffles, a batch of scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon. The guy eats like he’s starving, yet he’s built like he climbs trees and catches fish with his bare hands. Hell, he’s a park ranger, he probably does.

You disappear into the back, pouring an unsweet tea before ushering it out to John’s table.

“Hey! How are you tonight?” Same song and dance, same fake smile. The life of a food service worker. John glances up at you, drowsy blue eyes sitting under thick eyebrows. The corners of his lips tilt up in a similarly forced smile and he gives you a nod.

“S’Alright,” he grumbles. His voice is deep and growly - it’s like he’s perpetually stuck in a post-cigarette bedroom voice. Which, of course, you don’t mind in the slightest. He could read off a ransom note and you’d probably swoon. You place the tea in front of him and he eyes it like water in the middle of a scorching desert.

“Same as usual? Pancakes, scrambled eggs, three-”

“Ah- uhm. No, actually. A bit different tonight.”

Your eye twitches, an instinctual response to being interrupted by a customer. John doesn’t notice, he’s too busy looking out the diner windows toward the treeline. You’d think he’d leave work at work, but apparently, old pines are interesting enough to warrant his lack of conversational engagement. He’s a grown man, you tell yourself, it’s kind of how they are.

You tear off the ticket you were already writing down, stuffing the crumpled yellow sheet in an apron pocket before placing the tip of your pen on the new sheet. “Alright,” you huff. “What’s it gonna be tonight?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, kid.”

The cook in the back looks at the ticket, his eyes growing as wide as saucers. An hour before closing, and he’s practically cooking a Thanksgiving feast.

“This is John’s order? John Price? The same guy we see almost nightly?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation.

“That’s what I was thinking, Phil! I wrote down his usual and everything, and he interrupts me and proceeds to order half the goddamn menu!”

Phil hangs up the ticket in front of him, and you can see the chicken scratch you quickly applied to the paper, almost completely covering it. John had ordered… and kept ordering. It’s not like you’ve never dealt with large orders before, but from park ranger John Price? This was completely out of his norm.

The back door opens and shuts, and a younger line cook walks in smelling like cigarettes.

“Hey, Alex, come look at this!” Alex shuffles in, looking over Phil’s shoulder. You watch as his eyes go from indifferent to indignant. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s an hour till closing and

you’re serving a party? Tell them to go the hell ho-”

“No no no- this is John, man. Mr. Price. Can you even believe it?”

Alex looks from the ticket and to you. You watch as his lips move under his mustache, like he’s trying to get some sort of response out. Phil just pats him roughly on the back before hanging the ticket on the line.

“Let’s get started, bud. Mr. Shepherd’ll have our asses handed to us if we don’t close on time.”

It’s about 11:45 pm. About 25 minutes ago, you had to pull out the old dolly like some sort of dumbass to push out the huge order to John. He owed you for that. He really fucking did. And now, 25 minutes later, the entire fuckass meal is gone. Nowhere to be found. He ate it all.

Perched behind the counter, you pretend to wipe things down while Alex comes out of the back of the house. He perches next to you, shoulders bumping together. He smells a bit like bacon grease and menthol.

“You think we can add gratuity to his check?” He murmurs.

“Do you wanna be the one asking Herschel ‘we-go-way-back’ Shepherd to upcharge our regular?”

Alex purses his lips, head nodding back and forth. Finally, he settles on a comfortable “no,” before stalking back into the kitchen. With a sigh, you toss the rag you were holding to the side and push yourself from the counter. You walk to the back of house to ring John up, emerging shortly thereafter and slipping it on his table. “You gonna need anything to go?” You’re not really sure why you asked - he ate enough to sustain a damned bear for the winter. If he asked for anything to go, you might punch him.

Lucky for you, he shakes his head.

“No ma’am,” he says, his voice gravelly.

You feel a bit guilty, then. All he was trying to do was order a meal, but you’ve been groveling all evening over walking a couple of plates in his direction. For all you knew, he could’ve missed lunch or something, too busy doing… whatever the hell a park ranger does.

He’s not very chatty tonight, either. Usually, you can fish a bit out of him if you bat your eyelashes and don’t look too busy. He doesn’t mind small talk if he doesn’t feel like he’s getting in your way. But this whole night has felt like pulling teeth.

“Alex made a joke about charging you gratuity for that meal of yours,” You laugh.

The joke quickly slips and falls flat when John looks at the check with a blank expression. Lord almighty.

“Sorry for the trouble,” He replies.

You want to tear your hair out. Does he actually think you were trying to guilt-trip him? Jesus Christ, you want to go hide in a hole and quit forever.

“No no!” You raise your hands to wave off his apology. “It was a joke. He was just being a dick, y’know?”

John reaches for his wallet, tucked away safely in a Carhartt jacket that’s seen better days. He slips his card to you, and you know that it’s time to run off before you say another stupid thing.

Alex and Phil are ragging on each other when you scramble to the back of house, and Phil flashes you a grin. However, your mood is soured. You punch in the numbers and get John’s receipt before they can try and drag you into one of their stupid conversations.

“Here you go,” You mumble, handing John his receipt and card back. Your throat itches with the compulsory ‘thank you for coming, have a good night’ but you hold it back. Putting on another smile might just make you sick to your stomach tonight.

John rises from his seat, stuffing his card back in his wallet and then his jacket. He nods in acknowledgment, stepping from the booth. He’s taller than you by a long shot as he stands, and he’s even hunched over a bit. If he’d stand up straight, he’d practically cast a shadow over you.

“You have a good night, love. Drive safe.” The most words he’s spoken all night, and they’re telling you to be safe. In that growly accent of his. He’s not even making eye contact, practically bristling at the prospect of socialization, but you feel like your knees are about to give out just from his words.

“Yeah,” You breathe. “You too, okay? Watch out for animals in the road.”

Mentally, you compartmentalize a thought that says buying a book on local wildlife to talk about with him next time is a good idea. It might be a bit weird, but he’s a bit weird. He’d probably dig it.

John nods, finally meeting your eyes as that caterpillar of facial hair quirks up in a small smile.

“Bears right now, mainly. Most know better than to run around the roads, though.”

Why the hell is that little fact enough to make you starstruck? You barely muster a nod before he’s out the diner door, the bell ringing behind him and signaling that the last customer of your shift has left.

You sigh, your shoulders sagging as he disappears into the dark parking lot. You see the lights on his old truck as he cranks it on, driving away down the county road. Absently reaching the check, you bring it into your line of vision and your heart nearly drops.

“Uh… Mr. Shepherd?” You call, loud enough to make his head pop out from his office, eyebrow raised.

“John tipped me 100 percent.”

masterlist

divider credits: @cafekitsune (Wind Breaker sets), @dividers-are-us (barbed wire dividers)

a/n: hope you like this! i've been sitting on it for a long while, so i hope to continue picking at it if people like it :)

[cafekitsune]

WIND BREAKER | suou h.

──────── ⵌ PATTERNS ...

──────── ⵌ EARRING STYLE ...

──────── ⵌ HEART STYLE ...

( requested by → @suosteacup )

ahhhhhh, my first time making a character-inspired set ! thank you, Kisa for dropping the request. :’)))

I have a few more Wind Breaker sets that I wanna share with you all in the next little bit ( I’m behind on the manga, no one spoil me 🙇‍♀️ ! ), but for now, please have a lil Suou 🤍🥀

please like, reblog, and credit if you use :)

support me through ko-fi | more dividers →

[dividers-are-us]

⟡ ⋆Barbed Wire Dividers⋆ ⟡

Divider Masterlist 𐴱 Main Blog 𐴱 Moodboard side-blog | Ko-fi🔗

Feel free to use, just please tag for credit/like/reblog <3

[silverlullabies]

Ghost insists adamantly, passionately, and with the conviction of a man who’s sustained multiple traumatic brain injuries that he fell in love with you at first sight.

Soap insists that’s physically impossible. Metaphysically improbable. Scientifically unhinged.

Because Ghost had eyes on you for approximately ten seconds before you broke his nose and he fell in love.

It happens outside a cafe on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where nothing interesting is supposed to occur, where the universe is contractually obligated to be boring. You’ve got your headphones in, keys jangling in one hand, iced coffee in the other, walking home in that autopilot mode where your body knows the route but your brain is thinking about literally anything else.

That’s when your wallet slips from your pocket. Honestly, you don’t even notice, because you’re deep into a true crime’s podcast and fully dissociated from reality.

Ghost spots it, picks it up, and jogs after you.

He says something. You don’t hear it. He says it again, louder. Still nothing.

So he taps your shoulder.

Big. Mistake.

You spin around like a woman possessed, adrenaline spiking, fight or flight activating, and throw the most righteous, unholy, devastatingly perfect punch of your entire life. It’s the kind of punch that would make your self defense instructor weep with pride. The kind of punch that deserves a plaque. A statue. A national holiday.

The sound is wet. The crunch is immediate. The impact is biblical.

Ghost drops like a felled oak tree and a bag of bricks. He goes down hard wallet still clutched in one hand, skull mask knocked crooked, eyes blinking slowly up at the sky like he’s trying to remember what dimension he’s in.

You stand there frozen. Horrified. Keys still dangling. Headphones half out. Coffee somehow still intact.

The rest of Task Force 141 who have been standing several feet away, look like they just watched God Himself get smacked into next week.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Then Soap breaks.

He howls. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face, making noises that aren’t even human anymore. He’s gone. Transcended. Ascended to a plane of pure, chaotic joy.

“SHE DECKED HIM!” he wheezes, gasping for air. “She- she knocked the GHOST out! FULL CONTACT! FULL KO! I’M- I CAN’T- “

Gaz follows immediately, wheezing, clutching his ribs. “Mate- mate- she dropped him like a sack of potatoes! One punch! ONE!”

Price just sighs. Long. Deep. The sigh of a man who’s too old for this, too tired for this, but also, somewhere deep down, a little bit impressed.

“Bloody beautiful form,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Textbook right hook. Could’ve been in the ring.”

You’re panicking. You’re hovering over Ghost, babbling apologies, hands fluttering uselessly. “Oh my god- oh my god- I’m so sorry! I didn’t know- I thought you were- are you okay? Do you know what year it is? How many fingers am I holding up? Should I call someone? Do you need a hospital? A lawyer?! Please don’t sue me.”

Ghost doesn’t answer. He just groans. Long. Low. Like a haunted house sound effect.

Then, through the blood and the daze and the clearly scrambled neural pathways, he mutters “…angels.”

“What?” you squeak.

“I see angels,” he slurs, eyes glassy and vaguely pointing in your direction. “Pretty ones.”

Soap loses it again. He’s on the ground now. Literally collapsed. Gaz has to step over him.

By the time the ambulance arrives (called by Price) Ghost is propped up against the curb like a discarded mannequin. His nose is absolutely destroyed. His mask is half off. There’s blood on his jacket. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.

But he’s smiling.

And he’s staring at you like you personally hung the moon, invented oxygen, and solved world peace in one punch.

“You hit like a tank,” he says faintly, dreamily, voice slow and thick with what is definitely a concussion. “Bloody beautiful. Strong. Could probably crush a man’s skull. Lovely hands. Great form. You single?”

“You are concussed,” you reply, voice shrill, face burning. “You need a hospital.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, nodding slowly, then wincing because nodding hurts. “But I’m also in love.”

Soap is dead. Flatlined. Gaz is leaning against a lamppost for support, tears streaming. Price is- oh god- Price is taking a video.

“Incident documentation,” he says flatly when you stare at him in betrayal like he isn’t planning on immediately sending it to Laswell.

“DELETE THAT!”

“Can’t. Evidence.”

When the paramedics finally load Ghost onto the gurney- still loopy, still bleeding, still smiling like a man who’s discovered enlightenment- he reaches out and grabs Soap by the shirt with surprising strength for someone who’s been recently KO’d.

“Johnny,” he slurs, deadly serious. “Johnny. Listen t’me.”

“Aye, LT?”

“Get her number.”

“…Ghost, you need medical-”

“Swear it.” His grip tightens. His eyes are wild. Desperate. “Swear it on your life, Johnny. On your mum. On your beloved hair gel. Get. Her. Number.”

Soap, choking back laughter, wipes his eyes and salutes. “Aye, big man. I’ll get it. Scout’s honor. Right after I get the CCTV footage and frame it for the barracks.”

“You’re a good man, Johnny.”

“I’m really not.”

Ghost gives you a dazed, lopsided thumbs up from the gurney as they wheel him away, and you’re left standing on the sidewalk- wallet finally back in hand, face the color of a tomato, dignity in shambles- wondering how in the hell you managed to accidentally concuss a six-foot-four man into romance.

Soap sidles up next to you, grinning like the devil himself.

“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can I get that number? For medical purposes. And also because he’ll actually haunt me if I don’t.”

You stare at him.

He waggles his eyebrows.

“…Fine.”

Somewhere in the ambulance, Ghost smiles.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[tooloudarts]

He'll give you a vial of his blood for the anniversary

[blueperry123]

If anyone has a baby they’re donating I’ll take it hehe

Kyle Garrick always said later.

Kids were a future thing. A “once the world stops being on fire” thing. He liked kids, loved them, actually but he was young, busy, still figuring out who he was when the noise stopped. So yeah. Later.

Then he met you.

Civilian contractor. Tech wizard. Nice in a way that felt almost suspicious at first. You laughed easily, listened properly, brought snacks to briefings like it was no big deal. You and Kyle clicked fast; banter, shared playlists, late-night coffee runs that weren’t officially dates but absolutely were.

And then one afternoon, mid-conversation, your phone rang.

You went pale.

“I… I have to go,” you said, already grabbing your bag. “Daycare. It’s urgent.”

Kyle was on his feet before you finished the sentence. “I’m driving.”

You hesitated. “Kyle”

“Not negotiable.”

He didn’t even clock it. Not really. The daycare part slid past him until he was already flooring it through traffic, one hand tight on the wheel, the other braced on the dash.

Your kid.

You have a kid.

The realization hits him like a flashbang and instead of fear, it’s… focus. Pure, sharp instinct.

They meet you outside the daycare, your son perched on a bench, clutching his arm, eyes red and furious at the world. Little guy. Brave face cracking at the edges.

“That him?” Kyle asks softly.

You nod. “That’s my son.”

Kyle crouches immediately, careful, slow. “Hey, mate. I’m Kyle. Your mum’s friend.”

Your son scowls. “She didn’t say you were coming.”

Kyle accepts that without flinching. “Yeah. Fair.”

At the hospital, your son sticks to you like Velcro. Glares at Kyle every time he moves. Protective. Scared. Tough little thing trying not to cry.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper at one point, mortified. “He’s not usually like this.”

Kyle shakes his head. “He’s doing his job,” he says quietly. “Looking after you.”

That’s when something in your chest softens.

Hours pass. The adrenaline drains. The injury turns out to be minor. Exhaustion wins.

You fall asleep first, head tipped awkwardly against the hospital chair. Your son follows soon after, curled into your side, breathing even.

Kyle doesn’t move.

He sits there, jacket draped over you both, phone muted. Eventually slips out to grab food, comes back with something warm for you, juice for your son, even remembers the little spoon.

When you wake, bleary and confused, he’s still there.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You okay?”

You blink at him. At the food. At the quiet care.

“Why are you still here?”

Kyle shrugs, sheepish. “Didn’t feel right leaving.”

Your son cracks one eye open. Studies him. Then, after a long, serious pause… nudges the juice box closer to Kyle.

Kyle freezes.

…Then smiles like he’s just been knighted.

Later, when everything’s settled and the world feels steady again, Kyle realizes something.

Later came early.

And somehow, he doesn’t mind at all.