I’m Mae. I have a Master’s in English and Film, which is really just a fancy way of saying I’m over-qualified to spend my life screaming into the void about fictional men. Currently, I’ve fallen down the Joseph Quinn rabbit hole. I’d try to climb out, but honestly? The man has a better eye for picking complex characters than I have for picking a lunch spot. It’s a problem. We’re dealing with it.
The Usual Suspects: When I’m not busy being a productive twenty something offline, I’m busy with:
Star Wars & LOTR: My lifelong personality traits and own personal Roman Empires.
Book Binding, Gaming and Music: Where my productivity goes to die.
Fanfics: I start with a "short prompt" and end up writing a trilogy. I literally do not know how to stop.
The Vibe: I don’t do "tidy." This blog is essentially a digital corkboard with red string everywhere. If you like deep dives that are slightly too deep you’re in the right place. I specialize in the "2 AM Epiphany". Connecting unrelated dots until they form a conspiracy theory about a character's childhood trauma is basically my super power. It’s academic rigor meets absolute brain rot. We don’t just watch movies here; we perform full-scale vivisections on them. Expect character studies born from a single stray quote and "short" headcanons that accidentally turn into 40-page manifestos. Basically, it’s a multiverse of hyperfixations where I am the mad scientist, and Joseph Quinn’s filmography is the current experiment.
Stay as long as you like (or until the brain rot takes us both).
Peace & Love, Mae 💚
Hogwarts Legacy Masterlist || Star Wars Masterlist
Current Ramblings
Call on Me (my Sam Masterlist)
Book 1 When you say nothing at all || Sam (Warfare) x OFC! Jolene (NSFW)
COMPLETED
Summary: Some connections feel written long before you ever cross paths... (Full description on linked story above)
Word Count: 200,000
Book 2 Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) x OFC! Jolene (NSFW)
In Progress!
Summary: Love can survive distance. But can it survive change? (Full description on linked story above)
Word Count: TBD
H.E.R.B.I.E.'s Data Log (aka my cheeky Masterlist for F4)
It's been a long time coming || Johnny Storm x reader (NSFW) || AO3 Link
Summary: What happens when a moment of callous words pushes aside a beloved childhood friend of Johnny's? Can he recover the damage? When the world is ending one should speak the words they've been afraid to... but that doesn't always mean those words will be received well. (No use of y/n)
Word Count: 20,178
That you are || Johnny Storm X reader (NSFW) || Ao3 Link
Summary: Johnny Storm was many things. Hot headed, shameless flirt, and your bosses younger brother. But, what happens when you realize there is more lurking beneath the baby blues and charisma? Someone intelligent, thoughtful and maybe even a bit bashful...
Word Count: 25,000+
Johnny Storm MCU Characterization Essay
Welcome to Hellfire (my Eddie Masterlist)
In Your Own Sweet Time || Eddie Munson x neighbor reader (NSFW) Miniseries
COMPLETED
Summary: Vignettes of Forest Hills over the years, where two kids being brought up in an unconventional situation, navigate changes, growing up, love and relationships
Word Count: 79,761
Beautiful Boy || Eddie Munson x neighbor reader (NSFW)
Summary: : Years into raising their son Eldarion, Eddie and his wife take their kiddo to the Fellowship of the Ring premiere, where events of the evening sparkthoughts of another baby in the house. One thing leads to another, and the night takes on a pleasant turn... (alt. summary: Eddie has a breeding kink and really loves seeing his wife be maternal to their 7 year old)
Word Count: 11, 996
Continuation of In Your Own Sweet Time, that can be read separately!
L.O.V.E. Machine || Eddie Munson x Henderson Reader (NSFW)
Summary: A steamy first time in the back of a van. It's exactly what it looks like folks.
Word Count: 14k
AO3
Like Leaves, I Fall - A Poem because I did too much work with the British Romantics in Grad School
Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) || 16
In progress!
Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; PTSD and vivid flashbacks; hyper-vigilance; Survivor’s guilt; mentions of death and KIA (Killed in Action); detailed grieving and funeral imagery; chronic physical pain and combat-related injuries; traumatic brain injury (TBI) symptoms; mentions of cancer and parental loss; mentions of childbirth; family dynamics and loneliness; Mature Content: Explicit smut including dominant/submissive dynamics, recording sex/sex tapes, mentions of breeding but not actually doing so (the fantasy of it is hot), remote control vibrator, oral sex, and other sexual encounters.
Word Count: 15k
Author's Note: Hey everyone! First off, thank you so much for all the support on this story. It genuinely means a lot. The last month has been... let's just say character-building on a personal level, so I'm especially happy to finally get this chapter out into the world. There's also a particular thing in this chapter that had to be addressed, seeing as we're now operating in a post–February 16, 2007 timeline. Those of you who know, know. Those of you who don't, well... you will soon find out. (I'm truly sorry okay but as someone who lived during this time period this was ALL anyone was talking about). In any case, thank you again for sticking around, reading, commenting, and generally enabling me. I'd love to hear your thoughts on where you think things are headed from here, any theories you're cooking up, and whether there are particular dynamics, characters, or plot threads you're excited to see explored moving forward. Feel free to drop a line or leave a comment. Peace and Love ~ Mae
Series Masterlist || Previous || Next (coming soon) || Ao3 LINK
Sam
·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··
The silence in the downstairs bedroom was textured by the ghost of a life that hadn’t been his. Sam sat upright, his back propped against the mountain of pillows Jolene had meticulously arranged, his gaze fixed on the single window that looked out into the yard. Outside, a squirrel skittered across the neglected lawn, its movements erratic as it scampered around, indifferent to the man watching from behind the glass. Sam felt a bitterness toward the creature’s mobility. Envy that he immediately tried to swallow down.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the room, lingering on a stack of old books tucked away on the mahogany dresser. Relics of the man who had breathed his last between these four walls. Every time the sun dipped low and the room bathed in that twilight orange, Sam felt the weight of it. He hated this. He hated that Jolene’s compassion had forced her into this temporary sanctuary, because he knew it contained the geography of her grief. Worse than that, he was a constant reminder of mortality in a room that already held too much of it. The memory of that raw moment only a few nights ago, where Jolene had finally stopped holding back her tears and begged him to just be kind, still hummed beneath his skin like an open nerve. It had been the point of no return.
Two days later, at his first physical therapy appointment, he hadn't been focused on the stretches or the ache of the metal plates in his leg. He had been looking for a way to stop the poison. He remembered the antiseptic scent of the clinic, the way he’d cornered his doctor near the supply closet, his voice softly demanding in a way that left no room for debate: Cut the dosage. As much as possible or switch him to naproxen. He had lied to her at the pharmacy later that same afternoon, saying that with the progress his doctors were going to stop writing a prescription for the good stuff. When she’d looked at the bottle, her brow furrowed in that way that usually preceded a question, he’d told her it was just a switch because he was doing so well. He had looked her in the eyes, his own vision swimming with the beginnings of withdrawal, and lied with a steadiness that made him feel like a stranger to himself.
He’d made the choice because he had finally understood the situation he was in. The pain of a throbbing, broken leg was a penance he could endure because comparatively, the agony of hearing Jolene’s voice crack as she pleaded for him to stop being cruel? That was something he couldn't survive. But the reality of the trade-off was becoming so intense in his leg, that he felt more delirious from the pain than he had at times from the medications. The physical pain, previously dampened by the haze of narcotics, had returned with a vindictive clarity. It was a constant, pulsating agony that made his teeth ache, a fire that crept up from his ankle and anchored itself behind his eyes.
Even worse was the mental fog. Coming off the high-dose regimen hadn't been the instant return to clarity he’d naively anticipated. Instead, it was a blurred transition. His nerves were frayed wires, reacting to the slightest shift in the room's temperature. Reality felt slippery. One moment dizzying then sharp all at once. He struggled with discerning the paranoid echoes of the drugs and the painful truth of his own fragility. Sam was in control, and for the first time, he was terrified of what he might say if the pain finally pushed him over the edge again.
The shift in his chemistry had stripped away the golden haze that used to soften the edges of the world, leaving Sam’s senses uncomfortably attuned. It was as if he’d been watching a film in a blur, and someone had suddenly snapped the focus into place, revealing a level of detail that was both addictive and overwhelming.
He found himself cataloging Jolene like a man starving for reality, his eyes tracing the minutiae of her existence. He’d spent days watching her move through the room, tethered to the rhythm of her habits. It was in the small notes she left on the nightstand. Like reminders to drink water or eat, written in her hurried, slanted script. He’d been staring at one for twenty minutes, fixated on the way she wrote her G’s. They weren’t standard loops. She pulled the tail up and tucked it in, a weird, idiosyncratic shorthand that looked like a combined C and T fused together. It was a bizarre, tiny piece of her anatomy he’d never noticed before.
Then there was the way she looked when she didn't know he was watching.
He tracked the stubborn, tight curl pattern at her temples. There was a lock that always fought the gravity of the rest of her hair. It would dive into her cheek, dancing along the line of her jaw, before springing back out with a life of its own. He watched the light catch the strands, the way the deep auburn fire of her hair transitioned into that lighter, softer shade of copper as it moved down her back.
In the evenings, when the house finally quieted and the weight of his own body forced him to retreat to the bed, she would slide in beside him, carrying the scent of soap and steam from the shower. It was the only time he felt truly steady. He’d watch her settle, her breathing slowing as the fatigue of the day finally claimed her. When her eyes fluttered shut, he was struck by the vulnerability of her face. Her lashes were thick, but he noticed how the very tips of them were thin and light, almost translucent against the porcelain pale of her eyelid. In the harsh glare of the daylight, he knew those same lashes were weighed down by dark mascara. But here, in the private sanctuary of their life, she was unadorned.
But even unadorned, she felt unreachable, and that was the knife twist.
Sam shifted his weight, his leg sending a flare of hot, white static up his thigh. It was difficult to rationalize that he was still paying for his months of medicated cruelty. He kept his gaze fixed on the yard, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with pain as he measured the distance between him and Jolene.
He thought about the way her bottom lip tucked just slightly under her top while she slept, a habit he’d only just identified. It made her look younger, softer, and infinitely more fragile. It made him want to reach out and brush his thumb against it, to see if she would wake up and smile, or if she would flinch, expecting a lash of his tongue instead of a caress. That was the terrifying crux of his sober reality. Yes, he was seeing her clearly, but he was simultaneously terrified that his presence was a permanent blight on her peace.
The squirrel was gone, leaving nothing behind but the empty, swaying branch. The house felt suffocatingly quiet. He felt a bead of sweat track down his temple. Every memory of the last few months flooded back. Every harsh word, every time he’d seen her flinch, every time he’d let his own physical torment dictate his humanity, was replaying in high definition. He looked down at his own hands and wondered how she had stood it. How she had continued to make him dinner, how she had continued to adjust the pillows, how she had continued to look at him with anything other than patience. But even as the thought unnerved him, a far more pressing reality began to claw at his lower abdomen. The water he’d forced down an hour ago, an attempt to flush the medicinal rot from his system, was demanding an exit.
Jolene was at the shop. He was alone, and he was faced with the most humbling gauntlet of his recovery.
He gripped the edge of the mattress, his knuckles turning a bloodless white. His leg felt like a rusted pipe filled with molten lead, and as he shifted his weight to pivot, a groan ripped from his chest before he could stifle it. He had to be careful. The physical therapy team had been clear about the rotation limits, but in the solitude of the room and driven by the need to piss, he felt reckless. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sudden shift in blood pressure causing his vision to white out for a moment. He waited, teeth gritted, until the world stopped spinning.
The wheelchair sat like a waiting predator a few feet away. Reaching it was a series of small, agonizing calculations. He moved in increments, using his good leg to push, his upper body sweating beneath his t-shirt. When he finally locked his hands onto the armrests and hoisted himself across. He breathed a sigh of relief, unlocking the wheels with a clack. Rolling toward the en-suite felt like maneuvering a barge through a narrow canal. The chair rolled over the hardwood, the sound amplified by his own heightened senses. Once inside the bathroom, he had to navigate the tight turn. He backed in, the wheels scraping the doorframe, until he was positioned just right.
He reached for the handheld urinal. It was ironic. A man who so frequently pissed in plastic bottles on the job, he felt the burn of shame in his own house with a medical piece of plastic that accomplished the same objective. He fumbled for his sweatpants, the simple act of undoing the drawstring feeling like a battle against his own lack of dexterity. His hands shook. As he maneuvered, the ache in his leg flared into a localized sting at the site of his surgical incisions. He kept his eyes fixed on the scuffed wood of the floor, his breathing shallow. The act itself was a grueling exercise in focus. A series of micro-adjustments to ensure the plastic was positioned correctly while keeping his injured leg extended and stable, all while every movement was a negotiation with gravity.
He waited, impatient and irritable, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. When he was finished, the task of cleanup and then stowing the container and securing himself back into his pants felt like running a marathon. He was exhausted. Drained by a simple life function that used to take him seconds. He sat there for a long moment in the bathroom, listening to the drip of the faucet, feeling the sweat cool on his neck. He was clean, he was managed, but he was utterly, painfully alone. The silence of the house pressed in, no longer filled with the comforting sound of Jolene’s humming or the clatter of the kitchen from when she ran by at lunch. He looked at his hands again, noticing how they were still trembling, and felt unfiltered anger at the man he had become. Sam knew that the hardest part of the day wasn't the pain. It was having to face himself in the mirror when he passed it, and seeing the hollow look of a man who was still trying to figure out how to come to terms with his new life. He gripped the rubber-rimmed wheels, his shoulders burning with the exertion as he turned the chair around, maneuvering in the cramped bathroom. The path toward the bed felt longer than it should have, but as he passed the bathroom vanity, he couldn't help but flick his eyes upward, an involuntary glance he immediately regretted.
The bathroom mirror was a liar. It showed a man Sam didn’t recognize. His hair was the worst of it. A chaotic crown of overgrown, honey-brown curls that felt like a mocking costume. They were too soft, too long, too much like the life he was supposed to be living now, rather than the one he’d been stripped of. The chair itself felt like a cage beneath him, which was ironic considering the actual cage holding his bones together. The silence of the Virginia house was deafening with Jolene still at work. It gave the pain too much room to breathe.
Permanent Medically Retired. The phrase echoed in his skull. Sure, it wasn’t official, but his command wouldn’t be blunt with him about the harsh reality of the situation if it weren’t on the horizon. That line jotted down on a document was months off but the reality was being lived actively, even if he was only temporarily placed on medical leave.
Sam leaned forward, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the sink. His fingers brushed against the cabinet door below. He knew what was in there. He’d always kept them in the downstairs bathroom for Sunday afternoons. The ritual with him and Jolene took place at the kitchen table while Chewie ran in the backyard. It was a relic from a time when life was much simpler and not defined by his medical chart. He dug in the cabinet depths until his fingers closed around the heavy plastic of the clippers. Body on autopilot as he plugged them into the wall outlet, snatching the towel off the wall and tossing it over his lap. The motor kicked over with an aggressive buzz that vibrated straight through his palm and up his arm, grounding him for a fleeting second. Sam didn't hesitate. He pressed the cold steel teeth directly against the center of his forehead, right at the hairline where the curls were thickest.
With a single, steady shove, he plowed the clippers back. A massive hunk of dark, curly hair fell away, tumbling onto his shoulder before sliding down to the wood floor below. He watched it in the mirror, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He did it again. And again. The clippers moved in desperate swathes with slightly trembling hands. The soft, civilian curls he’d grown in the hospital being replaced by the pale, vulnerable skin of his scalp. It looked raw. The sight suddenly offputting instead of relieving. "Too much," he whispered.
The intense pain in his leg made the falling hair look like it was moving in slow motion, drifting through the air like autumn leaves. He was trying in vain to claw back to the only version of himself that made sense. The one who was stripped down, ready for the dirt, and unburdened by the softness of a life he no longer knew how to navigate. He was halfway through, his head a mess of uneven stubble and patches of skin, when the sound of the front door distracted him. He stared at his reflection with head half-shorn, eyes wild and rimmed with red, and paused. The front door clicked shut, followed by the familiar scuff of Jolene’s boots on the hardwood. "Sam? Sorry I’m running late. The pharmacy took forever and 64 was a nightmare, I can start on din–"
She stopped dead in the bathroom doorway. She looked at the floor, covered in dark, severed curls, and then at Sam. He was hunched over in the chair, the clippers frozen against the side of his head, looking like a man trying to skin his own shadow.
Jolene took a slow, steadying breath, her eyes darting from his wild gaze to the lopsided mohawk he’d carved into himself. "Well," she said, her voice forced into a lightness that didn't quite reach her eyes, "I knew you were bored, Sam, but I didn't think you were this bored. I feel like you should’ve said ‘It’s Britney Bitch’ when I walked in."
The joke hit the air and lingered. Sam’s hand trembled, the clippers still buzzing, but the manic energy suddenly drained out of him. His shoulders slumped, the weight of the moment crashing down as the fog of his mind swirled. "I just..." He looked down at his lap, at the hair clinging to his shirt. "I couldn't look at it anymore, Jo. Every time I saw it, I just saw a guy who’s supposed to be able to stand up and walk out the door." He rubbed a hand over the raw, stubbled patch above his ear, his expression twisting. "I look like a half-plucked chicken. God, I’m an idiot. I shouldn't have... fuck–"
Jolene moved then, closing the distance between them. She didn't scold him. She didn't look horrified. She just reached out and gently took the clippers from his hand, switching them off and setting them on the counter.
"Hey," she whispered, cupping his jaw and she knelt enough to match his height. "Look at me."
"I’m a mess," he muttered, his eyes glassy. "The pain makes everything feel like a good idea for five minutes and then a disaster for the next fifty."
"Clearly," she murmured, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. "You could’ve at least slapped a guard on the thing, Sam. You didn't have to go full deployment mode. I would've helped you with a fade if you'd just waited twenty minutes." She stepped behind him, her hands moving to the collar of his t-shirt. "Come on. Out of this."
He leaned forward, allowing her to pull the shirt over his head, the fabric catching on the loose hair. Once he was bare-chested, vulnerable in the harsh fluorescent light, she tilted the wheelchair back slightly so his head rested against her stomach as she ran her fingers over the sections until she determined there was no salvaging it. She picked up the clippers, clicking them back to life. The sound was steadier in her hand. As she began to mow down the remaining patches of curls, the metal felt cool against his heated skin. "Good grief, Sam," she commented softly as a fresh wave of honey-brown hair fell away, revealing the stark whiteness of his scalp. “We’re definitely going to need to get some sun on this before you go out in public, or you’ll blind the physical therapist."
Sam closed his eyes, the vibration of the clippers humming through his skull. The anger was gone, replaced by a quiet exhaustion, but her touch kept him from drifting too far into the dark. He just sat there letting her finish the job he’d started in a moment of brokenness. Jolene worked with a steady hand, the clippers humming a monotonous tune that finally started to drown out the buzzing in Sam’s head. He watched in the mirror, his eyes tracked the silver blades as they mowed down the last of the defiant curls over his ears. As the symmetry returned, the man looking back at him was stark, his features sharpened and his brow appearing heavier without the soft fringe of hair to break it up.
"There," she murmured, flicking the power switch. He reached up, his palm rasping against the velvet-short stubble. It felt like sandpaper. But seeing the pile of hair in the sink made a fresh knot of guilt tighten in his stomach. The graveyard of hair she had started to twirl around her finger while they watched movies in the evenings, now stuck to his chest and in his lap. Hair she’d spent weeks praising as it grew back in the hospital, tracing it with gentle fingers while he slept. "Jo, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. He didn't look at her, only at the reflection of her hands resting on his shoulders. "I know you liked it."
Jolene leaned down, pressing her cheek against the top of his head. She caught his gaze in the mirror and held it. "Sam, look at me," she said. "I fell in love with a guy who rocked a buzzcut. It’s just hair, remember?" She gave his shoulders a playful squeeze, trying to pull him back from the edge of his own regret. "Besides, let’s be real. I know one day this is all going to start retreating on its own anyway. I’m still going to be right here. I'm not going to care then, and I certainly don't care now." Sam let out a long breath, his head dropping back against her. The tension didn't leave him entirely, but the edges of his internal monologue started to dull. "You really are covered in this, though," she noted, brushing a stray clump of hair off his collarbone. "We need to get you in the shower and wash the rest of this off before it drives you crazy."
She moved to the side, reaching for the shower handle to let the water warm up, and then she paused, glancing back at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"So, tell me now," she teased, pointing a finger at him. "Are you going to be a total grump about me helping you in there tonight? Because last night was truly awful, Sam. I’ve had more cooperation from a wet cat. If you're going to give me that 'I can do it myself' glare while I'm trying to make sure you don't slip, I might just leave you in here to itch."
Sam managed a weak, ghost of a smile. The first real one in days. The pain laced exhaustion made his limbs feel like lead, and the thought of navigating the bench and the handheld spray felt like a mission he wasn't prepared for alone. "No," he muttered, his voice low but sincere. "No grumping. I promise. Just... keep the water hot."
Jolene didn’t wait for him to change his mind. She knelt on the cold floor, her movements methodical as she reached for the roll of heavy-duty plastic wrap and the waterproof medical tape they kept stocked. "Okay, G.I. Jane," she murmured, "Let’s get the hardware ready for the car wash."
Sam looked down at his leg, and the familiar wave of detachment hit him. His leg wasn't really a leg anymore; it was a construction project. The Taylor Spatial Frame was a nightmare of stainless steel rings and telescopic struts that pierced through his skin and anchored directly into the shattered remnants of his tibia and fibula. The six carbon-fiber rods were adjusted by millimeters every day to pull his bone back into alignment, a slow, agonizing stretching of his anatomy. Something he’d assumed by now he’d be used to and yet, continued to be surprised to learn he hadn’t acclimated yet. Jolene began the tedious process of wrapping the frame. She worked from the top ring down to the ankle, winding the plastic tight enough to keep the water out but loose enough not to compress the sensitive soft tissue.
"I have to say, Sam," she said, glancing up with a half-smirk as she smoothed the tape over the top seal, "I’m genuinely impressed. In the middle of your manic moment, you actually had the foresight to toss this towel over the cage." She patted the thick terrycloth that had shielded the frame from the falling hair. "If we’d gotten those tiny hairs into your pin sites, we’d be looking at a one-way ticket to an infection and a very angry orthopedic surgeon."
Sam grunted, his fingers tightening on the armrests of the wheelchair. "Didn't want the pins to itch. Bad enough as it is." And he wasn’t lying. The way the pin sites still continued to produce a nasty ooze of fluid, leaving them to eventually dry and crust over meant a constant state of itching sores he couldn’t scratch. It reminded him of childhood when his mom would get on him about scratching mosquito bites on his legs, warning they’d scar. Ironic now, Sam huffed at the thought.
"Well, thank God for small mercies," she said. She stood up, checking the watertight seal one last time. The frame looked like a bizarre, translucent cocoon as it did every time he’d wanted to bathe in the last few months.
The transition from the chair to the shower bench was the part Sam hated most. It was infuriating for him having to be assisted in a simple shuffle from one seat to another. But, he couldn't just stand and pivot. His proprioception was shot, and the weight of the frame alone added a clumsy, unbalanced five pounds to a limb that refused to obey him. "Hands on me," Jolene commanded, stepping into his space. He reached out, his arms wrapping around her neck as she braced her knees against the front of his chair. He felt the familiar, humiliating lightness of his own lower body as she helped him heave his weight upward. It was a strained, jerky dance. Sam’s good leg shook with the effort of bearing his full weight, while the caged leg dangled, the steel rings clinking softly.
Jolene didn't flinch. She bore his weight with a strength that always surprised him, guiding his hips toward the plastic shower bench. With a low groan, Sam settled onto the seat, his breath coming in hitches. She carefully lifted the caged leg, supporting the weight of the frame with both hands to ensure the pins didn't torque against his skin, and eased it over the lip of the shower basin.
"See? Being an asshole isn’t a necessary part of shower OPs," she teased him, reaching for the handheld showerhead. She turned the water on, testing the temperature against her wrist before directing the spray at his shoulders. As the warm water hit him, the thousands of tiny, shorn hairs began to run down his chest and back in dark, swirling rivulets. "God, you really did a number on yourself," she laughed softly, using a washcloth to gently scrub the stubborn stubble from the crook of his neck. "You’re shedding more than Chewie in the summertime. I’m going to be finding hair in the grout for the next three weeks."
She moved the spray higher, rinsing his head gently while her other hand kept the water from running into his eyes. Sam let his head tip back. Her fingers followed the water, massaging soap into his skin with tenderness.
"It’s so much easier when you just relaxed," she whispered, her voice losing its teasing edge for a second as she looked at the stark white of his scalp. "But even when you are grumpy, you're still you. The only man I want in my shower. Shaved head, bone cage, and all."
As she leaned over him to adjust the handheld sprayer, Sam’s hand heavy and uncoordinated as it drifted toward the brass zipper of her navy work coveralls. His fingers fumbled with the tab, the fabric damp from the spray, but he managed to hook it and tug downward, exposing the fabric of her camisole. Jolene let out a startled, breathless laugh, batting his hand away as she repositioned the showerhead. "Oh, for the love of–Sam! Even in pain, you’re still a pervert. Can we focus on the medical-grade de-fuzzing first?"
Sam offered a sluggish, half-lidded shrug, his back resting against the shower wall. "Priorities, Jo." She reached for the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a small drop into her palm, but Sam let out a low, disgruntled grunt, shaking his head. "Why even bother? There’s nothing left to wash." The regret was back. He looked down at the dark curls swirling around the drain.
"Because I know you think it feels good," she countered, her fingers beginning to work the lather. The massage was intentional, her nails lightly scraping the skin in a way that made his toes curl. "And maybe if we stimulate the follicles, it’ll grow back faster."
Sam groaned, the sound echoing off the shower stall. "I remember the first time you saw me like this. Before that first deployment after we started dating. You cried the entire time you ran the clippers. You hated it."
Jolene’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, her expression softening. He remembered the way her tears had hit his bare shoulders, as if the terror of the unknown manifested in the loss of his hair. "Things change, Sam."
"Yeah," he muttered, his jaw tightening. "Back then it was functional and served a purpose. Now, I just hate the way I look. Cue the bald jokes. I look like a damn thumb."
"Technically, you’re not bald," she teased, rinsing the suds away with a gentle stream of water. "There’s still stubble here. Unless, of course, you want me to break out the shave cream and make it truly shiny? We could go full Mr. Clean."
Sam let out a grumble, leaning forward until his head knocked into her hip. "Absolutely not."
"I don't know," she said, her voice dropping to a playful, sultry hum as she tilted his chin up to look at her. "It could be sexy."
Sam looked up at her, the steam clinging to her eyelashes, his gaze landing on the bone cage that sat like a monstrous piece of scaffolding around his leg. The contrast between her vitality and his wreckage felt insurmountable. "Doubtful," he said, though the way she was looking at him like he was still the only man in the world, made the lie a little harder to believe.
“Do you really think so little of me, Sam?" Jolene asked, her voice dropping the teasing edge for something more grounded. She leaned over him, her damp coveralls clinging to her skin as she caught his gaze. "You think I’m going to stop finding you attractive just because you had a disagreement between your pain brain and a pair of clippers?"
Sam let out a hollow laugh, his head lolling against her. "It’s not just the hair, Jo. It’s the fact that you’re having to bathe me like a child. I’m sitting on a plastic bench while you scrub my back because I can’t stand up without a spotter. Not exactly the height of rugged masculinity."
Jolene scoffed, the sound echoing off the tile as she turned off the water. She reached for a plush grey towel and began to pat the water from his shoulders. "Please. I’ve seen you at your worst, and honestly? I still find you incredibly sexy, Sam." She gave the top of his head a playful little tap with her palm. "The hair will grow back babe. The leg will heal. But the ego? That’s the part we really need to work on." She moved with the efficiency of someone who had turned this new way of life into a routine. Standing in front of him, she draped the towel over his lap, careful not to snag the plastic-wrapped cage. "Alright, lean into me. Big heave on three."
It was the same strained, awkward physics as before. Sam gritted his teeth, his good leg trembling as he pushed off the bench, his arms locked around Jolene’s neck. He could feel the heat of her skin through the damp fabric of her coveralls, a reminder of the woman who hadn't flinched once since he’d come back broken. With a pained grunt, he pivoted, his weight shifting heavily until his hips hit the seat of the wheelchair with a thud. Jolene didn't let go immediately; she stayed braced against him, ensuring he was stable before she reached down to lift his bad leg. "Easy, easy," she murmured, supporting the weight of the steel rings as she guided his leg back onto the elevated footrest. She stood back, wiping a bead of condensation from her forehead with her sleeve, and looked down at him. "There. One clean, impulsive SEAL, ready for transport."
Getting Sam dressed was a choreographed struggle. Always a series of grunts and apologizes-for elbows. Because of the frame, normal pants were a relic of the past; Jolene reached for a pair of modified gray sweats with the bottom half of one pant leg cut off. He leaned forward, bracing his triceps on the armrests to lift his hips just enough for her to slide the fabric underneath. It was an undignified process. She worked upward, her fingers deft and certain, while Sam focused on the ceiling’s exposed wood beams to keep the nausea from peaking in the heat of the post shower air of the bathroom.
Once a soft, faded Navy PT shirt that hung loose on his frame was over his head, Jolene stood up and grabbed a broom from the corner. She began to sweep, the dry sound of the bristles against the tile filling the small room. "Stay put for a second," she murmured, her eyes on the floor. "I don't want you tracking this all over the place."
But Sam was already moving. He gripped the cold chrome rims of his wheels, his muscles straining as he maneuvered the chair toward the fogged-up vanity. He reached out a trembling hand, his palm wiping a clear streak through the condensation. The man who looked back was a stranger. Without the curls, his face looked gaunt, the shadows under his eyes deeper, his jawline more severe. The pale, buzzed scalp made him look like a prisoner of war or a monk.
"God," he croaked, his fingers tracing the stubble near his temple.
Just then, a heavy click-clack of claws sounded on the hardwood in the hallway. Chewie trotted into the bathroom, his tail giving a single, tentative wag. He stopped short, his head tilting so far to the left it was almost horizontal. The dog looked at Sam, his dark eyes wide and confused, his ears twitching as if trying to reconcile the familiar scent with the unfamiliar silhouette of the man in the chair. Chewie let out a soft, inquisitive whimper, his nose dropping to the floor. He approached the pile of hair Jolene had swept near the door, his nostrils fluttering as he took a deep, lingering sniff of the discarded curls. He looked back up at Sam, then back down at the pile, let out a confused huff, and sat back on his haunches, waiting for an explanation that Sam didn't have the heart to give.
Jolene reappeared with the dustpan, pausing to ruffle the dog’s ears. "He’s wondering where the rest of his human went," she teased gently, though she kept her eyes on the pile of hair.
The dustpan clattered against the floor as Jolene caught the look in Sam’s eyes. The light, teasing air she’d been trying to maintain collapsed instantly. Sam wasn't looking at the dog anymore. He was staring at the clear streak he’d wiped through the steam on the mirror as the first sob broke through. His head dropped into his hands, his shoulders shaking with a violence that made the wheelchair rattle. Jolene was at his side in an instant, sinking to her knees beside the wheel.
"Sam, oh god, Sam, I’m sorry," she whispered, her hands reaching up to catch his wrists. "I was just trying to–"
"I hate it," he choked out, his voice thick and distorted. "I hate it so much, Jo."
He pulled his hands away, his face flushed a deep, painful red under the harsh bathroom lights. "The officer who stopped by... the pain... how bad I’ve been treating you. It’s all too much. Sitting here, listening to them list off everything I can't do anymore. Telling me that I’ll probably be classified as ‘Totally disabled’ before it's all said and done. Like I’m a piece of equipment that’s beyond repair. I felt like the SEAL was being ripped away from me. I wanted to hand it over with some fucking dignity, not live in this purgatory where I am still legally one but know deep down there’s never a chance at going back to it." He gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles turned white. "I just wanted to be that guy again. I thought if I looked like him I’d feel like myself.”
He looked at the pile of curls on the floor, then back at the mirror, the realization of what he’d done finally settling in with agonizing clarity. "I look awful." He let out a dry, bitter laugh that turned back into a sob. "Before I left for that last op, I told you I wanted to retire. I told you I never wanted to touch those damn clippers again. I wanted to grow it out, be a civilian, be with you. And then I panicked and did this. I’m so stupid."
"You’re not stupid, Sam," Jolene said firmly, her thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks. "You’re grieving and trying to process all that happened. You’re allowed to have a moment where you just want to go back to what felt safe."
"It’s stupid," he snapped, though there was no heat in it. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for the lie he was sure was there. "There is no way after all that’s happened you can be proud of what you see.”
“It’s not true," Jolene didn't flinch from the raw, wet grief in his eyes.
"How can it not be?" Sam shot back, his voice cracking as he gestured vaguely toward his own body. "Look at me, Jo. I’ve changed so much. I’ve lost thirty pounds. My legs are wasting away. I’m scarred, I’m hardly even able to put together a thought and now I’ve gone and shaved my head like a lunatic." He looked at the way the bathroom light caught the warmth in her auburn hair and the steady, unwavering strength in her posture. "I’m not the same man you’ve been dating for the last two years. I’m not the guy who could pick you up and carry you over the threshold. And you’re still the most beautiful woman in the whole world."
Jolene didn't let him spiral. She reached out, her fingers curling around his shoulders to pull him closer to her. "Stop," she whispered. She leaned back, tilting her head. Sam opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked back at his reflection. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the hum of the bathroom ventilation and the rhythmic thumping of Chewie’s tail against the floor. For the first time since he’d picked up the clippers, the buzzing static in Sam’s brain began to settle. He looked at her and the realization began to sink in that his own self-loathing was a wall he was building between them, stone by stone. "I..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to his lap. He felt diminished, a fragmented version of the man who had left for that final op.
“Sam. You’re still my guy." she whispered through a sigh, kissing the tip of his nose as if signaling she was not going to continue pushing him. Her allowance of his own self loathing if he chose feeling more freeing in a weird way. "Let’s get you out of this chair before the dog decides to eat the rest of your hair."
Jolene helped Sam navigate the final, grueling transfer from the chair to the edge of the mattress, her strength anchoring him until he could finally collapse back against the pillows. "Stay put," Jolene murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'm going to grab some water and your meds." Sam didn’t have the energy to move even if he wanted to. He lay there, staring at the ceiling fan. The silence of the room was heavy until the bed shifted.
Chewie didn’t hesitate. The big German Shepherd hopped up, his weight tilting the mattress as he crawled toward the headboard. He circled once, then dropped down right next to Sam’s head. The dog leaned in, his wet nose twitching as he took a long, confused sniff. Before Sam could react, a massive, sandpaper-rough tongue swiped across the entire side of his head from his temple to his crown. "Ugh, Chewie! Gross," Sam scoffed, trying to pull away, but the dog just huffed and licked him again.
Jolene walked back in holding a glass of water, and the sight stopped her mid-stride. She looked at Sam currently being power-washed by a hundred-pound dog and her composure shattered.
She let out a loud, genuine wheeze of a laugh that made her double over, her hand catching the doorframe for support. The sound filled the room in a way that made the heavy atmosphere of the last few hours vanish. Sam watched her, his annoyance fading. He realized then how much he’d missed that sound. The unbridled, belly-deep laugh that meant she wasn't worried about his pin sites or making sure he had all he needed for a fleeting second. He was just her guy getting lovingly mauled by their dog.
"I'm glad my misery is so entertaining," Sam grumbled, though a small, real smile was finally tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm sorry," she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye as she stood back up, still breathless. "It’s just, he’s being so cute! It’s like he thinks you’re a giant tennis ball, Sam."
Chewie seemed to agree. The dog let out a satisfied sigh and slumped down, resting his heavy, blocky head directly on Sam’s chest, his golden-brown eyes looking up with unwavering devotion. Sam looked down at the dog, then back at Jolene, and gave a helpless, lopsided shrug. "Well. At least someone likes the new look," Sam muttered.
Jolene’s eyes lit up as she spotted her Polaroid camera sitting on the dresser. She reached for it immediately. "Jo, no," Sam groaned, instinctively trying to raise a hand to cover his face.
"Sam, please," she said, her voice dropping into that soft, persuasive tone he could never fight. She held the camera up, her finger hovering over the shutter. "It’s for me. It’s a good moment. I want to remember it."
Sam looked at her, then at the dog pinned to his chest, and finally let his hand fall back to the duvet. "Fine," he sighed, the defeat flavored with a strange sense of peace. "Take the damn picture."
The flash flared, bright and sudden, followed by the mechanical whine of the film ejecting. In the quiet of the Virginia evening, the sound felt like a period at the end of a very long, very hard day. The flash of the Polaroid died away, leaving a lingering purple bloom in Sam’s vision that danced against the shadowed corners of the bedroom. Sam squinted at Jolene. "How the hell did you get that camera so fast?" he muttered, his voice raspy from the earlier crying. "You were just holding a glass of water."
Jolene didn’t answer right away. She was busy shaking the film, watching the milky white surface begin to resolve into the shape of a man and a dog. A ghost of a smirk played on her lips as she reached into the deep cargo pocket of her work coveralls. Instead of answering, she pulled out a second, already-developed photo and slipped it into his hand.
Sam held it up to the bedside lamp. It was only a few minutes ago. In the frame, Chewie was standing over the massive, chaotic pile of curls on the wood floor. The German Shepherd’s head was tucked low, his ears pinned back in total bewilderment, staring at the hair as if it were a downed piece of prey that might suddenly spring back to life and reattach itself to Sam’s head. The photo captured Chewie’s legendary underbite. Two bottom teeth hooked over his upper lip, making him look like a very concerned gargoyle. Underneath, in Jolene’s effortless script, she had written: Detective Chewie investigating the scene of Dad’s Impulsive Haircut. The suspect is currently bald and confused.
Sam looked from the photo to the actual dog currently pinning his chest to the mattress. He reached out a heavy hand, scratching the thick fur behind Chewie’s ears. "Sorry, buddy," he murmured, his voice thick. "Sorry for freaking you out. Didn't mean to lose my mind in front of you."
Jolene let out a soft snort, moving the Polaroid camera back to the dresser. "You don't need to apologize to the dog for your Britney moment, Sam. He’s seen you through worse. But I’m keeping that photo. It’s the kind of thing we’re going to look back on in a year and laugh about until we can't breathe."
Sam huffed watching as she reached for the long brass zipper of her coveralls. With a weary motion, she slid it down, stepping out of the heavy navy fabric until she was standing in just her black ribbed tank top and underwear. She looked exhausted, the faint grease stains from the shop still smudged near her collarbone, but she didn't complain. She just climbed into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight as she tucked herself into his side.
He leaned his head into the crook of her neck. Her hand immediately found the back of his scalp, her thumb tracing. "I realized I never even asked," Sam whispered, the guilt of his self-absorption finally hitting him. "How was work? I... I had this whole plan, Jo. I was going to have dinner ready when you got home."
Jolene’s fingers slowed their movement, her voice a soft hum against his temple. "It’s okay, Sam. Work was work. The world didn't stop turning because you didn't make pasta. Just being here when I walk through the door is enough."
"It's not, though," he countered, his jaw tightening. "At least let me sit with you in the bathroom while you take your shower. I can wheel in there, keep you company, and order a pizza so you don't have to think about food. It’s the bare minimum."
"Sam, that’s really not necessary," she said, though her tone was more tired than dismissive. He feared for a moment she was getting a flash back to his time in the bathroom while she showered back in Maryland but the fear dissipated when she seemed more tired than fearful.
"I disagree," he said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. "I’m living rent-free in your house, Jo. I’m not contributing a dime of effort while you’re working forty-plus hours at the shop and then coming home to play nurse for the rest of the night. I’m not going to just lie here like a piece of furniture while you do everything. I’m ordering the pizza, and I’m sitting in that bathroom with you. Deal with it."
Jolene looked at him for a long beat, seeing the stubborn glint of the Navy SEAL she’d fallen in love with peering out. Jolene’s head felt heavy against his shoulder, her breathing already beginning to slow as the sheer exhaustion of her life caught up to her. The tension in her limbs, which had been wound tight as a spring while she was scrubbing his scalp and wrestling with the Taylor frame, finally began to unspool.
"If you're really calling it in," she murmured, her voice thick and slurring at the edges with impending sleep, "can you get those mozzarella sticks..?"
Sam felt a ghost of a grin pull at his lips. The contrast from the hollowed-out grief that had consumed him only an hour prior to feeling pride at being given a way to take care of her softened him. "Jo, you can have whatever you want. I’ll order the whole damn menu if it means you don't have to touch a stove tonight."
She let out a soft, contented hum, melting into his side until she was draped across him like a blanket. Her hand, still resting on the prickly, shorn nape of his neck, gave a lazy, affectionate squeeze. "I love how you still take care of me, Sam," she whispered into the cotton of his shirt. "Even when you think you're not doing anything... you're still looking out for me."
He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way the painkillers couldn't numb. For weeks, his internal monologue had been a relentless loop of broken, useless, burden, and bastard. He had viewed every act of her kindness as a debt he couldn't repay. A tally of his own failures as a partner. He’d seen himself as a project she was managing, a patient she was discharge-planning, a shell of a man she was pitying all while letting him treat her like shit.
But in that one sleepy, unfiltered sentence, she had flipped the script.
She wasn't seeing a man who couldn't walk; she was seeing the man who still anticipated her hunger, who still prioritized her comfort after a long day at the shop. Who, even in the middle of his own identity crisis, was still hers. She was acknowledging that his contribution wasn't measured in the weight he could lift or the miles he could run, but in the way he held space for her needs. The lump returned to his throat, but this time it wasn't born of shame. It was a quiet, staggering realization that his value to her wasn't tied to his status as a SEAL. It was tied to the soul of the man who was currently holding her while she drifted off.
He reached down, his fingers threading through her auburn hair, anchoring himself to the reality of her warmth. "I've got you, Jo," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll always take care of you, Baby."
He stayed like that for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall, before he carefully reached for his phone on the nightstand. He moved with quiet purpose, navigating the call log till he found the shop so often providing their meals these days with a focus that felt like his first successful mission in months. He ordered the extra cheese, the mozzarella sticks, and a side of the wings she liked, feeling a strange, steadying pride in the simple act.
As he waited for the teenager to read it back to him, he looked at his reflection in the mirror on the bedroom wall, seeing the buzzed head and tired eyes. He didn't look like a hero, and he certainly didn't look like a soldier, but as Jolene shifted in her sleep, he realized he could still be exactly what she wanted. He could still be the one to provide, even in the smallest, most domestic ways.
In the kitchen, the challenges of his height became apparent, but he adapted. He hooked his good foot under the cabinet for leverage, leaning precariously out of the chair to reach the fridge. He found the leftover roast chicken and some greens, tucking them into a container for Jolene’s lunch tomorrow. He moved to the coffee pot, straining his core to reach the water reservoir and the filter, setting the timer for 05:00. It was a clumsy, slow-motion version of his old self, but as he clicked the 'Auto' button, a fierce sense of pride bloomed in his chest.
He rolled back into the bathroom, turning the shower on to let the steam build, then finally made his way back to the bedroom. Jolene was sprawled sideways across the mattress, her auburn hair fanned out like a sunset against the white duvet. She looked soft, vulnerable, and utterly wiped out. Sam reached out, his hand resting on her hip, and gave her a gentle shake.
"Hey. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," he murmured, his voice energized, vibrating with a renewed sense of purpose. "Shower’s hot. Pizza’s twenty minutes out."
Jolene let out a long, protesting groan, her eyes fluttering open and squinting against the soft bedside light. She looked at the bright, alert look in his eyes, and a sleepy, lopsided smile touched her lips. "Mm... you’re loud," she mumbled, reaching up to rub her eyes. "Why are you barking orders at me like a recruit?"
"Because I've got a schedule to keep," Sam said, his tone playfully bossy. He maneuvered the chair closer, nudging her shoulder. "I've already got your lunch packed and the coffee set. Now, get up. I’m not letting you go to sleep covered in garage grease."
Jolene didn’t even look back as she stood, her movements fluid and unbothered by the cool air of the room. She reached for the top of her tank top, pulling it over her head and tossing it toward the hamper in one practiced motion. Then, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear, stepping out of them as she turned toward the dresser, her pale skin glowing in the amber spill of the hallway light. She started rummaging through a basket for a clean change of close, her back turned to him, completely exposed. Sam didn't hesitate. He rolled the chair forward just enough to close the gap, and with a crisp smack, his palm connected with her bare behind.
Jolene jumped, her shoulders hitting her ears as she spun around, her eyes wide with mock outrage. "Sam!"
Sam didn't back down. He didn't offer the sheepish, apologetic smile he’d been wearing for weeks. Instead, he leaned back in the wheelchair, crossing his arms over his chest, his jaw set. He looked every bit the Petty Officer as he pointed a commanding finger toward the steaming bathroom door. "I gave you an order, Jolene," he said, his voice dropping into a register that left no room for debate. It was the tone he used when the clock was ticking and the mission was live. "Shower. Now."
Jolene stared at him, her indignation melting into an amused smirk. She braced her hands on her hips, her gaze dragging over his pale, buzzed scalp and then back to his eyes. "Oh, I see," she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "He shaves his head and suddenly he’s back to being the bossy Petty Officer." She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. "You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re being a tyrant."
"Less talking, more scrubbing," Sam countered, his eyes flashing with a spark of the dominance he’d feared was buried under layers of hospital gauze. "Move it."
"Yes, sir," she drawled, giving him a mock, two-finger salute that was entirely disrespectful and exactly what he needed.
As she turned and sauntered toward the bathroom, the sway of her hips deliberate, Sam felt a predatory grin spread across his face. For the first time in a long time, the man in the chair felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be: In charge of his house, his woman, and his life. The wheelchair hummed over the bathroom floor. Sam didn't stop at the door. He navigated the tight turn, bringing the chair flush against the side of the shower stall. The plastic curtain was a translucent barrier, blurred by the spray, but he reached out with a steady hand and hooked the edge, peeling it back just enough to reveal the silhouette of her body slick with water.
Jolene spun around, the spray hitting her shoulders and sending a cascade of droplets. She caught his eye, a playful scowl tugging at her lips as she reached for the bar of soap. "Sam! You are absolutely unbelievable," she scoffed, though the glint in her eyes was anything but annoyed. "Since when does the commanding officer conduct mid-mission inspections?"
"Since the mission involves high-value assets," Sam countered. He leaned back in the chair, his eyes trailing the path of the water down her spine.
Jolene didn't offer him the satisfaction of an immediate surrender. Instead, she turned her back to him again, the muscles of her legs and lower back shifting under the hot spray. She gave her hips a slow, deliberate shimmy. A blatant, taunting shake of her ass that was designed to remind him exactly what was currently out of his reach. "You’re a menace, Sam. Go wait for the pizza before you hurt yourself."
"Don't taunt me, Jo," Sam warned, his thumb tracing the cold chrome of his wheel. "Just because I’m in this chair doesn't mean I’ve lost my edge. I’m a SEAL. We’re trained to be adaptable. I’m a very creative man, and I promise you, I will still find a way to have my fun with you."
Jolene paused, the soap abandoned. She turned slowly, moving with a grace that made his breath hitch, until she was facing him fully. She stood bare and unashamed under the deluge, the water slicking her auburn hair against her neck and tracing the curves of her breasts and stomach. She leaned one hand against the wall, a challenge written in the curve of her brow. "Oh, really?" she asked, her voice dropping to a sultry, daring silk. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got a lot of hardware between you and me."
She didn't move to cover herself; just stood there, a vision of wet, glowing skin and defiance, waiting to see exactly how far his creativity would go. Jolene didn't move to close the curtain. Instead, she reached for the handheld sprayer, the water hissing as she began to rinse the lingering suds from her shoulders. She moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the spray tracing the curves of her body, turning her skin into a landscape of glistening, translucent pearls.
She looked at him through the mist, "Well?" she prompted. "Enlighten me. I’m all ears. Because from here, it looks like I’m the one with the tactical advantage."
She stepped closer to the edge of the stall, the water splashing against her shins, and waited. Sam didn’t look away. The frustration that had fueled his impulsive haircut had transmuted into something cooler, sharper, and much more dangerous. He reached out, his large hand gripping the area where the wood panel wall gave way to the shower stall. He felt the phantom pressure of the soldier he used to be. The one who didn't see obstacles, only secondary routes.
"Step one," he said, his voice dropping into uncompromising command. "Turn the water off."
Jolene’s smirk faltered just a fraction, replaced by a flicker of genuine intrigue. She reached back, her fingers finding the handle and twisting it. The sudden silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of the showerhead.
"Step two," Sam continued, his gaze dragging upward to her eyes. He didn't move the chair; he didn't have to. The sheer gravity of his presence seemed to pull the air out of the room. "Come closer. Right to the edge. I want to see exactly what I’m working with."
Jolene hesitated, her breath hitching as she looked at the man before her. He had lost so much of his softness, leaving behind the intensity of the man she’d seen in those deployment photos. One who survived things people weren't meant to survive. She took a step forward, the water on her skin dripping onto the bathmat as she leaned over the edge of the shower stall, her face inches from his.
"Alright," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of defiance and desire. "Now what?"
Sam didn't give her a chance to overthink it. He reached out, his hands certain as he gripped her hips, the skin still slick and hot from the spray. With a firm tug, he pulled her toward him until she was standing directly between his thighs, her knees brushing against the cold metal frame of the wheelchair.
Jolene gasped, her breath catching as she stumbled slightly, her wet hands reflexively flying out to find his shoulders for balance. Her eyes went wide, darting down to the Taylor frame and the precarious way she was boxed in by his legs. "Sam! Be careful–"
"Stop worrying, Jolene," he growled, "I’m not going to break."
He didn't wait for her to argue. He leaned forward, his strong arms locking around her waist. The scent of her damp skin and hibiscus soap filled his senses.
He tilted his head back, his eyes never leaving hers for a heartbeat before he leaned towards her. Jolene let out a strangled moan as he wrapped his lips around her breast, his tongue swiping across the sensitive, wet peak. The heat of his mouth was a startling contrast to the cooling air of the bathroom, and she arched into him, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as her panic melted.
Sam didn’t let up, his tongue swirling against her damp skin. Her fingers were firm around the back of his head, her hips pressing instinctively closer despite the looming presence of the steel frame. Then, the rap-rap-rap of the front door echoed through the hallway.
Jolene jumped, her body tensing as she pulled back, her chest heaving. "Sam, the pizza," she said , her eyes wide and dark with a sudden, disoriented flush. "I should go–"
Sam’s hands tightened on her hips. He looked up at her, his eyes firm and dark. "Stay put," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "I’m going to get the food. When I come back, I want you sitting on that. Right on the edge." He pointed a blunt finger at the bathroom counter.
"Sam, I'm wet, I'm naked, and the pizza guy is–"
"No," he cut her off, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Vanity. Now."
He let go of her and expertly spun the chair around, the wheels whispering over the floor as he rolled out of the bathroom. As he navigated the hallway toward the front door, his mind was a riot of static and heat. For weeks, the high doses of oxycodone had turned his body into a numb, heavy thing. The pills usually acted like a wet blanket on his libido, leaving him feeling disconnected from his own skin. But in the quiet hours while Jolene was at the shop, the frustration would build until it was unbearable.
He’d spent countless afternoons staring at the ceiling, his hand working beneath the covers as he envisioned her. Not as his nurse, not as the woman wrapping his leg in plastic, but as the woman who used to wrap herself around him in the dark. He’d jerk off to the memory of her scent, his teeth gritted against the phantom pains in his tibia, desperate for a shred of the intimacy that felt like it was slipping through his fingers. He wanted to prove that even with a shattered leg, he could still make her lose her mind.
He reached the front door, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’d deal with the pizza, he’d pay the man, and then he was going back into that bathroom to reclaim the only part of his life that still felt like it belonged to him. The heavy front door clicked shut, the transaction handled with a curt, efficiency. Sam didn't linger. He shoved the pizza boxes onto the kitchen counter, the smell of garlic and toasted dough trailing behind him like an afterthought, and pivoted the chair back toward the bathroom.
When he rolled through the doorway, the steam had begun to thin, settling into a heavy, translucent dew on the mirrors. Jolene was exactly where he’d ordered her to be. She was perched on the vanity, her legs dangling, her pale skin still flushed from the heat of the water. She was working a wide-toothed comb through her damp, auburn hair, the long strands catching the light like polished copper.
She looked up as he approached, the comb pausing mid-stroke. Her eyes were wide, a mix of lingering arousal and the reflexive, caretaking instinct she couldn’t quite turn off. "Sam," she started, her voice soft and slightly breathless. "You really don't need to do thi–"
"Hush," he cut her off.
He didn't stop until the front of his wheelchair was pressed against the vanity, boxing her in. Without a word, he reached out and took her ankles in his hands. Her skin was cool now, but still damp against his palms. He simply tugged, pulling her feet forward until her heels were resting firmly in his lap. The contrast was striking: her soft, arched feet resting against the rough fabric of his sweats and the cold, unforgiving steel of his leg cage.
"The pizza?" she asked, her voice wavering as he began to trace the line of her instep with his thumb.
"In the oven," Sam murmured, his focus entirely on the delicate bones of her feet. "Warmer is on. Stop worrying."
He began to rub the arches of her feet, his thumbs pressing into the muscle with a slow pressure that was designed to ground her. He knew how much she stood at the shop. He knew the toll the long hours on the concrete floor took on her body while she was busy worrying about his.
"I want you to relax," he said. He looked up, his head tilted back so he could catch her gaze. For a moment he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind her. The harsh bathroom light sharpened the planes of his face, making him look less like a patient and more like a man reclaiming his territory. "For the next few minutes, there is no physical therapy, there are no pin sites, and there is no 'medically retired' bullshit. There’s just you and me. Now, put the comb down."
Jolene let out a shaky exhale, her shoulders finally dropping as she set the comb on the counter beside her. She leaned back on her hands, her chest rising and falling, her eyes never leaving his. The dominance in his tone wasn't just a performance. He was desperate to drag her out of the role of the provider and back into the simplicity of being wanted. Sam didn’t give her time to think, his hands shifting from her arches to the backs of her thighs. He pulled her forward until her hips were flush against the very corner of the vanity.
"Sam–" her voice was a breathy, startled hitch.
"I said stop worrying," he murmured.
With a controlled motion, he lifted her right leg, guiding it up until her calf was draped over his broad shoulder. He leaned forward into the space between her thighs, his chest pressing against her knees as he boxed her in. He didn't hesitate. He buried his face in the damp heat of her, his lips finding the sensitive, aching center of her with a precision that made Jolene’s head snap back against the vanity mirror.
The first contact was slow. A lingering, hot press of his mouth as he tasted her own unique sweetness. He moved his lips, his tongue sweeping upward in long, firm strokes that traced the delicate architecture of her body. Every motion was intentional. Jolene’s fingers scrambled for purchase, her knuckles turning white as she arched her back. A high, thin whine escaping her throat. He used the stubble on his chin to ghost against her inner thighs, as the abrasive friction heightened the sensitivity until she was shaking under his hands.
Jolene’s heels dug into the tops of his thighs as she tried to anchor herself against the storm he was creating. She was shaking, her entire body vibrating with a tension that was finally, mercifully, snapping. Her fingers scrambled blindly behind her on the countertop, knocking over a bottle of lotion that clattered into the sink. "Sam... Sam," she sobbed his name, her head falling back until it thudded against the mirror.
He heard the change in her voice. The high-pitched catch that signaled she was right on the edge. He leaned forward even more, the end of the wheelchair’s seat biting into his hamstrings as he pressed his face deeper into her, his tongue moving with a relentless energy that ignored the throbbing protest in his pinned leg.
This was it. The bridge back to himself.
For months, he’d been a project to be managed, a body to be mended, and a burden to be carried. He’d watched her exhaust herself for him. Seen her hands steady his trembling ones. He’d felt the crushing weight of his own perceived uselessness. He’d also felt the overwhelming guilt of being such a nasty jerk to her that it brought her to tears. But right now, in the humid heat of the bathroom, the power dynamic had shifted. He wasn't the one receiving; he was the one giving. He was the one in control of the sounds tearing out of her throat.
He used his hands to spread her further, his thumbs hooking into the soft skin of her inner thighs to keep her open for him. He was thorough, his mouth hot and unyielding as he chased her climax. When it finally hit, it was violent. Jolene’s hips jerked off the vanity, her muscles coiling tight as she let out a long, choked-off cry that ended in a series of shuddering gasps.
Sam didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against the soft curve of her belly, his own breath coming in bursts. He could feel as the tremors in her legs subsided.
He felt a tear prick at his eye, hidden against her skin. It was the first time since the explosion that he felt like a man who was still capable of taking care of his woman. He wasn't just a patient anymore. He was Sam. And he had a long road ahead of him to remind her exactly why she had stuck around for him.
Jolene’s hand came down, her fingers shaking as they found the prickly, buzzed hair on the back of his head. She didn't say anything; she just held him there, her palm grounding him as the steam in the room slowly began to dissipate. She didn't move to cover herself. Instead, she leaned forward, her hands sliding from the prickly nape of his neck to cup his face, her fingers damp with steam and the salt of her own skin. She forced him to look up, her thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes where the exhaustion still lingered.
"Sam," she whispered, her voice a beautiful rasp. "Look at me." He raised his head. "Don't you ever," she started, her voice shaking, "don't you ever tell me you aren't the same man. I don't care about the chair. I don't care about the hair. That?" She gestured vaguely to the space between them, her face flushing a deep pink. "That was you. All you."
She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his, her nose brushing his. A small, tearful laugh bubbled out of her. "You’re still a bossy, arrogant, over-achieving SEAL, Sam. Even if you are currently doing it from a seated position."
Sam let out a breath. The weight on his chest didn't vanish, but it shifted. It became something he could carry. "I told you I was creative," he murmured, his hands sliding up to grip her waist one last time.
"You're a menace," she countered, though she kissed him then. It was deep, with a lingering taste of gratitude and rediscovered fire. She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his. "Now, I think I hear a pizza calling my name, and if I don't get those mozzarella sticks in the next five minutes, I might actually faint."
"Can't have that," Sam said, his smirk returning as he felt more confident than he had all day. He began to back the wheelchair up, giving her space to slide off the counter. "Don’t even think about putting those clothes on, Jolene. I want you ready for round two. That's an order."
She hopped down, her legs still a little unsteady as her feet hit the bathmat. "Yes, Sir," she teased, blowing him a kiss before starting off towards the kitchen.
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Weeks later, and Sam’s mind drifted to the nights like that, which felt like a fragile truce with the universe. He wished the energy he’d captured in that bathroom, and later in the bedroom where he’d pulled her thighs up over his shoulders, could be bottle-fed to the daylight hours. It was a fierce kind of worship. A way to anchor himself to her when his nerves were fraying at the edges. But for every evening of slowly reclaimed intimate release, he kept coming up short on the grueling, mundane terrain of day-to-day existence. He told himself he was doing better, and he clung to that mantra like a buoy in a storm. Something is better than nothing. But the illusion of his recovery fractured the moment the rest of his team arrived, and the stability he’d fought so hard to cultivate began a slow, almost undetectable slide backward.
Jolene had been a saint, hosting them at the house, ensuring the cooler was packed with beer and the kitchen stocked with enough food to feed a battalion. It had started lighthearted enough. The guys rolled through the front door like a wave of familiar noise, filling the quiet Virginia house with the heavy, unpolished cadence of a life Sam had once owned. They were playful, checking on the hardware strapped to his leg, poking at the scars, and firing off jokes that had lost their teeth years ago. The relief of being back in the same place together was glaringly apparent, even if no one said it. It had even felt genuine when Ray recounted the story of that day in the chaos. The ridiculous, surreal image of Sam’s dick hanging out of his trousers mid-shuffle toward the tank for the medical evacuation.
But as the sun began to dip, the relief of simply laying eyes on one another evaporated. The energy that had defined their arrival bled out of them, leaving the back porch heavy and stagnant. The conversation drifted into the quiet, hollow spaces where words usually went to die. As the evening air grew crisp, the cold began to prickle along the length of Sam’s leg, a phantom needle-stitching that seemed to mock the stillness. The group went catatonic, sinking into that terrifying silence shared only by men who had survived something gut-wrenchingly awful. A collective refusal to admit that a piece of their souls had been left behind in that house, buried in the blood, dust and the heat of Iraq.
Jolene, sensing the shift, had kept her distance, retreating inside with Tina. The two women had sequestered themselves, and he imagined Jo was likely investigating the… situation. That had become the focal point of the night, surfacing during one of those midnight debriefs in the bedroom that made Sam feel, for a fleeting moment, like a human being again.
Sam had opened the door to his squad and pulling up the rear had been Tina. Frank’s wife had stood there, clutching a newborn to her chest as if she were hiding behind it. The kid was impossibly tiny, skeletal-looking, especially considering the confident, booming claims Frank and Tina had made about a normal, healthy birth. Sam had enough experience from his sister’s extremely early delivery to recognize the telltale signs of a preemie. This wasn’t just a small baby.
“There’s no fucking way, Sam,” Jolene had murmured to him later, her voice a low vibration against the pillows in the dark. She was tracing the line of his hip, her touch tentative.
Sam shifted, the metal in his leg biting into the mattress. “The kid’s got brown eyes,” he whispered back, the words tasting like copper. “Last time I checked, Tina’s got green ones, and Frank’s are blue as the fucking sky.” He let out a dry chuckle, but there was no mirth in it. It wasn’t that he was laughing at the betrayal, or the fact that his teammate’s wife had clearly spent the deployment bedding someone else. It was purely simple gossip that made him forget reality.
He remembered the way Frank had looked back in October when he’d announced the pregnancy. He’d seen the shadow of doubt in his friend’s eyes. A flicker of denial that Frank had been nurturing for months and now was clearly failing to acknowledge what was screaming at him from the cradle. That whole night Sam felt nauseous when he realized he was surrounded by a house full of men who couldn't admit they were broken, a woman who couldn't admit she was unfaithful, and himself who couldn't admit that he was more afraid of his own sobriety than he was of the war he’d been pulled away from. In the silence of the bedroom, he felt the walls closing in, the weight of their collective lies pressing against his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.
In the weeks after, life took a different form. The arrival of the guys was a complicated mercy. It acted as a buffer, a shifting of the weight that had been crushing Jolene’s spine for months. With Erik having traded the grit of the field for the polished sterility of a desk job, and Ray climbing the ranks to Petty Officer, Sam found himself in a peculiar position. His squad had become a skeleton of its former self. And if he was honest, with Frank’s reassignment back in '03 and Tommy’s in '06, the faces that moved through his living room were familiar, but the context had irrevocably shifted. They were moving forward, carving out lives that didn't revolve around the next deployment or the next firefight, while Sam remained anchored in the quiet hum of the Virginia house.
Yet, there was a relief in the transition. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the suffocating atmosphere of the homefront began to thin. Whether it was the gradual tempering of the medication withdrawal or the slow, grinding progress of his physical therapy, Sam began to reclaim small, vital pieces of his autonomy. He was leaning less on Jolene, and that reduction in his total reliance felt like the first breath of air after a long submersion. It didn’t negate the pulsing, white-hot reminder of the hardware in his tibia, nor did it fully quell the prickle of irritation he felt whenever Erik arrived to shuttle him to rehab or Ray stopped by to perform a casual, "bro-to-bro" wellness check. It was annoying, the constant intrusion on his fragile independence, but it was also a shield. It meant he was a man with a network, and that alone shaved down the edges of the self-loathing that had been eating him alive.
His connection to the world beyond these four walls also began to stretch back toward home. Since early March, he’d forced himself to initiate calls to his mother. He had to bite his tongue, grinding his molars to keep from snapping when she demanded granular updates on his recovery or launched into her standard, heavy-handed interrogation regarding his lack of a ring. “That girl has bled herself dry for you, Samuel. You better have a plan to take care of her once you are able,” she would murmur into the receiver. A soft, feminine tone that couldn't mask the steel-toed boot of her words. He never fought her on it. He didn't have the energy, and frankly, he couldn't disagree. He was just tired of the cadence of the conversation, the way it highlighted exactly how much he was failing to be the man Jolene deserved.
Then came Stephanie. Her brief arrival for Spring Break was a sudden, welcome gust of normalcy. She didn't stay long, and for a while, the dark, paranoid corner of his mind tried to convince him it was because he was too broken to look at. But Stephanie was focused on her own trajectory, eyes bright with the news of a potential summer internship with a congressional campaign. He was proud of her and in a moment of selfish, quiet maneuvering, he’d talked her into being his driver. He hadn’t given Jolene a heads-up, a failure of communication he chose to ignore until the moment of impact.
“What do you mean he didn’t say anything?” Stephanie yelped, her voice hitting a panicked register as she stared at the unblinking, unreadable mask Jolene had settled into. Jolene was standing in the hallway, her lunchbox still gripped in her hand, her gaze locked onto Sam with silent intensity.
“He didn’t tell me shit,” Jolene scoffed. She set the cooler down on the counter with a heavy thud and paced around the table as she reached them.
“Sam!” Stephanie turned to him, her hands fluttering in the air, desperate to bridge the gap as she started an apology that wasn't hers to make. Jolene merely held up a hand, silencing her without looking away from him.
“It’s his body, Steph,” Jolene said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. “If he wants to decorate it, that’s not something he needs to ask permission for.” She leaned in, her eyes tracing the line of his arm, her expression a mix of frustration and morbid curiosity. “Well? Let’s see the new paint job.”
Sam complied, his movements slow as he pulled his shirt sleeve up over his shoulder. The ink was fresh, still vivid and angry. It was a sprawling, intricate piece. Hades, the God of Death, etched in the same stark style as the Poseidon he already wore on his ribs. It spanned his entire shoulder and bled down into his bicep. Stephanie had drafted the design back in December, while he was still haunting the hospital corridors, and for months, he’d stared at the framed sketches on his bedroom wall until the desire to wear the art had become an obsession. If he was going to be forced to live inside a body that was essentially a collection of shattered parts and metal, he was damned if he wasn’t going to claim the canvas. He’d rather look at the shadow of a god than the ruin of a soldier.
Jolene’s eyes didn’t widen, she simply leaned in closer, the overhead kitchen light catching the almost detached appraisal in her gaze. She traced the edge of the dark, stippled ink where it met the healthy skin of his shoulder, her thumb ghosting over the lines of Hades’ crown. To Stephanie, standing across the table with her hands gripped tightly in her lap, the sheer scale of the permanent addition probably seemed like a massive, impulsive argument starter. But Jolene didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, noting how the tattoo’s dark pigments deepened the pallor of his skin, and let out a soft, hummed sound of acknowledgement.
Watching her, Sam felt a realization settle in his chest. Of course she wasn’t freaked out. She had spent the last four months watching his body get dismantled and reassembled by surgeons, watching his mind unravel in the wake of medication, and watching the man she loved turn into a stranger before slowly dragging himself back toward the surface. A tattoo, even one that covered half his arm, wasn't a crisis. It wasn't a flare-up of nerve pain, it wasn't a night terror, and it wasn't a mood-driven explosion. In the hierarchy of the disasters Jolene had managed, this was merely a cosmetic change.
That night, the house settled into its usual, heavy silence. Sam was propped up against the pillows, his leg throbbing with that familiar ache that signaled the end of the day. The new tattoo felt tight and inflamed. It was hot and itching against his shoulder, tugging whenever he moved.
Jolene came out of the bathroom with a small tube of ointment and a clean, lint-free cloth. She didn’t ask if he was managing. She simply climbed onto the bed, her movements purposeful and quiet, and reached for his arm before he could offer a protest.
"Have you taken care of it yet?" she asked, her voice barely a murmur.
"I've got it," Sam said, reaching for the supplies he’d gotten that afternoon. "I can handle it, Jolene. It's just a tattoo."
She ignored him and tilted his arm in a way that brooked no argument. She pulled his sleeve up, her fingers cool against the feverish heat of the ink. She began to work the ointment into the skin, careful to avoid the tender, raised lines. Sam watched her as she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration. The light from the bedside lamp hit the translucent tips of her lashes, casting soft shadows on her cheeks, and for a moment, the world felt agonizingly still. He looked down at her hands unbothered by the permanent ink he’d just introduced to his already battered canvas.
"Why didn't you freak out?" he asked, the question escaping him before he could curate it. "It’s a lot of ink, Jolene. I just went and did it, didn't tell you, didn't ask... most people would be losing their minds."
Jolene didn’t look up. She smoothed the ointment over the shading of Hades’ face, her thumb pressing firmly against his bicep. "Sam," she said, her tone level, almost tired, "you’ve spent the last few months trying to find ways to take control of your own body again. If this is how you decide to do it, then that’s your choice." She finally looked up, her green eyes meeting his with a clarity that made him feel entirely transparent. "I’ve seen you lose your grip on everything else. If a tattoo is the thing that makes you feel like yourself again, then go ahead and get a hundred more. It’s just ink. It’s not the kind of thing I see worthy of an argument. It’s just you, existing in your own skin, and honestly? That’s all I’ve been waiting for you to do for a while now."
Her words hit him with more force than any lash of his own temper ever had. He sat there in the bed. Sam watched her thumb trace the edge of the fresh work, his jaw muscles tight as he waited for the other shoe to drop. He needed to be sure. He needed to know if this was just her playing the long-suffering saint, or if he’d actually managed to cross a line he hadn’t fully mapped out.
"You're not pissed?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. "I should’ve told you. It’s a pretty big commitment to just... show up with."
Jolene stopped her gentle rubbing, looking up at him with a look that was almost amused. She let out a soft, huffing laugh, shaking her head. "Sam, I’m not mad. I was surprised, yeah. Mostly because it was a hell of a surprise to come home to after a ten-hour shift. But mad?" She tapped his bicep lightly, a playful jab. "No. I’m not mad."
She went back to the ointment, her touch feather-light against the raw, stinging skin. "Honestly? I’ve been more shocked that you only had the one all this time. You’ve got the Poseidon, and even that’s tucked away on your ribs where no one really sees it unless they’re... well, unless they’re me." She looked up again, her expression softening into something reminiscent of the ease they’d had before the world had gone sideways. "My dad was practically a walking canvas, you know that. And the guys who come through here? They’re all covered in ink, half of them look like they’ve been doodled on by a toddler with a sharpie. I always assumed you were either the outlier or it was just a matter of time before you decided to add to the collection."
"I didn't want to be like them," he admitted. "I wanted to look like... I don't know. Like I hadn't been through the grinder. Like I was just a regular guy."
"And now..." she let the words trail off, her gaze flickering down toward the thick, rigid scarring on his thigh from the deep cut that luckily avoided his artery. It was silent evidence of the violence he’d endured. Sam didn’t need her to finish the sentence. He gave a single, slow nod, a gesture that carried the heavy weight of admission. It explained everything, from the reckless appointment to the permanence of the ink.
As Jolene settled back against the pillows with a book, he let his mind wander back to the years he’d spent calculating his future, treating his body like a portfolio he needed to keep pristine. He’d always operated on the assumption that there would be a "post-Navy" life. A civilian life that required suits, interviews, and the kind of professional anonymity that ink usually compromised. He’d looked at the guys in his unit who treated their skin like a communal scrapbooking project, and promised himself he wouldn't be that guy. He’d kept the Poseidon on his ribs, a secret he could hide beneath a uniform or a dress shirt, ensuring that when the time came, he could fold back into society without anyone asking questions about the man underneath. But the reality of his present was a cruel correction to those carefully laid plans. The metal around his leg, the limp that would likely define his stride, and the scars that mapped out the wreckage of his survival had marked him. He was a walking testament to violence, and the idea of "professional anonymity" felt like a cruel joke he’d stopped telling himself.
He told himself the new ink was just about reclaiming the canvas. A way to make the story his own rather than having it dictated by a roadside IED. It was a logical, aesthetic choice. Or at least, that was the narrative he fed his own brain. He had to believe that. He needed it to be a conscious, calculated evolution of his identity, anything to keep the memory of that afternoon in the bathroom with the clippers at bay. He would not allow himself to be so undone by something as simple as appearance. He didn't want to be that man again. So, he built this newer, colder justification for the tattoo. He convinced himself this wasn't an impulsive lash-out, even though, deep down, the urge was the same. He was just better at dressing it up in logic now. He watched his own reflection in the dim light of the bedroom, touching the fresh work on his shoulder, and prayed that if he kept covering the scars with art, eventually, he might actually believe he was the one in control.
what did you think of emperor geta in gladiator II ? ever thought about writing for him or he's too weird? I myself have ambiguous thoughts about it
btw your sam fic is so great i never seen so much depth for a character who didn't had that much of personality shown and it matching so well!
Thank you darlin’!
My Sam fic is one of those I do take a lot of pride in and while I’m sure my imagination of the character isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (also since it’s OC not reader insert…) I know it’s niche. It’s always lovely to hear my interpretation connects to people.
As for Geta…
I actually have about 3 chapters of a mini series for him since I had a loose idea a while back… I am not sure if I’m married to the idea but I’m open once I finish Sam to returning to it (or if I hit some writers block since sometimes it's nice to dabble when my mind needs a break from the Sam angst). I don't have any promises this would see the light of day and if it did when that would be... but it's there in my thing and on the backburner. I am open to talking about it more privately though in some broad strokes if anyone wants to!
But that said, there’s a bit of self indulgence I didn’t inherently touch on that response as far as Jolene goes, given her and I are both southern gals who are gingers 🤣 So that said, I definitely pull some inspiration from myself/my own life (as most writers do)
I hope that helps? Or is a satisfying answer? I do truly love answering questions about my OCs/stories 💚
Something in the Way She Moves Chapter 16 - No Context Memes
As I finish up Chapter 16, I figured I'd drop a little no context hinting... mostly because I sent this to @peterhollandkait and thought everyone else may get a kick out of it. Anyways, link to Chapter 15 from last Friday, and hoping to have Chapter 16 up on this Friday.
Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) || 15
In progress!
Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; PTSD and vivid flashbacks; hyper-vigilance; Survivor’s guilt; mentions of death and KIA (Killed in Action); detailed grieving and funeral imagery; chronic physical pain and combat-related injuries; traumatic brain injury (TBI) symptoms; mentions of cancer and parental loss; mentions of childbirth; family dynamics and loneliness; Mature Content: Explicit smut including dominant/submissive dynamics, recording sex/sex tapes, mentions of breeding but not actually doing so (the fantasy of it is hot), remote control vibrator, oral sex, and other sexual encounters.
Word Count: 17k+
Author's Note: Sorry for disappearing for a bit. Life's been busy lately, and I've had a few personal things requiring my attention. One of the bigger ones is kind of adjacent to this story in a weird way. Life imitates art? Sort of? Either way... My partner and I got a German Shepherd puppy. His name is Zeppelin, and he has fully committed himself to being an adorable menace. Most of my time lately has been spent chasing after him, making sure he's not eating something he shouldn't, and generally trying to keep up with the little guy. That said, this chapter is a heavy one. Just a small warning (and apology) in advance. I like to think that perhaps Jolene hasn't inherently been the most reliable 'narrator' in a way... As always, thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story and keeps coming back for more. I appreciate every single one of you. Peace and Love ~ Mae
Series Masterlist || Previous || Next || Ao3 LINK
Jolene
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It was crazy how quickly time managed to fly during the early months of the year. One moment they were celebrating the small victory of on-site housing, and in a blink of an eye, Sam had managed to successfully prove he could move himself from a bed to his wheelchair with confidence. Just enough proven independence that his doctors at Walter Reed released him for months of ongoing outpatient physical therapy back in Virginia. Randy and Loretta had driven up with their SUV, knowing Jolene’s truck couldn’t successfully provide a comfortable way for Sam to keep his leg elevated during the five-hour drive home. In some ways, it was nice having them trailing behind in hers while she drove Sam in theirs. They’d helped out as much as possible without seeming overbearing by pulling off at gas stops, running in to grab her and Sam food while she gently nudged him awake for meds.
When they got home, Randy had walked them through all the modifications to the house with an anxious pride. The ramps out front and back were sturdy, and carefully thought over in the way only a man who loved Jolene like a daughter could manage. The door frames had been widened, the fresh trim not yet painted, smelling of sawdust and love. Loretta had spent the days prior shifting the entirety of essential items in the kitchen to the lower cabinets for easy access to accommodate Sam’s needs.
The downstairs bedroom, however, was the hardest hurdle. It was homier than Jolene gave it credit for. Filled with the familiar scent of cedar and the soft glow of the lamps they’d brought down from the second floor. But no amount of decorative pillows or a brand new king sized bed could mask the fact that she was sleeping in the room where her father had taken his final breaths. It was unnerving to be there alone. Luckily between Chewie and Sam that was rare.
The first week back was a blur of exhausting firsts. There was the reunion between Sam and Chewbacca. A moment Jolene had braced for with a mixture of hope and terror. The eighty pound German Shepherd had been vibrating with months worth of suppressed energy when they finally pulled into the gravel drive. Jolene had to practically tackle the dog to keep him from launching himself at Sam’s leg. Eventually, their dog settled into a state of watchful vigil once he calmed. A heavy head resting on Sam’s good knee, his tail thumping against the hardwood every time Sam so much as shifted a blanket. It was almost as if, in that big Shepherd head of his, he was acknowledging that his dad came back, thus it was his responsibility alone to watch over Sam until he was upright to do it on his own.
The rhythm of their days became dictated by the kitchen timer. The ding signaled the rotation of ice packs, the swallowing of pills, or the beginning of the home exercises that left Sam drenched in sweat and shaking with a silent rage. Jolene watched him from the doorway, her heart aching as she saw the Chief Petty Officer tremble as he tried to lift his leg six inches off the mat a few seconds faster than the previous attempt.
He was improving, though. To Jolene, it was like watching a glacier move. To Sam, it may as well have been the fastest he’d ever felt life move. Jolene assumed it was because he was finally doing something. The messy-headed teenager look she’d teased him about at Walter Reed had stayed. He hadn’t asked for the clippers, and she hadn't offered. Instead, she spent the quiet evenings sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, her fingers working through the darkening curls, gently working through the knots from laying back most of the day. When she’d first met Sam, they’d hovered between honey brown and medium. Now, likely due to the stress, it was beginning to darken and taken on a more ashen color. Not that she minded at all.
They were finally home, and Jolene found herself breathing deeper. Her ribs started to find their curve again as she actually ate the meals Loretta dropped off. It was a conversation that hadn’t gone over well at all the moment Loretta finally laid eyes on her in February. She’d walked out of the room, away from Sam’s ears only to get met with sternness and a frightening level of love only her Godmother could muster. She’d tossed out promises to start being better about eating. Agreeing that Sam wouldn’t benefit if she was unwell because she stopped taking care of herself along the way. Mostly concessions just to get Loretta to stop yelling in the hallway of a military facility. But being back home finally, Jolene allowed herself to believe for the first time since the phone call in November, that things were finally looking up.
Sam was talking about the future again. Not ‘just the getting through today’ kind of future, but their Little Creek future. He’d spend his PT sessions grilling the therapists about functional movement, his eyes bright with the prospect of the Lead Instructor role once he was back to normal. He was convinced that by the time the Winter was over, he’d be out of the chair for good, and by the end of the year he’d be trading the titanium pins for a pair of combat boots and a whistle. Jolene didn't have the heart to tell him that she’d seen the latest emails from the Personnel Office, or that the "purgatory" they thought they’d left behind in D.C. had followed them home in the form of a thick, manila envelope marked Medical Evaluation Board. She just kept her hand in his hair and watched him sleep, waiting for the inevitable day the Navy would come knocking on their front door to reclaim what was left of their hopeful bubble.
As for her shop, being the boss had its perks, mainly the ability to treat her schedule like a rough draft. She’d pop in during the mid-morning to check the progress on a frame alignment or help her lead mechanic. Sometimes she’d help source a hard-to-find part for a classic restoration with Ruth in the front office. She wasn’t pulling full days yet, but those four-hour stretches were her own version of physical therapy. She’d work until noon, her hands getting grease-stained and calloused again, before wiping down and racing back to the house to check on Sam.
Tuesdays and Thursdays were the real anchors of their week, given those were PT days.
Getting him into her truck was still a choreographed dance of grunts and careful bracing. She’d help him leverage his weight from the chair to the passenger seat, tucking his leg into the specific, cushioned configuration he needed to avoid the jarring of the Virginia backroads. Sam usually spent the drive in a focused silence, his jaw set as he prepared for the hour of torture disguised as rehab that awaited him. By the time they pulled back into the driveway around lunch, he was usually a shell of himself. Pale, trembling with muscle fatigue, and smelling of the gym’s stale sweat.
"Come on, Grumpy," she’d murmur, her arm around his waist as she guided him toward the modified bathroom. The shower had become their most sacred ritual. In the hospital, it had been about simple hygiene, but here, it was about trying to get him to relax. She’d get him settled on the newly installed shower bench. The water hot enough to steam up the room and loosen the tight, angry knots in his back. Jolene would step in behind him, her own clothes usually getting damp in the process, and reach for the bottle of expensive, sandalwood-scented shampoo she’d bought specifically because it didn't smell like a pharmacy and the fact the earth fragrance really fit the man she knew who loved to run in the pines back in New England.
She’d work up a thick lather, her fingers disappearing into the dark, unruly curls that had now fully claimed his head. This was the only time Sam truly let the armor go. He’d lean his head back into her touch, shaky exhales escaping him as Jolene used her nails to scrub his scalp. She’d take her time, her fingertips moving in slow, deliberate circles, massaging away the tension of the PT session until she felt his shoulders finally drop.
"Better?" she’d ask, her voice barely audible against the hiss of the spray.
He’d usually just offer a muffled grunt of affirmation, his eyes closed, letting her hands be the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Once he was dry and settled on the bed, the caregiver in her would resurface, shifting from the soft intimacy of the shower to the clinical nature his recovery demanded. She’d lay out a clean towel beneath his leg, exposed metal catching the light in a way that still made her stomach lurch if she looked at it too long. Cleaning the pin sites was a silent ritual. Jolene would sit on the corner of the mattress, a bowl of saline and a stack of sterile swabs at her side. She’d work with the steady hand, clearing away the crust and discharge from the places where the titanium met the skin. Sam usually looked away during this part, staring at the ceiling or tracing the pattern on the quilt, his body tensing with every cold swipe of the cotton.
"No redness, Sam. The skin looks tight," she’d provide him with updates. She was always checking for the tell-tale heat of infection, knowing the slight swelling would send them racing back to Walter Reed. It was a weight she carried every time she touched him. The knowledge that his recovery was a house of cards, and she was the one tasked with keeping the wind at bay. The worst of it was his heel. It had been a constant battle since those first two weeks in the ICU when he’d been too broken to move. The sore there was stubborn, and still refused to fully close. Jolene would carefully lift his foot, cradling his ankle in her palm to check the dressing before she’d take the time to apply the medicated cream, her touch light as she tried to keep it from turning into a full-blown bedsore.
"Still tender?" she’d ask, though she already knew the answer by the way his toes would curl inward.
"It's fine, Jo. Just do what you gotta do," he’d rasp, the exhaustion of the day finally bleeding into his voice.
She’d finish the wound care with a fresh wrap, before moving on to the rest of the checklist. She’d check the backs of his thighs, making sure no other pressure points were developing, and then move to the nightstand to organize the afternoon cocktail of meds. She was a hawk about the timing, knowing exactly when the nerve blocks would start to wear off and the "lightning strikes" in his leg would begin.
"Three pills, Sam. Then you’re eating this entire sandwich," she’d command, sliding the plate toward him. Jolene learned early on that if she didn't watch him swallow the last bite, he’d neglect it once the lethargy hit. She’d sit there until the plate was empty, watching the color slowly return to his face as the food and the quiet of the house did their work.
Finally, once the dressings were clean, the meds were down, and the sandwich was gone, she’d help him maneuver his pillows into a fortress of support. She’d tuck a final bolster under his knee, making sure the elevation was exactly as the therapists demanded. "You good?" she’d ask, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead.
"Yeah," he’d breathe, his eyes already heavy, the fog of the painkillers finally winning. "I'm good, Baby."
She’d offer a small, genuine smile, snagging her keys from the dresser. She’d wait until his breathing shifted into that deep, heavy sound of a man who had finally found safety, before she’d quietly click the bedroom door shut. It was only then, she would feel confident enough to walk across the gravel driveway and head toward the shop for the afternoon. And for a few hours, she could be Jolene Johnson, the owner of the best damn mechanic shop in Virginia Beach, while the woman who was holding Sam Walsh together took a much-needed breath.
She tried her best to carve out space for herself. Small, quiet pockets of air where she wasn't just an extension of a medical chart. Truly. But it was a losing battle when everyone around her seemed to exist in a constant state of hunger for updates. She understood, of course. Sam had nearly died. He was currently a miracle with a metal leg, and people cared. But being the sole curator of his trauma meant that every interaction was a reminder of what they’d lost. She found herself unhealthily invested in the most mundane of places. One afternoon, while a teenager at the Piggly Wiggly helped her load groceries into the truck, she’d felt a surge of genuine adrenaline just hearing him mention he went to Princess Anne High.
"I was the kicker there," she’d blurted out, her voice a little too loud, a little too eager. She’d probably weirded the poor kid out, but she couldn't help it. For three minutes, she wasn't the woman with the "injured SEAL boyfriend." She was just a former athlete talking shop with a fellow Cavalier. It was a rare, precious oxygen bubble. No updates on pin-site infections. No debating mobility milestones with a therapist. No logistics talk with Randy or insurance paperwork with the Casualty Liaison. Even at the shop, where she went for sanctuary, she had to dodge Ruth’s well-meaning but heavy-handed inquiries and offers of dropping by groceries. Not to mention, the proximity community was one thing, Sam’s mother was somehow more overbearing despite the hundreds of miles.
Mary had been a persistent, static-heavy presence in Jolene's ear ever since they’d crossed the state line. If the doctors were in charge of Sam’s physical recovery, Mary Walsh considered herself the spiritual foreman. She called twice a day, her voice vibrating with that Northeast Upper-middle class pace barely masked her judgment of the southern grit Jolene was using to keep the house running.
Jolene would grit her teeth, her knuckles turning white against the steering wheel or the kitchen counter, and offer the same patient, hollow reassurances. She was a buffer for him. A human shield between Sam’s fragile ego and his mother’s suffocating concern. Sam didn't have the patience for his mother's fussing, and Mary didn't have the stomach for the raw, ugly reality of Sam’s temper, so the burden fell to Jolene. She was the one who translated his "I’m fine" into something Mary could digest, and Mary’s "He should be treated tenderly" into something Sam wouldn't throw a remote at.
By the time she’d hang up, the weight of the balancing act felt heavier than the truck she was driving. She’d pull into the gravel drive, the gutters overflowing with leaves from months of neglect, heart panging because she knew under normal circumstances he’d already have taken care of it. She loved him. She would walk through fire to keep him breathing. But as she watched Chewbacca jumping on the other side of the door with his tail a happy blur, Jolene felt a pang of envy for the dog. He didn't need to know about complications of Sam's recovery and career. He just wanted a head scratch.
Inside, Sam was likely waking up from his nap, his mind already churning through the day's frustrations. And tucked in the glove box, hidden beneath a pile of napkins and a spare wrench, was the manila envelope from the Navy. She hadn't told him yet that the home visit from the Naval Officer had been scheduled for Friday, mostly because she wanted him to have one more night of believing that he was a man returning to his career, and not a liability being measured for his exit.
"Just a little more time," she whispered to the empty truck, smoothing her hair. She climbed out and headed toward the ramp, the weight of the world settling back onto her shoulders with every step. The house was cool, the air smelling of the lavender-scented floor wax Loretta had used to scrub the place within an inch of its life before they arrived. Usually, the sound of the door was enough to send a ripple through the house, but today, there was only the low, steady hum of the refrigerator.
The door was cracked, letting a sliver of the afternoon sun slice across the hardwood floor. Sam was out. Not just resting, but truly, deeply submerged in a narcotic-induced heavy sleep. He was sprawled on his back, the mountain of pillows she’d meticulously arranged still holding his leg in its elevated position. The sheets were kicked down to his waist, revealing the stark contrast of his body. The slightly softened but still corded muscles of his chest and arms, leading way to the thinning shape of his legs and the brutal reality of the fixator below.
"Sam," she whispered, leaning over him. She reached out, her hand hovering over his shoulder before she gently shook him. "Hey, Baby. Time to join the living." He didn't move. She tried again, her voice a little louder, her hand sliding up to the side of his neck where his pulse beat slow and steady. "Sam. Wake up, honey."
He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his head rolling toward her touch. His eyes didn't snap open with the alertness she’d seen for years. There was no bracing for a threat, no immediate tensing of his jaw. Instead, he surfaced slowly, like someone rising through deep, clear water. When his eyelids finally fluttered open, they were unfocused and soft. He looked at her, and for a fleeting, devastating second, the hardened bastard she’d come to know well the last few months was nowhere to be found. The defensive lines around his mouth were gone, smoothed over by the remnants of sleep. He looked younger. Almost boyish in a way.
"Jo?" he murmured, his voice a thick, sleep-warmed rasp. He didn't ask about his meds. He didn't complain about the ache that always followed a nap. Instead, he reached for her, his hand trailing up her arm until his fingers found the back of her neck, pulling her down toward him with a desperate tenderness. "You're back," he whispered against her skin as she let herself be pulled into his space. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. He sounded vulnerable. Like a man who hadn't yet remembered that he was supposed to be angry at the world.
Jolene felt a sharp ache in her chest. A pressure so intense it made her eyes sting. She hadn't realized until this exact moment just how much of him she’d been missing. She’d been so focused on the patient who required frequent medical intervention, the soldier who needed her logistics on paper, and the survivor he was lucky to be that she’d forgotten about the man who used to look at her like she was the only thing that made sense. The version of Sam she’d been living with lately was a fortress she so often felt outside of, but here, in the dim light of her father’s old room, the gates were wide open.
"I'm back," she managed to say, her voice trembling just enough for him to notice. She ran her fingers through his hair, her nails lightly scratching the scalp she’d scrubbed earlier, and he let out a soft, contented hum that vibrated through her own body.
He pulled back just an inch, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. His gaze was clear, for once, and filled with a raw, unburdened affection that made her want to sob. "I missed you," he said simply.
It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a sarcastic remark meant to deflect. It was a Glimpse. Seeing him like this, so open and tender, nearly broke her. It was a reminder of the man who existed beneath the titanium and the trauma. The one she was fighting so hard to preserve even as the Navy prepared to write him off as a loss. The one who may never walk properly again, and was doing his best to not be angry or worried about that fact. The man who promised her the world and now demanded too much of it to give her that. She leaned down and pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes to hide the moisture. She wanted to stay in this moment forever, in the quiet space where the hardware didn't matter and the manila envelope didn't exist. She wanted to hold onto this boyish and sweet version of him before the world rushed back in and he remembered he was broken.
"I missed you too, Walsh," she whispered, her voice fracturing on his name.
She pressed her face into his shoulder, the tears finally winning as they soaked into his t-shirt. To anyone else, it would have sounded like the standard greeting of a girlfriend who’d been gone for a few hours at the shop. But internally, Jolene was grieving a much longer absence. She wasn't talking about the three hours she’d spent at the garage; she was talking about the months she’d spent looking for him in the wreckage of hospital rooms and bureaucracy. She missed the man who didn’t need her this intensely, and instead chose to allow himself to want her.
She stayed there, feeling the tightening of his arm, and let her mind drift back to the version of Sam Walsh she had first fallen for.
It felt like a different lifetime, that first night in the bar. She could still see him sitting at the counter at Randy and Loretta’s. Just a handsome stranger with a half-drank Michelob and a quiet, observant air that had instantly stilled the noise of the room. She’d walked in, fresh off a long two weeks in Baltimore for Elijah’s delivery and welcome home, and had fallen into those honeyed eyes before she could even think to put up a guard. There had been a warmth there that melted into a heat that wasn't aggressive, but steady and sure.
In those early months, she’d grown addicted to the quiet, casual way he claimed her space. It wasn't about the grand gestures, but the small, mindless touches that defined their rhythm. She thought of the way he’d come through the front door after a long day at the base. His uniform smelt of sea salt and jet fuel, and he’d immediately find her at the stove. He wouldn't say a word, just slide a large, warm hand onto the curve of her waist, wrapping himself around her while she stirred a pot of pasta or flipped a grilled cheese. It was a silent check-in, a way of saying I’m back, you’re here, and that’s enough.
At night, when they’d settle onto the couch to catch up on a show, his hands were never still. His fingers would find the bare skin of her shoulder, tracing the lines of her old shop related injuries or the faint freckles there with a distractingly gentle ease. He’d do it while his eyes were fixed on the screen, a subconscious movement that made her feel more seen than any conversation ever could.
Even in sleep, Sam had been a man who craved proximity. She remembered the dozens of times she’d woken up in the middle of the night to find he had shifted toward her, his heavy forearm tossed over her side. He had a habit of abandoning his own pillow, gradually migrating until he was leaning into hers, his face tucked against the back of her neck or his forehead resting against her temple.
Now, as she felt his hand stroking her hair in the quiet of her father’s bedroom, she realized she was holding a ghost of that man. He was still there. She could see him in the boyish curve of his mouth and the way he still sought out her scent, but he was buried under layers of pain and a desperate, clawing need to be useful again. Sam let out a soft, questioning noise, sensing the shift in her mood. "Jo? You're shaking, baby. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she lied, pulling back just enough to wipe her eyes with the heel of her hand. She forced a small, watery smile, desperate to keep the front from crumbling completely in front of him, only daring to look up at his eyes for a brief moment before looking away. "Just glad to be home. I’m just... tired."
Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly, that observant streak she’d so usually associated with him flickering back to life. He didn't entirely believe her. He was too good at reading her for that, and the narcotic fog wasn't quite thick enough to hide the hitch in her breathing. In the half-light of the room, he didn't let it go. He may not have had the energy for a confrontation, but he had a surplus of that quiet, marrow-deep intuition that had always made him her perfect match.
"Jolene," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum against her ear. He shifted, a small hiss of pain escaping as his leg protested the movement, as he hooked his thumb under her chin, gently forcing her to look up, though she tried to bury her face back into the cotton of his shirt. "Don't do that. Don't hide from me."
"I'm not," she whispered, the lie tasting like salt.
"You are." His touch was impossibly tender, his fingers tracing the wet path of a tear down her cheek with a reverence that made her chest feel like it was being squeezed in a vise. He sounded so much like the man who used to hold her in the dark before the world broke. "Tell me. Is it the shop? Is it Ma? Did someone say something to you?" The gentleness was her undoing. If he had been grumpy, she could have been firm. If he had been distant, she could have been busy. But this raw, soft version of him stripped away every defense she had left.
"It’s just exhaustion, Sam," she whispered, the first silent sob breaking through the dam. She collapsed against him, her forehead pressed into the center of his sternum, her hands fist-clenching the fabric of his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping her from drifting out to sea. "I just wish you weren't going through this. I miss the you who isn't hurting every second of the day."
She cried unlike how she had in the last months. Not the silent, polite tears she shed in the shower or the margins of the day, but the deep, racking sobs of a woman who had been carrying a mountain on her back for months. She cried for the bar in Virginia Beach, for the lightheartedness they once shared, for the future that was on hold and for the terrifying, looming reality of the Friday appointment she hadn't told him about yet. And the worst part of it all, was the excuse she muttered out as to why she was loosing it... was nothing more than a half truth to keep it all at bay.
"I'm okay, baby. Just breathe. I’ve got you," he murmured, his voice lacked even a trace of the detachment that had defined their interactions lately. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there as if he could draw the sorrow out of her skin. But his softness only acted as a catalyst. Every tender word was a reminder of the gentleness they had sacrificed at the altar of his survival, and it made her sob harder, her shoulders shaking with the sheer force of a release that had been months in the making. She felt like a frayed wire finally snapping under the current.
Halfway through the storm, a bolt of guilt pierced through her grief. She felt a sudden need to pull away, her mind racing with the realization that she was supposed to be the strong one. She was the one who cleaned the pins; she was the one who fought the Navy; she was the one who held the line. She shouldn't be letting a random Tuesday be the thing that finally leveled her. Not after she’d survived the ICU. Not after she’d stood up to Mary Walsh. Or after she’d swallowed the bitter pill of knowing the kind and soft man she’d known was nowhere on the horizon in the wake of what happened to him.
"I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice wet and thick. She tried to push back, her palms flat against his pectorals as she attempted to sit up and wipe the tears from her face with her sleeves. "I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’m just tired, Sam. I didn’t mean to... to put this on you."
But as she tried to retreat into her fortress, Sam’s grip tightened. He didn't let her move an inch. The grogginess was gone now, replaced by a sudden alertness that cut through the haze of his meds. He hooked his arm more firmly around her waist and used his other hand to press her head back down against his heart, refusing to let the distance grow between them.
"Don't," he whispered, "Don't you dare apologize, Jolene."
She tried to protest again, a small, muffled sound against his shirt, but he shifted just enough to tuck his chin over the top of her head, holding her there.
"Just stay," he breathed, his hand moving in slow, heavy strokes down the length of her spine. "Please. Just... let me be the one holding the pain for a minute. Let me feel like a man for once."
The honesty in his plea struck her harder than any of his previous outbursts ever had. Because of all the ways he'd needed her these past few weeks, this was different. Before, his needs had been practical. Humiliating, vulnerable, painfully human. There had been those awkward first sponge baths, his pitiful brown eyes fixed on the ceiling while she carefully pulled back his foreskin and cleaned the most intimate parts of him under a nurse's supervision. There were the countless transfers from bed to chair and back again, the constant adjustments, the medications she tracked because he simply didn't have the mental capacity to manage them himself. Those were real needs. Necessary needs. The kind that stripped away every trace of romance or sex appeal between them and left her in the singular role of caretaker. She had become the person who kept him functioning, who carried the weight when he no longer could.
But this was different.
This wasn't him asking her to care for him. It was him asking for the chance to care for her. To shoulder some of the emotional burden she'd been carrying alone. To offer strength instead of borrowing it. As though he'd been starving for an opportunity to give back even a fraction of what she'd given him every day since November. And somehow, that need touched her more deeply than all the others combined.
Jolene stopped fighting his kindness. She let her hands go limp against his chest, her fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt as she surrendered to the weight of his embrace. She stayed there, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of his heart. In the quiet of the room, with the late afternoon sun fading against the hardwood, the roles finally blurred. For the first time in a long time, the house didn't feel like a recovery ward. It just felt like home.
She lingered there for a long moment, the steady cadence of his heartbeat against her cheek. But as the silence deepened, the secret she was keeping began to feel less like a hidden burden and more like a betrayal. The warmth of his skin felt unearned while she was holding back a truth that would inevitably shatter this fragile peace. The guilt grew teeth, gnawing at her until she couldn't breathe under the weight of his kindness. Reluctantly, she pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed and her voice still caught in the back of her throat.
"Sam," she started, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "There’s something... I haven't told you yet. About Friday. The Navy, they're sending someone. A field representative from the PERS office and a medical liaison. They’re coming here, to the house, for a formal evaluation."
She braced herself for the impact. She expected the jaw to lock, the eyes to turn to flint, or for him to pull away in a fit of territorial rage at the thought of a suit sitting in their living room. Instead, Sam just exhaled a long, slow breath, his expression remaining maddeningly neutral.
"I know, Jo," he said casually, his thumb resuming its slow stroke against her temple. "Friday at ten, right? I figured they’d be here by then."
Jolene froze, her heart skipping a beat. She blinked at him, the tears drying on her cheeks as a wave of confusion washed over her. "You know? How? I haven't even brought the paperwork in from the truck yet."
Sam shifted slightly, the bed creaking under his weight, his gaze drifting toward the window where the Virginia sun was beginning to dip behind the pines. "Got a call on Monday," he admitted, his voice leveled out into a low, steady hum. "One of the Chief’s from the Command called my cell while you were at the shop. He gave me the heads-up that the paperwork for the training billet had hit a snag and that the medical board was fast-tracking the home visit."
"You’ve known since Monday?" Jolene sat up fully now, her hands dropping to her lap. She felt a strange, dizzying sensation, like the ground had shifted beneath her. "And you didn't say anything? You just let me sit here and agonize over how to break it to you? Sam, I’ve been losing sleep for three days trying to figure out how to tell you without... without you spiraling."
She searched his face, looking for the anger, the fear, or the stubborn denial that had been his constant companion at Walter Reed. But he just looked tired. Not the medicated tired, but a deep, soulful exhaustion. His calmness was eerie.
"I didn't want to ruin the week," he said simply, reaching out to snag her hand again.
"But Sam, they’re coming to evaluate if you're retainable," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the word. "Don't you get it? This isn't just a check-in. This is the start of the exit. How are you so... okay with this?"
"I'm not okay with it," he countered, and for a split second, the old light of the Chief Petty Officer flickered in his honeyed eyes. "But I’ve spent enough time to know you don't jump the gun on a brief. I'm just waiting for the enemy to show up at the door so I can see what kind of fight we’re actually in. Until then, there's no point in us both drowning in the 'what-ifs'."
Jolene stared at him, her mind racing. She had spent weeks acting as his shield, his translator, and his primary defender, only to realize he had been standing in the rain right beside her, watching the same horizon. The shock of his composure was almost as painful as his previous outbursts. It was a reminder that even when he was broken, even when he was boyish and sweet in the margins of a nap, he was still a man who had been trained to endure.
"You're terrifying sometimes, you know that?" she breathed, her hand tightening around his.
"I'm just a man who’s trying to figure out how to function in those small gaps between meds, Jo," he murmured, pulling her back down into the crook of his arm. "The rest of it? We'll handle it on Friday. For now, just stay here."
The weight of the afternoon finally overtook her. Jolene didn’t mean to sleep. She just meant to close her eyes for a second, relaxed by the rise and fall of Sam’s chest and his fingers in her hair. Yet, when she finally jolted awake, the room was bathed in the bruised purple of twilight.
"Sam?" she croaked, sitting up and finding the other side of the bed empty, and the man she’d fallen asleep on long gone.
She scrambled to her feet, her joints stiff, and hurried toward the kitchen. She expected to find him struggling, perhaps stuck in a narrow turn or frustrated by a high shelf. Instead, she stopped dead in the doorway. The kitchen was warm. The low, golden light of the stove's hood lamp illuminated Sam, who was positioned in his wheelchair by the island. He’d already cleared a space on the counter. Beside him sat an empty glass dish, and the scent of bubbling cheese and roasted chicken was already beginning to fill the air. He’d simply taken the pre-made casserole Loretta had left and managed to slide it into the oven himself.
He looked up as she entered, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You were dead to the world. Figured I could handle a thirty-minute bake without calling in reinforcements."
"Sam, you shouldn't have been leaning over the oven door–"
"I’m fine," he interrupted, but for once, it didn't sound like a defense. He looked settled, his posture relaxed as he patted the arm of his chair. "Go sit down."
Jolene watched him, a lump forming in her throat. Seeing him navigate the kitchen with that spark of stubborn competence felt like a promise. Not a grand one, but a small, precious assurance that the man she loved was still in there. Still fighting his way back to her.
As they ate later by the light of the candles on the table, Sam laughed while recounting a story about Chewbacca's antics that day. The sound caught her off guard. It wasn't the strained, obligatory chuckle she'd grown used to hearing over the past few months. It was his real laugh. Warm and unguarded. One that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his shoulders shake. The one she'd fallen in love with. The shadows of the Navy and the pins in his leg seemed to retreat into the corners of the room. For the first time in months, she wasn't studying him for signs of pain or mentally calculating his next medication dose, wondering if he'd overexerted himself. She was simply looking at him.
The candlelight caught the copper tones hidden in his brown hair. A faint scar near his chin she'd somehow never noticed before despite years together. The way his hands moved when he told a story, animated even while seated. The tiny crease that appeared beside his mouth whenever he was trying not to laugh at his own jokes. She found herself collecting those details without meaning to, storing them away somewhere deep inside her. Like a bear preparing for winter. Like part of her already knew there would be another bad day waiting around the corner. Another morning where pain and frustration hollowed him out and left him snapping at her over something insignificant. Another argument started by a misplaced remote or a forgotten refill or a question asked at the wrong moment. Another day where she'd have to remind herself that the man lashing out wasn't the man sitting across from her now.
So she memorized this version instead.
The easy smile. The softness in his eyes. The way he leaned back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head, looking comfortable in his own skin for the first time in what felt like forever.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Each second stretching longer than it should have, as though the universe itself recognized how rare this was and was reluctant to let it pass. Jolene couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so present. Not trapped in the future, worrying about what came next. Not buried in the past, mourning everything they'd lost.
Just here.
Watching Sam tell a ridiculous story about a dog.
Watching candlelight flicker across his face.
Watching him become himself again.
And for a few fragile hours, she allowed herself to believe that maybe they were finally turning a corner. That maybe the worst was behind them. That maybe this version of him, the one laughing across the table, making her stomach hurt from smiling so much, was the man she'd get to keep from now on.
And somehow despite not having the chance to shower, still covered in grease from the shop, and eating reheated chicken and rice casserole, it was the best night they'd had since the world ended.
·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··
The meeting hadn't been the explosive confrontation Jolene had braced for. Instead, it was something far more corrosive. A bureaucratic drowning. The Medical Liaison had clearly delivered this speech a thousand times. He sat in her father’s living room and spoke about Sam’s life as if it were a ledger that wouldn't quite balance. He hadn't officially stamped the retirement papers yet. Not because there was hope, but because there was procedure.
"Look," the Liaison had said, clicking his pen. "Technically, you're in limbo. We can't finalize medical retirement until you've hit your Maximum Medical Improvement. You have to finish this course of physical therapy before the board can do the final tally. That's regulation."
Sam had leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. "I’m at eighty percent mobility on the charts, for my current marker. Well ahead of what they expected, Sir. By the time I finish the last block of PT, I’ll be ready for the Little Creek billet. I just need a recommendation for the waiver until I can finish."
The officer had looked at Sam, not with malice, but with a weary pity that made Jolene’s stomach turn.
"In my experience, Sam, conditions like yours always hit that disability percentage. Even after the harshest PT, even with the best surgeons, or the most hard working soldiers. The math just doesn't work for a Lead Instructor role. You can’t be responsible for a range or a team if you can’t carry the weight or there’s concern about small shifts causing serious damages. It’s a liability even in a training setting. You shouldn't get your hopes up."
He’d leaned back, spreading his hands as if offering a consolation prize.
"For now, look at the silver lining. You're in active recovery. That means Uncle Sam is still picking up the tab for every hour of therapy, every pill, and every specialist. Use the insurance. Milk the recovery for everything it's worth. But you need to understand that at the end of this road, the result is likely going to be the same. In my experience, I’d assume you’ll be retiring regardless. Use this time to figure out what a civilian Sam Walsh looks like while you are getting paid to focus on getting healthy. Lord knows there are worse places to be in this economy."
Since the door had closed, Sam hadn't moved. He hadn’t spoken. He had wheeled himself to the window that looked out toward the gravel drive and the distant, blurred line of the trees, and he had simply stopped.
Jolene watched him from the kitchen as she handwashed a full load of dishes, because she couldn't bring herself to break the quiet. Sam was catatonic. His hands, usually so restless, were dead weights in his lap.
Deep down she knew that to Sam, the “silver lining" of free insurance was just a longer leash on a dog that was already being put out to pasture. Jolene wanted to go to him, to press her face into his shoulder and tell him they’d find another way, but for the first time, she felt like she didn't have the right. She was the one who could still walk out to the shop. She wasn’t the one whose career would be dictated by medical percentages.
She watched the sun track across the floorboards, inching toward his motionless chair, and realized that the boyish, sweet man from Tuesday had been buried under his hope clashing with the unfortunate reality of his situation. The fight wasn't over, but as she looked at the hollowed-out expression on Sam’s face, she feared the warrior had finally decided there was nothing left worth fighting for. She decided to give him space, though it felt more like leaving a man to drown in shallow water. Jolene poured her nervous energy into the house, tackling tasks that didn't require her to look at the hollowed-out expression on his face. She lugged baskets of laundry to the machine. She scrubbed the bathrooms until the scent of bleach burned her throat, and she swept the hardwood floors. And when the common housecleaning was finished she undertook those hardly tackled tasks: scrubbing baseboards, going through every kitchen cabinet to purge old spices or cans, and polishing wood furniture.
Every time she passed the living room, she’d steal a glance. He hadn’t moved. The light had shifted from a pale morning yellow to a sharp, midday glare, and Sam remained a statue in the window.
After three hours, she finally tried to break the seal. She approached him with a glass of water. "Sam? It's time for your afternoon meds."
He didn't blink. He didn't even acknowledge she was in the room. When she reached out to touch his shoulder, he didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in, either. His eyes remained fixed on a spot in the gravel drive, and he refused to maintain eye contact. It was as if he’d pulled a shutter down over his soul, and Jolene was on the outside looking at a blank wall.
She felt helpless panic as she retreated to the kitchen, her hands shaking as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She couldn't do this alone. Not this part. She dialed Randy.
"JJ? Everything okay?" her godfather’s voice was warm, but he caught the tension in her silence immediately.
"Randy... the Navy was here. The liaison," she whispered, leaning her forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator. "He's... he's gone dark, Randy. He won't look at me. He won't move. He’s just sitting there. I can’t get him to take meds or even notice life moving in front of his face."
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Randy understood the weight of that sentence better than anyone. Decades ago, a fall had shattered several of Randy’s vertebrae and mangled his knee, ending his career in the SEALs in one brutal afternoon. He came back and Jolene had watched her father set him straight when he realized that there would be a life outside the Navy.
"He feels discarded, Jo," Randy said, his voice gravelly and knowing. "He thinks he’s a burden now, and he’s mad at the world for proving him right."
"Can you come over?" she asked, her voice cracking. "He won't talk to me. I think... I think he needs someone who’s been in a similar situation."
"I'm already grabbin' my keys Baby," Randy replied. "Don't push him, Jolene. Just let the house stay quiet till I get there. He's grievin' a man who hasn't died yet. That's a lonely kind of funeral." She hung up and looked back toward the living room. The sun was hitting the titanium pins in Sam's leg, making them glint. She went back to finding ways to productively keep her hands moving far away from Sam’s vicinity.
Randy’s old truck rumbled into the drive, and Jolene was out the door before he’d even cut the engine. She met him at the bottom of the ramp, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she were trying to hold her own ribs together.
Randy climbed out slowly and pulled her into a one-armed squeeze. He didn't ask if she was okay. He could see the shadows under her eyes and the way her hands were trembling. "He's in the same spot," she whispered into his flannel shirt. "He hasn't blinked in an hour, Randy. He won't even look at me. I feel like if I touch him, he’ll just... shatter."
Randy stepped back, adjusting his cap. He looked toward the house, his expression grim and knowing. "He’s in the why me phase, Jo. And the why me phase is real ugly when you've spent your whole life being the one people rely on. You go on and get out of here for a bit. Go to the shop, or go tinker in the barn. I’ll sit with him. We’ll just talk man-to-man."
"I'll give you guys space," she nodded, wiping a stray tear with the back of her hand. "I’ll be in the barn if you need me. I just... I can't watch him look through me anymore."
She watched Randy disappear inside, the screen door clicking shut. She crossed the yard to the barn that housed her personal projects. She pulled the heavy sliding door open, the scent of dust, gasoline, and old leather rising up to greet her. In the center of the floor, under a layer of fine Virginia dust, sat her ’69 Camaro. It was her sanctuary. She walked over to it, her hand tracing the long, aggressive line of the fender. For two hours, she didn't think about medical liaisons or titanium pins. She grabbed a rag and a can of polish and began to work on the chrome, the repetitive motion of her arm numbing the static in her brain. She checked the oil, adjusted a belt, and simply sat in the driver’s seat for a while, gripping the steering wheel and imagining a road that didn't end in a hospital parking lot.
The sun was starting to cast long shadows across the barn floor when the heavy door groaned open again. Jolene looked up, her heart leaping into her throat. Randy was walking toward her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked tired but the set of his jaw was less tense.
She climbed out of the car, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Is he okay? Did he say anything?"
Randy stopped a few feet away, looking at the Camaro and then back at the house. He blew out a long breath that puffed in the cooling air.
"He’s talkin'," Randy said softly. "Not a lot, and most of it’s cussing at the ceiling, but the ice is cracked. I told him about the day I fell. Told him about how I spent three months wishing I’d just hit my head instead of my back so I wouldn't have to deal with the bullshit that came after. Especially with how much of a bastard it made me towards Loretta. It took a long time to stop thinking death would’ve been a better solution than being angry all the time."
Jolene winced, the honesty of it stinging. "What did he say?"
"He asked me how I stopped being angry," Randy replied, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "And I told him the truth. You don't ever really stop being angry at the way it happened. You just eventually get too tired to hold onto it."
He stepped closer, clapping a hand on Jolene’s shoulder. "He’s exhausted, honey. He’s gonna probably keep seeing everything in front of his eyes with malice because it hurts and he feels useless. But he asked if you were still out here 'poking at that damn Chevy'." The relief that washed over her was so physical she felt her knees weaken. "Go on back in there," Randy nudged her toward the house. "I’m gonna head home and tell Loretta to double the batch of whatever she’s making for Sunday. We’re gonna get through this, Jo. It’s not easy, but he’s still alive and that’s what matters. I know that boy in there thinks the world of you, and that’s not something I take lightly."
Jolene let out a breath. "Thank you, Randy. I didn't know who else to call."
Randy’s expression softened, the hard lines of his weathered face crinkling into something warm and steady. He had that distinct, silver-bearded Kenny Rogers energy under normal circumstances. A kindness and gentleness. Today that look had largely been absent given the depth. He pulled her into a final, rib-crushing hug, "You don't ever have to thank me, JJ," he murmured into her hair. "I’m gonna start poppin’ in more often. Not to hover. Mostly just to be a nuisance. Keep his brain off the leg and maybe be a bit less snappy towards you. I didn’t give him an earful today about it, but he’s gotta reel it back in at some point. He said it himself but that’s my job to make sure it’s winding down as the meds ease up more and more."
He stepped back, his hands resting on his belt loops, and looked toward the house with a thoughtful squint. "And listen. If he starts really struggling, I mean really hittin' the bottom of the well, I’ve got something tucked away at my place I can drop off for him."
Jolene wiped a stray smudge of grease from her cheek, her brow furrowing. "What?"
Randy offered a slow, cryptic wink. "Top secret. Only for SEAL eyes, I'm afraid."
Jolene let out a dry, incredulous scoff, a small spark of her usual fire returning to her eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, Randy. Tell me you aren't planning on dropping off some ancient porn stash for my currently narcotic-brained boyfriend. The last thing Sam needs right now is a vintage collection of Playboy to distract him from his PT."
Randy let out a wheezing chuckle, shaking his head as he turned toward his truck. "Nothin' like that, baby. Give me some credit. It's just... a bit of advice I’ve held onto, if one of us falls off the wagon." He climbed into the cab of his truck, "Go check on him."
Jolene watched the taillights of his truck fade down the drive, leaving her in the deepening blue of the evening. She felt the weight of the cryptic promise Randy held for men who had been broken by the service they loved. She didn't know what that entailed, but as she turned back toward the house, she felt a sliver of hope with that in her backpocket.
She walked up the ramp, the wood solid beneath her boots, and stepped back into the quiet. The house felt different now. She moved toward the living room, ready to find whatever version of Sam Walsh was waiting for her. The screen door clicked shut, but Jolene didn't immediately call out. She silently stalked through the entryway, her boots making barely a sound on the braided rug as she navigated the dimming hallway. She was preparing herself for the worst. Bracing to find him still frozen by the window, or a statue of grief in her father’s old chair.
But when she turned the corner into the living room, the space by the window was empty.
A faint scraping sound drew her eye toward the kitchen. There, bathed in the low amber glow of the under-cabinet lighting, was Sam. He had wheeled himself right up to the counter, his large frame awkwardly angled in the chair as he stretched his arms upward. He was reaching the absolute best he could toward the back of the counter, his fingers straining to hook around the handle of the ceramic coffee canister. Right beside the left wheel of his chair was Chewbacca. The big German Shepherd was sitting completely still, ears alert and dark eyes tracking Sam’s every micro-movement. The dog was keeping a respectful distance, ensuring Sam wouldn't unbalance himself and hurt his leg.
Sam was breathing heavily, his entire focus consumed by the six inches between his fingertips and the counter, so he barely heard the soft scuff of her boots. Jolene didn't say a word. She just closed the distance between them, walking up right behind him. She extended her hand and gently placed her palm against the rigid line of his shoulder.
At the touch, the tension left his frame all at once. Sam let out an exhale and settled back into the cushion of the wheelchair, his arms dropping heavily into his lap. He paused for a beat, letting the dog lean its heavy head against his good knee, before he slowly turned his head to look up at her.
In the dim kitchen light, his brown eyes were wide open. Jolene looked down and saw it all. The fiery anger at a body that wouldn't obey, the profound confusion of a man whose roadmap had been torn up, the stark fear of the unknown, and a deep, heavy sadness that broke her heart. She kept her hand on his shoulder, her thumb lightly rubbing the base of his neck. "What are you doing?" she asked.
Sam looked away for a split second, his jaw working as he swallowed hard, before his eyes locked back onto hers. "I was gonna bring you coffee," he muttered. "You were out in the barn. It's getting cold out. Figured you’d want some."
He got quiet then, the hum of the refrigerator filling the space between them. Chewbacca let out a soft whine, his tail giving one hollow thump against the floorboards. Sam reached up, his large, rough hand covering hers where it rested on his shoulder, squeezing tight enough to let her feel the tremble in his fingers. "I didn't mean to scare you like that, Jo," he whispered, looking up at her with a vulnerability that stripped away every last boundary between them. "Earlier. I just... I didn't mean to scare you."
Jolene reached out with her other hand, her fingers gently cupping the side of his face. His skin was warm, the facial hair along his jaw rough against her palm.
"It’s okay," she murmured, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
She looked past his shoulder to the top shelf where the ceramic canister sat, just out of his reach. Instead of doing what she’d done for weeks and managing the task for him, Jolene simply stretched her arm over his head. Her fingers hooked around the handle, pulling the heavy jar down from the ledge.
But she didn't set it on the counter to start scooping the grounds herself. She lowered it into his lap, placing the weight of the ceramic directly into his calloused hands. "Here," she whispered, keeping her hands over his for a beat. "You make it. I like yours better anyway."
Sam didn't immediately move to open the lid. He just sat there, his fingers curling around the cold ceramic, holding it against his stomach. He stared down at his hands, his breathing slowing until the kitchen was completely silent save for Chewbacca’s heavy sigh as the dog settled flat against the floor. She realized then that in the wake of the Navy liaison’s visit, Sam had completely blown past his afternoon medication window. He’d missed his doses. For weeks, even as the doctors at Walter Reed had started the slow process of weaning him off the heavy-duty narcotics, he had still lived in a perpetual, sluggish fog. That heavy narcotic brain that made his reactions slow and his temper unpredictable.
But right now, the fog was entirely gone. The pain was likely creeping back into his shattered shin, but it had brought his mind back with it. He was fully present, looking at the kitchen, looking at her terrifying sharpness. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple moving in the low light, his grip tightening on the canister until his knuckles turned white.
"The room stopped spinning about an hour after Randy got here," Sam said, his voice dropping into a quiet, raspy register that was entirely devoid of the chemical slur. He didn't look up from the jar in his lap. "The meds... they make everything feel like it's happening under twenty feet of water, Jo. When that guy was sitting on your dad's couch telling me I'm done... I couldn't even think straight enough to argue the way I wanted to."
He finally lifted his head, his gaze locking onto hers.
"I'm sorry I went dark on you," he whispered, his thumb tracing the rim of the canister. "I’m not... I’m not going to be a ghost in this house, Jolene. I’m a bastard right now, and my leg feels like it's on fire, but I'm here."
Jolene leaned her hip against the counter, her posture softening as she kept her eyes leveled with his. The clarity in his gaze was a relief, but it also meant the raw truth of their situation was sitting right there on the wood floor between them.
"Okay," she said calmly, "So, what does being here look like, Sam? What do you want from me right now?" She paused, watching the way his jaw tightened, before she gave him the options she’d been mentally cycling through for days. "Do you want me to just not bring it up? Do you want us to put our heads together and plan a strategy for this evaluation? Do you need help thinking about shifting careers? Or do you just want me to distract you, so we can just focus on the day-in, day-out grind of getting you moving?"
Sam looked down at the coffee canister in his lap, his shoulders dropping. The fierce intensity in his eyes faded into unvarnished honesty.
"I don't know, Jo," he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Honestly, I don't know." He let out a breath, finally looking back up at her, his expression thick with a vulnerability that made her throat tight. "I see everything you’re doing. Every single day. I wanted to rush back to that Little Creek job so I could be the one taking care of you once I’m back on my feet. I wanted to pull my weight again. I figured... hell, I figured you deserved an extended vacation for everything you’ve put up with since November."
A small, breathless laugh caught in Jolene’s throat, and she shook her head, a genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion. "Sam, I don't need an extended vacation. I’d go absolutely stir-crazy sitting around the house all day."
The moment the words left her mouth, the air in the kitchen shifted.
Sam went quiet. His gaze dropped back to his lap, his posture stiffening as the weight of her phrasing settled over the situation he found himself in. Jolene’s smile vanished instantly. A spike of regret hit her stomach as she realized exactly how those words sounded to a man who had no choice but to sit around the house all day.
"Sam... I'm sorry," she whispered quickly, her hand sliding down his arm to squeeze his wrist. "That was a terrible choice of words. I didn't mean it like that."
Sam didn’t look up immediately, his thumb continuing its slow circuit around the lid of the ceramic jar. But the tension in his broad shoulders didn't harden into the stone she’d grown to dread. Instead, a slow exhalation escaped his nose, and when he finally lifted his chin, he tried to crack a smile for her. It was a faint, lopsided thing that didn't quite reach the dark circles under his eyes, but it was there.
"Hey. It’s okay," he said softly, his voice rough but steady. "I’m going a bit nuts myself staring at the same four walls and the same pine trees out that window. If I have to watch another infomercial or hear the bedroom clock ticking as the hours pass between the ice packs, I’m gonna lose my mind."
Jolene let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since Tuesday, her fingers loosening their defensive grip on his forearm, though she didn't move away. Chewbacca, sensing the shift in temperature between them, shifted his weight with a soft grunt, resting his chin heavily on the footrest of Sam's chair.
"Your godfather," Sam started, his gaze drifting toward the darkened hallway where Randy had exited, "he’s a smart old bastard, you know that? He gave me some advice before he left. Some things I probably needed to hear a month ago." Sam paused, his brow furrowing as a brief shadow of frustration crossed his face. He rubbed his temple with his free hand, the clarity in his brown eyes flickering just for a second against the residual weight of the medication still working its way out of his system.
"Look, I’m being straight with you right now because the fog is lighter than normal," he murmured, looking up at her. "I’m not entirely sure how mentally present I’m always going to be when I have to take the harder stuff on the bad days. When the pin sites start throbbing and the nerve pain acts up, the meds... they take the steering wheel, Jo. I know I’m a bastard to deal with when I'm under. But right now, while I’m actually sitting in the driver's seat? I need to tell you what he said."
Jolene shifted, leaning her weight against the edge of the counter so she was closer to his level, her eyes searching his face. "What did Randy say to you, Sam?"
Sam set the coffee canister down on his lap. "He told me that during moments like this, when the rug gets pulled out from under a man, it’s important that we both start doing things as a team. Real things. Not just the medical routine of it all." He reached out, his fingers winding through hers, his grip tight. "He said my physical health, the leg, the therapy... that’s obviously a joint effort. We don't have a choice on that. You’re the one holding the bandages and I’m the one doing the reps. But he told me we need to stop walking on eggshells for the rest of the stuff."
Jolene swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, her heart ticking faster. "The rest of it?"
"My career," Sam said firmly, the reality of the situation finally hanging in the air without causing him to flinch. "If Little Creek is off the table, and Uncle Sam is going to push me out into the civilian world at the end of this road, then we don't just sit here and wait for the hammer to fall. We both need to make a plan on what comes next. Together. I need your brain on it, Jo. I need you to help me figure out what the next ridge line looks like, instead of me just brooding in the corner while you handle the grocery lists and praying I don’t cuss too loudly when I shift my leg."
He squeezed her hand, pulling her just an inch closer. "And he told me one more thing," Sam whispered, his thumb rubbing over the back of her knuckles. "He said you’re a Saint till you ain’t." His eyes locked onto hers, dark and demanding and entirely full of love. "I need you to stop harboring the pain of all this alone, Jolene. If I’m going to be useless on a range, fine. If I’m not walking by the end of the year, oh well. But I’m still your man. If you're scared, or you’re angry, or you’re just plain exhausted... you bring it to me. Let me carry my half of the weight. Even if I'm sitting in this damn chair."
Jolene stared at him, her hand swallowed up by the heat of his, the texture of his thumb still working a steady pattern over her knuckles. The absolute clarity in his eyes was blinding. It was the version of Sam Walsh she had been starved for honestly since he left in late June. The commanding man who looked at a problem and wanted to divide the load. She swallowed down the dry ache in her throat, nodding slowly. "Okay," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly before she caught it. "Okay, Sam. I hear you. And I want that. I want to stop hiding it from you."
She took a breath, her chest rising and falling unsteadily. She looked down at their joined hands, then back up into those stark brown eyes, testing the waters of this newfound lucidity. "But if we're doing this... if the fog is really gone right now, and you're in the driver's seat... are you open to hearing me out? Completely? Because if I open that can of worms, I need to know you're actually mentally here to take it in."
Sam’s grip tightened on her hand. His jaw set, but his expression stayed remarkably soft. "I'm here, Jo. Say your piece."
The permission was all it took for the dam to structurally fail. The tears spilled over hot and fast, blurring her vision as a trembling breath escaped her lips. She didn't pull away this time. She let him see her shoulders shake. She let him see the unmitigated exhaustion that had been eating her alive since November 16th turned their lives upside down. "I need you to try," she choked out, her voice fracturing on the words as she leaned a bit heavier against the kitchen counter. "I need you to try the absolute best you can, Sam, to stop being so snappy with me."
Sam flinched, a subtle tightening around his eyes, but he didn't interrupt. He just held onto her.
"I know it’s not your fault," she pleaded, the words tumbling out in an emotional rush, raw and bleeding. "God knows I know you’re in agony, and I know your whole world just got blown to hell. I don't blame you for being angry. But it is so damn hard to work my ass off every single day, running back and forth to the shop, managing the bills, scrubbing the grease off my skin just to come home and then scrub the bathrooms, constantly worrying myself sick about making sure you have exactly what you need, only for every single thing I do to be met with mild hostility. Or for you to just fly off the handle over the smallest, stupidest things."
She wiped at her face with her free hand, but the tears kept coming. The accumulated pain of the last fourteen weeks was pouring out into the space between them.
"Your words hurt, Sam," she whispered, her chest heaving as she forced herself to look straight into his eyes, wanting him to feel the weight of it. "Even when the narcotics are talking, even when you don't mean them, or you don't remember them the next morning... I remember them. Because I'm still hearing your voice say them to me. Then I’m the one who has to sleep next to you with the echo of it ringing in my ear."
She let the silence hang for a moment, lingering in the ache of the kitchen, before the specific memories rushed to the surface.
"Like last Tuesday," she said, her voice trembling. "I spent forty-five minutes rearranging the living room furniture just so your footrest wouldn't catch on the rug when you turned around. You wheeled in, looked at the couch, and just snapped at me to 'stop treating the house like a hospital ward’ and ‘leave my dad’s shit alone.' You didn't even look at me for the rest of the night. You just sat in the dark till you were too tired to fight me when I helped you to bed."
Sam’s throat swallowed hard, his eyes dropping for a fraction of a second as the memory slowly made it through the cleared fog of his mind.
"And two days ago," Jolene continued, a fresh sob catching in her throat, "when I brought you the ice packs for your shin. They weren't cold enough because the freezer door had been left unlatched, and instead of just letting me run down the road to the gas station for ice, you slammed your hand down on the armrest and barked that if I was 'too busy at the garage to mind the simple things at home, you'd just do it your goddamn self.' You know you couldn't get up, Sam. You knew it. But you made me feel like I was failing you because a block of ice melted."
She pulled her hand from his, not out of anger, but because she needed to press both her palms to her face, hiding the ugly sob that tore out of her throat. Chewbacca whined louder, shifting his heavy front paws onto her boot, trying to bridge the gap.
"I am trying so hard," she wept into her hands, her voice muffled and small. "I am stretching myself as thin as I can go, and most days, I feel like I'm walking into a minefield just trying to bring you breakfast. I can handle the Navy and all its red tape, Sam. I can handle us figuring out a new life. But I cannot handle you treating me like I'm the enemy when I am the only one standing in your corner."
"Jo, look at me. Jo, please–" Sam’s voice cracked, the command completely replaced by a panicked edge. He reached for her, his hands awkwardly tracking up her forearms to pull her palms away from her face, but Jolene wouldn't let him. She couldn't. If she looked at him now, if she saw the devastating regret she knew was burning in his eyes, the anger that was keeping her upright would dissolve, leaving her with nothing but the exhaustion.
"No, Sam, just let me finish," she sobbed, her words coming out in a suffocating rush against her wet hands. "Let me just say it, because tomorrow the nerve pain is going to spike again, or the doctors are going to change the dosage, and you’re going to go back under enough meds to sedate a horse and I’ll have to lock this all back up."
"Jolene, please," he pleaded, his fingers tightening around her wrists, trying gently but firmly to pry her hands from her eyes. He was pulling himself up as far as the wheelchair allowed, his good leg straining against the footrest, the sheer panic of seeing her break entirely overriding his own boundaries. "I didn't realize–God, Jo, I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry–"
"You told me to take my ring off last night," she cut him off, the memory ripping out of her. She finally let her hands drop, her face blotchy and soaked, her eyes flashing with agonizing hurt that made Sam physically recoil. "The pins in your leg were throbbing, and I was just trying to gently rub the tension out of your thigh because the muscle was spasming so bad. My hand brushed against your skin, and you grabbed my wrist so hard it left a mark. You looked me right in the eye and told me to take it off because the feeling was driving you crazy, and that you didn't need a reminder of what a mistake it was to tie me to a cripple."
Sam froze, his face draining of color. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. The memory was clearly a blank spot in his narcotic-brained haze, but seeing the trauma of it written in the lines of her face made it undeniably real. "I went into the bathroom and I took it off," she whispered, her voice suddenly dropping from the high peak of hysteria into a dead, flat hollow that was infinitely worse. "I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at my bare finger for an hour, wondering if you actually meant it. Wondering if every time you look at me, you just see a prison sentence. You don't even remember saying it. You woke up three hours later and asked me to grab you some water like nothing happened. But I remember."
She took a step back, her boots dragging on the floorboards, pulling out of his reach. The space between them felt miles wide now, populated by the ghosts of a dozen different arguments she had quietly swallowed for the sake of his recovery.
"You're right. Randy is right. I am a saint until I ain't," she choked out, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping her lips as a fresh wave of tears tracked down her chin. "But I'm at the end of it. I am completely empty, Sam. I don't have any more grace to give you when you're being a jackass. I don't have any more strength to pretend that it doesn't kill me a little bit every time you look through me like I'm just the nurse who handles the bedpans."
Sam’s gaze dropped instantly, his eyes frantic as they tracked the movement of her retreating hand. His calloused fingers blindly reached through the dim light until his palm caught her wrist. He didn't squeeze this time, likely terrified by her recounting of what happened previously to test his own strength, but his fingertips brushed over the back of her hand, tracing the base of her ring finger.
The skin was smooth. Bare.
The gold promise ring that he’d bought with his deployment bonus, was gone.
A devastating shockwave seemed to pass through Sam's entire frame. His hand began to shake violently against her wrist, his fingers curling inward as if he had just touched an open circuit. The unvarnished clarity that the missed medication had brought wasn’t just a window into his own mind anymore. It was a mirror reflecting a monster he didn't remember becoming.
"Jolene." The word was barely a breath. He stared at her bare hand, his chest heaving as the absolute horror of what he had done finally penetrated the neurons trying to fire in his brain. He hadn't just snapped at her, or been a bastard about a melted ice pack or a rearranged couch. He had fundamentally weaponized the one thing that was keeping them anchored in the storm. He had made her strip off his promise because he’d made it feel like a shackle.
The tough, unyielding Chief Petty Officer who had survived a blast in the dirt completely disintegrated in the wheelchair as Sam turned into an absolute wreck right before her eyes.
A sob ripped out of him, the sound so raw and guttural it made Chewbacca instantly stand up, the dog's ears pinning back in deep, anxious confusion. Sam’s head dropped into his hands, his broad shoulders shaking so violently that the ceramic coffee canister fell and crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.
"Oh God, Jo... no," he wept, his voice thick and ruined as he pressed his face into his hands. "No, no, no... God, please, Jolene..."
He reached out blindly again, his arms trembling as he tried to bridge the distance she had put between them, his fingers grasping at the fabric of her shirt, at her wrists, wanting to pull her back but terrifyingly aware that he might not have the right to touch her at all. The tears spilled over his thick fingers, tracking through the rough stubble of his jaw.
"I didn't mean it," he choked out, his head shaking back and forth in a desperate denial of his own subconscious words. "I swear to you, Jolene, I don't remember... I don't remember saying it, but I know you wouldn't lie to me. I know I said it. God, what did I do to you? What am I doing to you?"
He lifted his face, and the sheer, unmitigated terror in his eyes was almost too much for her to look at. The clarity was a curse now. It was forcing him to feel every ounce of the burning pain in his leg alongside the crushing weight of his own failure as a man. He looked down at her bare finger again, his breath hitching in a panicked, suffocating cycle.
"I look at you and I see everything I ever wanted," he whispered, his voice cracking wide open, completely ruined by the tears. "I see the only good thing I’ve got left. I’m just so scared... I'm so goddamn scared that I'm dragging you down with me, and instead of telling you that, I... I took it out on you."
He slumped back into the chair, looking smaller than he ever had, his hands dropping to his lap where they hovered over the cold ceramic jar before it fell to the floor.
"And it's not just the house, Sam. It's everything outside of it, too," Jolene continued, the momentum of her heartbreak carrying her forward, refusing to let the dam close back up now that it had finally broken. She swiped a furious hand across her wet cheek, her voice trembling but relentless. "I'm the one who sits on the phone with your mother every single Sunday. I'm the one who had to hold her hand in that sterile, white waiting room at Walter Reed while you were back in surgery for the third time, listening to her cry because she thought her boy was going to die on an operating table."
Sam didn't look up, but his shoulders hitched, another breath catching in his throat as he listened to the reality of the weight she had been carrying entirely on her own.
"And do you know what she tells me, Sam? Every single time I call her with an update on your physical therapy, or your meds, or what the doctors said about the nerve damage?" Jolene’s voice cracked. "She sighs into the receiver and says she just wishes we would get married already. She tells me that this whole situation – the lifting, the driving, the middle-of-the-night panic attacks, the bureaucratic nightmare of the Navy – is just a hell of a lot of weight for just a girlfriend to carry."
She let out a harsh, breathless laugh that sounded incredibly lonely in the shallow light of the kitchen.
"And god help me, Sam... I agree with her. I sit there on the phone, nodding in the dark, because she’s right. It is a lot. Title aside, the whole goddamn situation is so much. The sheer size of it is crushing me. It doesn't matter if I'm your girlfriend, or your wife, or a saint. There is too much pain in this house for one person to manage without any help, especially when the person I’m doing it for is treating me like I’m the one who put that fucking shrapnel in your leg." She looked down at her bare ring finger, before looking back at him. "I am drowning, Sam. And I can't keep pretending I'm swimming just so you don't have to look at the water."
Sam’s head remained bowed, his large forehead pressing against his steepled fingers as he listened to the brutal, unvarnished truth of what he had become. The silence that followed her words was suffocating, broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his hands. His face was a map of devastating grief, the skin around his brown eyes raw and swollen from the tears he usually refused to shed. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin, fragile, and terrified. "Do you..." He swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the quiet. He couldn't even look her in the eye as the question ripped out of him. "Do you not want me anymore, Jo? Is that what this is? Do you want an out?"
Jolene didn't even hesitate. The exhaustion, the anger, the bitter memories. All of it instantly took a back seat to the sheer instinct of loving him. She crossed the small gap between them, mindful of the large chunks of shattered ceramic and spilled coffee grounds. Her boots scuffing the wood, and dropped heavily to her knees directly in front of his wheelchair. Chewbacca shifted back a few inches, giving them space as Jolene braced her hands on the cold metal armrests of his chair, forcing him to look down at her.
"Absolutely not," she said fiercely, her voice thick with fresh tears but utterly unyielding. "Don't you dare think that, Samuel Walsh. I am not looking for an exit sign. I am right here. I’ve been right here the whole damn time."
She reached up, her fingers digging into the fabric of his gym shorts just above his good knee, her forehead against his thigh for a brief, desperate second before she pulled back to look into his shattered eyes. "But I don't know what you want anymore, Sam," she whispered, her voice fracturing on the admission. "That’s what’s killing me. I don't know where I fit in your life right now. Every time I walk into a room, I feel like you don't see me anymore. I feel like you only see a nurse. Someone who brings the ice packs, someone who times the narcotics, someone who monitors the physical therapy charts. I feel like the man who used to look at me like I was the center of his universe now just looks at me and sees a chore he's forced to rely on."
A single tear tracked down her nose, dripping onto his hand from where it had caught her cheek.
"I don't want out, Sam," she choked out, her gaze locking onto his with a desperate plea for reassurance. "I just want my boyfriend back. I want the man who talks to me, even when the news is bad. I can't keep living with a drill instructor who only speaks to me to bark orders or snap because he's hurting."
"I don't deserve you," Sam whispered, the words falling flat and hollow into the space between them. He didn't pull away from her touch, but he went entirely rigid, his eyes fixing on the cabinet hardware behind her head because he couldn't bear the reflection of his own failure in her eyes anymore. "Maybe... maybe it is better if you just leave me, Jolene."
The cold detachment in his tone was worse than the shouting. It was the sound of a man executing a retreat because he thought the position was already lost.
"I can call my folks," he started rambling, his speech gathering momentum as his brain raced to build an exit strategy out of their heartbreak. "I’ll call my mom tonight. They can drive down from Connecticut this weekend, pack up my stuff, and we can transfer my physical therapy to the naval clinic up there. Or hell, I can just move back into the transient lodging on base at Little Creek. The Navy has rooms equipped for this. I can find a buddy to help me out, get a medical liaison to assign a real corpsman to handle the charts, and you can get your life back. You can go back to the garage full-time without having to–"
"Sam, stop. Just stop!"
Jolene grabbed his wrists, squeezing hard enough to physically interrupt the cadence of his voice. A sickening wave of regret washed through her mind as she stared up at him. God, I shouldn't have said anything, she thought, the panic rising hot in her throat. I shouldn't have opened my mouth.
She had wanted him to see her pain so they could carry it together, but his soldier’s brain had done exactly what it was trained to do: Identify the liability and eliminate it. He wasn't hearing a partner asking for a course correction. He was hearing a casualty report, and his immediate instinct was to remove himself from the field so he’d stop bleeding all over her. She had been so desperate to break through the narcotic fog and the anger that she hadn't realized how fragile the foundation beneath him actually was.
"I promised you," Sam choked out, as a fresh, heavy sob, pinning his shoulders back against the wheelchair. He didn't look down at her, but his fingers twitched against her wrists, his grip weak and trembling. "The last time we had a real fight, back before the deployment, when I got stupid and tore off when you were asking questions. I swore to God and I swore to you that I’d never shove you again. I promised you that if things got hard, if the shit hit the fan, I wouldn't do this. I wouldn't push you away."
He finally dropped his chin, his face completely ruined by the tears as he forced himself to look down into her eyes, his breathing coming in shallow catches.
"But I’m drowning in it, Jo," he wept, the admission ripping out of him. The truth made Chewbacca nudge his wet nose against Sam's hand. "Every single morning I wake up and I hear your boots hitting the floor before the sun’s even up. I lie there in that bed, entirely useless, listening to you brew the coffee, listening to you feed the dog, hearing the front door click shut because you’re running out to the shop to log hours before you have to come back and drag me to therapy or scrub my skin. I sit by that window all day long and I just... I suffocate under the guilt of how hard you are working to keep a roof over a man who can’t even stand up to kiss you properly."
His fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt at her shoulders, holding onto her like a drowning sailor clenching a piece of driftwood.
"The guilt is turning into something ugly, Jolene," he whispered. "It's making me resent you. Not because of anything you’re doing wrong, but because you’re doing everything right. You’re being perfect. You’re being the saint Randy said you were, and every time you smile through the exhaustion or tell me it’s no trouble to change the ice packs, it just reminds me of what a pathetic, broken shadow of a man I am right now. I snap at you because if I can make you angry, if I can make you fight back, then at least you aren't just a nurse pitying a casualty. At least then I feel like I'm still something you have to reckon with, instead of just a chore on your checklist."
Hearing him speak those words – unearthing the toxic, twisted logic that his pride had built out of his own helplessness – shattered whatever distance she had tried to maintain. She didn’t pull away from his grip on her shoulders. Instead, she leaned into it, burying her face into his knee for a fraction of a second before pulling back up, her hands moving to cup the sides of his face, her fingers sinking into the thick, rough stubble of his jawline to force his eyes to lock onto hers.
"You fucking listen to me," she sobbed, the profanity ripping out of her, “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry that this whole goddamn situation sucks. I hate seeing you in this wheelchair. I hate the Navy liaison. I hate every single piece of metal they screwed into your bone. But don't you ever tell me you're a shadow of a man, and don't you dare think I look at you and see pity."
She squeezed his face, her fingers catching the hot tears tracking down his cheeks.
"You think I lie awake in that bed counting the chores? You think I’m resentful because I have to do the heavy lifting right now?" Jolene shook her head violently, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision until the amber light of the kitchen turned into a fractured smear of gold. "Sam, I am so fucking grateful that you are in that bed. Every single morning when my alarm goes off and the room is still dark, the very first thing I do is hold my breath until I hear you snore. I listen for the heavy chest-rattle of you breathing next to me, because every time I hear it, it means you are not in the ground. It means you survived that horrible fucking day in Iraq. You survived the surgeries that would make it so I couldn’t eat for days. And you came back to this house. Having you here, broken, angry, narcotic-brained, whatever version of you comes through that door, is enough for me. It is always going to be enough."
The mention of the finality of death, brought the real edge of her grief screaming to the surface. The shadow that had been hanging over the house since November wasn't just the specter of Sam's involuntary retirement. It was the heavy, hollow ache of neither of them willing to admit how close he’d come from losing his life.
Her voice dropped, fracturing entirely into a small, ruined weep that sounded like a child lost in the woods.
"I couldn't have managed if you left me too, Sam," she choked out, as her shoulders hitched in violent sobs. The confession bled out of her, carrying the weight of the grief. "My dad... my dad is already gone. His boots aren't by the door anymore, his coats are still hanging in the hall, and I walk into the garage every single morning and I have to look at his empty workbench. I am still drowning in the middle of losing him. If you had died over there, or if you call your folks and pack up your gear and leave me in this empty house now... I won't survive it. I can't do it. So don't you run away to Connecticut, and don't you dare go back to base housing," she whispered into the dark fabric of his shorts, her voice trembling against the steady heat of his leg. "You stay right here in this shitty situation with me. We'll figure out your career, and we'll scream at each other every day if we have to. But you have to let me keep you."
Sam’s arms came down around her like a collapsing scaffold, his large, heavy frame bending forward out of the chair until his chest was pressed completely against her back and shoulders, burying his face into the crook of her neck. He held her with a terrifying, desperate strength, his hands fist-fucking the fabric of her flannel shirt as if he were trying to pull her straight into his skin, to anchor both of them to the floorboards so the house would stop spinning.
The distance he had tried to build to protect his pride was entirely gone. He was weeping openly now, the heavy, silent sobs of a soldier who had finally run out of trenches to hide in. The heat of his breath and the wetness of his face soaked into the collar of her shirt, his rough beard scratching against her skin as he shook.
"I’m sorry," his voice vibrating directly against her collarbone. "I’m not going anywhere, Jo. I’m right here. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands coming up to clutch the sides of her face. His palms were trembling violently, his thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones to smear the tears that wouldn't stop falling from her eyes. The stark, unvarnished clarity in his brown gaze was absolute now, stripped of every ounce of the narcotic fog, leaving nothing but a fierce, burning focus that she hadn't seen since the day he deployed.
"Listen to me," he commanded softly, his forehead dropping down to press hard against hers, closing the universe down to just the space between their lips. "I am going to do better. I’m going to stop being so fucking grumpy. Do you hear me, Jolene? I am going to do the reps, I am going to do the therapy, and if I have to crawl across the floor of that clinic on my hands and knees every single day, I am going to get back on my feet for you."
He let out a shallow breath, his fingers sliding into her hair, gripping her tight enough to make her feel the solid, unyielding reality of him.
"And I am going to marry you," he whispered, the promise hanging in the kitchen like an iron vow, heavy and undeniable. "As soon as I can stand up on my own two feet to look you in the eye in front of a preacher, I am making you my wife. We aren't doing this 'just a girlfriend' shit anymore. My mom is right. You are my future, Jo. You're the only future I want."
He kissed her forehead, then her eyelids, his lips rough and salty with their shared tears, before he pulled back just an inch to look down into her blotchy, exhausted face.
"I am going to be better to you," he vowed, his voice cracking wide open with the weight of his regret. "No more snapping. No more barking. When the pain gets bad and the meds take the wheel, I will bite my own tongue until it bleeds before I let another cruel word slip out to hurt you. I’m going to let you see the dark stuff, and we’re going to face this together, but I am done treating you like garbage. I promise you, Jolene. I swear it on Mike and your dad's memory. I’m staying right here with you."
The air in the kitchen remained thick, heavy with the dust of the foundation they had just violently cleared away. Neither of them knew how to end the conversation. There was no clean transition out of a collapse of that magnitude. The silence stretched, turning clumsy and fragile, the kind of quiet where the slightest sudden movement might shatter the truce. Jolene stayed on her knees, her hands still resting on the dark fabric of his shorts, her breathing slowly leveling out into shallow, trembling hitches. Sam kept his palms flattened against her cheeks, his thumbs tracing the dry, salt-crusted tracks on her skin, his brown eyes searching her face with an intensity that felt almost intrusive in its nakedness. They were stuck in the wreckage of the truth, entirely exposed, waiting for the ambient heat of the argument to cool into something they could actually live in.
Then Sam’s gaze flickered downward, his eyes tracking the movement of her shoulder as she shifted her weight against his good knee. His focus landed once more on her bare left hand. He swallowed hard, the rough line of his jaw tightening as he forced his hands down from her face, his fingers searching blindly for hers.
"Jo," he whispered, the quiet register of his voice cracking on the single syllable. "Where is it?"
Jolene blinked through the residual sting in her eyes, her head dropping slightly. "Sam, don't worry about it tonight. Let's just–"
"Where's the ring, Jolene?" he repeated, louder this time, though the command was entirely stripped of the old irritation. It was just a plea now, a desperate necessity from a man who needed a tether to the promises he’d just made in the dark.
She let out a small breath and pointed a trembling finger toward the bedroom. She stood without thinking, leaving him and the weight of the argument behind as her feet autopilot to collect it. When she made it into the lamp lit room, she saw it was sitting in a small glass dish on the top of the dresser. When she turned around, he was in the entry way to the bedroom.
Sam didn't look away from her face, his fingers awkward and heavy as they fumbled with hers until they finally hooked around the gold band. He brought it down into the space between them, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. The metal was cold from the draft by the window. He looked down at it, his lip trembling against the rough grain of his mustache, before he lifted his eyes back to hers. The absolute, unvarnished terror of losing her was still swimming in his pupils once more.
"Let me put it back on," he whispered, a plea that broke her heart all over again. He didn't wait for her to answer, his hand shaking violently as he took her left wrist and turned her palm toward the ceiling. "Please, Jo. Let me put it back."
Jolene looked at the band, then at the desperate, sweating line of his forehead. The weight of what they were doing with the sheer, terrifying scale of the recovery still waiting for them over the coming months, the board evaluations, the doses of the heavy medicine that would soon demand to be taken, all settled back into her bones. She knew this clarity was temporary. She knew that by midnight, the nerve pain would likely have him screaming or the narcotics would drag him back under to the point he wouldn't remember the color of her eyes. But right now she didn't move away. She opened her fingers, and let his trembling hands guide the gold back home.
hi! just stumbled upon your johnny storm fics and I'm IN LOVE! they are so beautifully written if you ever write for him again you'll have me as a reader!
Aw thank you darlin’
I am sure I will write again for Johnny. I do have quite a few ideas for him still knocking around in my noggin… just more of a timing thing. Currently I’m trying to wrap up my Sam story since I’ve truly fallen in love with it. That said, Johnny will always be lingering around and I’m sure I’ll write more for him in the future 🤍
yearning is such a beautiful thing. what i love about yearning and slowburn is that while the romance progresses, you can get to know the characters better, which makes the audience see how deep the bond in the relationship is. all the small moments have meaning. every interaction, every thought, and every glance means something and is a way to emphasize how much love (platonic or romantic) the characters have for one another. there is something so beautiful about yearning because it's so human to want something so badly, but you have a part of you that is afraid you'll never get it. romantic or not, i love watching/reading characters find their person and learning all about each other, becoming so close and connected that it's hard to imagine life without the other. yearning to know more, yearning to be closer. it's so beautiful to me!
Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) || 14
In progress!
Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; PTSD and vivid flashbacks; hyper-vigilance; Survivor’s guilt; mentions of death and KIA (Killed in Action); detailed grieving and funeral imagery; chronic physical pain and combat-related injuries; traumatic brain injury (TBI) symptoms; mentions of cancer and parental loss; mentions of childbirth; family dynamics and loneliness; Mature Content: Explicit smut including dominant/submissive dynamics, recording sex/sex tapes, mentions of breeding but not actually doing so (the fantasy of it is hot), remote control vibrator, oral sex, and other sexual encounters.
Word Count: 13k
Author's Note: I sincerely apologize for a delayed update. My life has been... very chaotic lately. I'm doing my best to keep my head above water and it's leaving little room for me at the end of it. But, as promised, Sam and Jolene. They are going through it in this chapter. A bit of spice (not in a conventional sense but a grounded one), some banter, and angst. Hoping I may have a more positive update soon... Anywho, thanks again for hanging in there with them and to a lesser extent, me. Peace and Love ~ Mae
Series Masterlist || Previous || Next || Ao3 LINK
Sam
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Sam had vastly underestimated the power of temporary humility. The kind that only took root once his mother’s shadow finally retreated from the hospital corridors. The air in the room felt less like a courtroom and more like a sanctuary, even if that sanctuary smelled of antiseptic and over-boiled coffee. He was still being a grade-A, difficult bastard most of the time. He was self-aware enough to acknowledge the grumpiness, even if he wasn't quite ready to reel it in. He still bristled when Jolene’s steady hands guided him from the wheelchair to the plastic shower bench, the indignity of his physical reliance chafing worse than the external fixator. He still offered her that narrowed-eye glare whenever she reminded him that taking oxycodone on an empty stomach was a one-way ticket to a puke bucket. But the last few weeks of relative solitude had granted him a flickering sense of autonomy. A fragile, precious thing he hadn't touched since the world turned on its head.
That first visit to Elliot had been the pivot. He’d had to swallow back the rising bile of self-doubt, forcing the guilt into a dark corner of his mind where he could pretend it wasn't screaming. It hadn’t evaporated, but he’d discovered he could drown it out with the mundane. He replaced the "what-ifs" with the "what-nows”. Also found joy in the simple. Like the childish satisfaction of flicking a rolled-up straw wrapper at Jolene’s forehead. He’d watch it bounce off her skin, wait for the inevitable scoff and the lightning-fast retaliation as she hurled it back and hit his nose. And for a few seconds, the heavy weight of "Petty Officer Walsh: Failure" would fade.
He’d even braved the trek back to Elliot’s wing a few times since. The journey was always the same. Jolene’s steady hands on the grips of his chair, the squeak of tires on linoleum, and the forced steadying of his own breath before crossing the threshold. There were varying degrees of his teammates' alertness and sometimes they went to just sit and talk with Dottie. Sam was trying, with a desperate effort, to reframe the sight of his brother-in-arms as a living monument to his own bad calls, but as a miracle like Jolene insisted. He tried to focus on the fact they were both still occupying space on the right side of the dirt. For now that had to be enough.
Eventually came the holidays, bringing with them a sense of vertigo that made his head spin. Seeing Randy and Loretta crammed into the sterile confines of his room alongside his own parents was a collision of worlds he wasn't prepared for. He owed Jolene’s godparents a debt he couldn't calculate, but seeing them all together was uncomfortable at best. Stephanie had been the unsung hero, acting as a bridge between the Walsh’s Northeast reserve and the unfiltered southern grit of the people who’d raised Jolene given she was the only one who’d met them from her spring breaks down in Virginia. Yet the strangest thing happened in that room. Every time his mother made a veiled comment about "the struggle" or "the propriety" of the situation, Loretta would counter with a sharp but sweet-natured retort about how much she and Randy adored him. How he was "good to their Jo." It was the first time Sam had seen someone look his mother in the eye and gently tell her she was wrong without ever losing her smile.
He’d spent the afternoon leading up to Christmas watching through the window. It was a bitter pill to swallow given the doctor’s orders. Due to the lingering open sores around the pins in his leg, he wasn't allowed outside. Especially not near a seventy-five-pound German Shepherd with a coat full of winter allergens. But he didn't need to hear the sound to see the impact. He watched Jolene’s body language shift the moment her knees hit the sidewalk. The tension left her shoulders when Chewbacca collided into her frame, knocking her into the damp grass with the unfiltered affection. When she finally buried her face in Chewie’s neck, scratching that ridiculous mutt behind the ears, Sam felt a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow. She came back upstairs with a spark in her eyes he’d feared was gone for good from the halls of this place. A flicker of the girl from the car show returning to claim the space the caregiver had been occupying.
Christmas itself had been a bizarre but beautiful anomaly. It bore no resemblance to the morale-booster meals on a dusty FOB or the stuffy, high-church formalities of his youth. There was no three-piece suit or matching flannel pajamas enforced by his mothers iron will. Instead, it was a messy, loud blending of family. Someone had jammed a cheap, scratchy Santa hat on his head, and he hadn't even grunted in protest. He’d spent most of the morning watching Jolene. She was parading around the room in flannel pajama pants that hung low on her hips and a tight long-sleeved shirt that teased him every time she reached for a gift by flashing a strip of pale midriff that made his pulse thrum. When his mother insisted on a photo, he didn't fight her. He just snagged Jolene close, tucking his face against her hair and pulling her onto the edge of his bed. He smiled, and he meant it. He didn't care if the photo ended up projected on a screen at his mother’s parish back in Clinton. After six weeks of hell, he was just happy to be the man getting to hold her.
The photo had been a fleeting moment, but the weight of her against his side lingered long after the camera flash faded, and as the room had settled into the post-gift-wrap carnage of red and green paper strewn across the linoleum like festive shrapnel, Sam let his head fall back against the pillows, his gaze tracking Jolene. She had been laughing at something his sister was whispering, her face bright. He felt a hollow ache in his chest, from the crushing weight of a debt he knew he could never fully repay. Since the blast, she had been his hands when his own shook, his legs when he couldn't stand, and his mind when the meds turned the world to gray. He’d spent weeks agonizing over what to give a woman who had already given him so much. He’d done the jewelry thing. The gold watch that still ticked on her wrist, the necklace that caught the light when she leaned forward and that promise ring before he left. But this year jewelry felt too cold and ornamental. He wanted something that acknowledged the bridge they were building between his old life and whatever the hell this new one was going to be.
He had enlisted Stephanie’s help since she showed up at Walter Reed. "Hey, Jo," Stephanie called out, cutting through the cross-talk of the room. She reached behind the small, Charlie Brown-esque Christmas tree they’d managed to squeeze onto the dresser and pulled out a heavy, rectangular package wrapped in plain, sturdy brown paper. "Sam almost forgot this one. It’s the big one." Jolene had looked at Sam, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Sam, you already gave me new boots. And the books."
"Just open it, Jolene," he murmured, his voice laced with exhaustion. He watched her hands she tore through the paper. As the wrapping fell away, she went silent. Inside was a custom-made, heavy-duty leather tool roll. Not the cheap kind you found at a hardware store, but a hand-stitched, oil-tanned masterpiece from a saddlery back in Virginia that Randy knew the owner of. Embossed into the dark leather was the name of her shop, and below it, in a smaller, more intimate script: Property of J. Johnson. When she unrolled it, the light caught the gleam of a professional-grade, vintage-restored set of wrenches and specialized body-work hammers. He’d had Stephanie work with Randy to track down the exact brand of tools her father had used when he started the shop. Some were pieces that were no longer in production. The kind of steel that lasted a hundred years.
Sam had watched as her thumb traced the embossed leather, her throat bobbing as she realized the effort it had taken for a man who couldn't leave his bed to source something this intricate without her knowledge. It was an acknowledgment that he saw her. Not just as his caregiver, and not just as his girlfriend, but as the woman who had her own interests. Things outside that cookie cutter mold of what women wanted. Something authentically Jolene.
"I know it doesn't make up for the hours you’ve spent in hospital chairs," Sam said, his voice dropping so only she could hear it over his mother’s sudden interest in cleaning the floor. "And I know I’m a hell of a lot of work right now. But I wanted you to have something you could look forward to using when we get back home.” Jolene didn't look up immediately. She just gripped the leather and for a second the loud Christmas in a military hospital room vanished.
But while Sam had been conspiring with his sister and Randy, Jolene had been working on a project that aimed straight for his soul. When he’d opened her envelope, he hadn't found a card. He’d found a set of blurry, high-contrast photos and a key that looked like it had been pulled from a time capsule. She’d used every favor she had in the Virginia car scene to track it down: a 1969 Mustang Fastback. In the photos, it looked like a disaster. A rusted, primer-grey skeleton sitting on blocks in a barn near Chesapeake. To anyone else, it was a scrap heap. To Sam, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It was his favorite year, his favorite lines, stripped of its dignity but still holding its frame.
"It’s a wreck, Sam," she’d whispered that morning, leaning her head against his shoulder as he stared at the photos. "But the engine block is sound. Had one of my guys confirm it's got good bones. I figured... When we get back, you’re going to need a reason to get out of bed that isn't physical therapy once you are in the halfway between wheelchair and walking. I’m going to coach you through the restoration."
The genius of it had hit him slowly, like the onset of a good whiskey. His brilliant and generous girlfriend knew that he’d need a set of objectives. That without the Navy he’d go nuts sitting in a quiet house with no plan. So she’d figured out a way to give him a mission. She saw him as a man who still had capable hands, a man who could still master a machine even if his legs were currently a work in progress. It was her way of saying this whole phase was just a tiny bump in the road. He knew her well enough to see the layers of the gift, too. By putting a project in the shop, she was ensuring he’d be right where she could see him during his long medical leave. She was keeping him close, keeping him productive, and keeping him from going stir-crazy in a house that might start to feel like a cage. But he didn't mind the thought. The thought of being in the shop, the smell of oil and old leather replacing the scent of rubbing alcohol, with Jolene leaning over the hood to correct his wrench work... it was the first time he’d been able to clearly visualize a life after the Navy.
The real gift, however, arrived a few days later. Sam had watched from the bed, and later from his chair, as his mother did a final sweep of his room, and performed a slow-motion exit that would have made a Shakespearean actor weep with envy. She’d spent three hours "tidying" surfaces that were already sterile, lingering over the arrangement of his pill bottles and smoothing his blankets until the fabric felt like it was suffocating him. Every time she reached for her coat, she found a new reason to pause. Astray sock, a question for the nurse that had already been answered, a sudden need to reiterate the importance of his prayer life.
"You’re sure you have the number for the head of the department?" she’d asked for the fourth time, hovering in the doorway like a ghost that refused to be exorcised. "And Jolene, you’ll call the moment the results from the Tuesday scan come in? Not an hour later?"
Sam had shared a brief, pained look with Jolene over his mother’s shoulder. Jo had handled it with the saint-like patience she only reserved for the truly persistent, nodding and making all the right promises. The goodbye itself had lasted far too long. She’d cupped Sam’s face in her hands, her eyes damp with a sorrow that made him feel like he was already being memorialized. She’d kissed his forehead and whispered that she’d be "waiting by the phone," as if she were a sentry on a watchtower. She’d even pulled Jolene into a lingering damp hug.
But then, finally, the door had clicked shut. Through the window, Sam watched the silhouette of the SUV in the parking lot below. He saw the brake lights flare, the slow roll toward the exit, and finally, the merge into the gray flow of traffic heading back toward Connecticut.
By the time the new year rolled around, shifts finally started to materialize. He was approved for on-site transitional housing. It meant PT twice a day and eight-hour stretches back in the hospital’s clinical grip, but it also meant a door he could lock. It meant a kitchenette, a small living space, and most importantly, a bed that could accommodate two people. Sharing a bed with her again was almost too much of a relief to bear. The first night, the silence of the apartment was so loud it was unnerving, broken only by the hum of the heater. They propped themselves up against the headboard to watch a mindless sitcom, the blue light of the TV flickering over their faces.
Sam reached out, pulling her into the crook of his arm, and felt a sudden pang of concern. She felt thin. Frighteningly so. The soft curves he’d memorized over the summer had lessened into hard angles of bone and sinew. The unfortunate physical testament to the toll his survival had taken on her. He traced the line of her ribs under her shirt, his heart twisting with a mixture of gratitude and a quiet, burning rage at the universe for making her carry so much.
"You're not eating enough," he muttered, his voice gravelly with sleep and the lingering remnants of the bastard persona he’d adopted as of late.
Jolene didn't look up from the screen, but she leaned further into his chest, her head finding the familiar groove of his shoulder. "I'm eating fine, Sam. Just busy."
"Busy isn't a food group, Jo," he countered, his fingers tangling in her hair. He shifted slightly, mindful of the leg that sat between them like a third party in the bed. "I’m serious. If you waste away to nothing, I’m gonna have to start listening to my mother about you being a 'victim' of my situation."
Jolene huffed a laugh, her breath warm against his skin. "Shut up and watch the show, Walsh. I’m not a victim of anything."
He went quiet then, letting the mindless chatter of the television fill the room. He didn't tell her that he spent half the night just watching her breathe, terrified that if he closed his eyes, he’d wake up back in the ICU with a tube in his throat or back in the dirt bleeding out with her an ocean away. He just held her, feeling the steady, fragile rhythm of her heart against his side, and tried to convince himself that for the first time in a long time, their lives were finally resuming.
PT was a different kind of combat, one where the enemy was his own muscle atrophy and the battlefield was a set of parallel bars. He’d spent his entire adult life training for breaching doors, hauling eighty-pound rucks, dragging teammates through the surf. Now, his missions were reduced to the agonizing mechanics of a seated transfer. Most of his sessions were spent on the grueling, undignified physics of moving his weight from the wheelchair to a stool, or from the stool to a mat, without toppling over like a felled tree. It was humbling in a way that made his teeth ache. The therapists kept their voices upbeat, praising him for excellent core engagement as if he were a toddler taking his first steps, when in reality, he was just a grown man trying not to face-plant on a linoleum floor.
He knew that this was just the preamble. The real, soul-crushing work was waiting for him back in Virginia. The hospital’s only goal was to get him functional enough to live in the house currently being refitted without being a total liability. They were teaching him how to navigate a world that was no longer built for him, purely so he could endure the intensive outpatient program that would start once they crossed the state line. Talk of standing hadn't even made it onto the agenda. Every time he tried to bring up when he could finally ditch the chair and bear weight on the leg that was currently more metal than meat, the doctors would offer him a non-committal tilt of the head.
"One thing at a time," they’d say. "Let's get you home first."
It felt like they were holding the carrot of a vertical life just out of his reach, and the frustration of it simmered in his gut. He was a man who measured progress in miles and missions, and being told to celebrate a "clean transfer to the commode" felt like a sick joke. He looked down at his leg, at the pins and rods that looked like something out of a hardware store, and felt the familiar surge of impatience. He wanted to be the man who walked her through the front door of their home, not the one who had to be wheeled up a plywood ramp. But as he watched Jolene across the small apartment, moving between the kitchen and the bed with that quiet, relentless grace of hers, he forced himself to breathe through the anger.
The smell of slow-simmered beef and roasted root vegetables began to drift through the living space. It was the distinct aroma of one of Loretta’s beef stews. The kind that had been a staple of Jolene’s childhood and had now become the primary fuel for their survival. Loretta had shown up with a massive cooler packed with vacuum-sealed bags and foil-topped containers: casseroles heavy with cheese, thick chilis, and stews that tasted like home. In this military-grade style hotel room those frozen blocks of home were the only thing that felt like nights back in Virginia.
Jolene moved through the kitchenette with a phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear. Sam watched her from the bed, his back propped up by a mountain of pillows. He could hear the muffled tone of Victoria’s voice on the other end, but Jolene was the one doing the heavy lifting in the conversation.
"No, Vic, I told him," Jolene said, her voice tight with a frustration she usually tried to hide from Sam. She pulled a dish from the small oven with a flick of a tea towel. "The Casualty Liaison Officer is a brick wall. He’s looking at the checkboxes, not at Sam. He keeps citing the 'active-duty status' for the transfer, but the paperwork for the training billet in Virginia was already halfway through the system when the deployment started. It shouldn't be this hard to keep the file moving, but because Sam’s title was in limbo literally the day shit exploded it’s like his job is stuck in fucking purgatory. All because some secretary in Virginia was taking her sweet time with filing a sheet of paper.”
She moved toward the bed, balancing a food tray in one hand while still managing to hold the phone. With her free hand, she reached out and tapped the plastic lid of Sam’s pill organizer. The late night slot was filled with a colorful, terrifying array of nerve blockers, anti-inflammatories, and the heavy-duty painkillers that kept his leg from feeling like it was constantly being crushed. She gave him a pointed, stern look that said "don't you dare fight me on this" before turning back to the kitchen.
"Exactly!" Jolene continued, her voice rising as she paced the small strip of linoleum. "If they mark him as 'non-retainable' before the training command can pick up his orders, the medical board process changes entirely. I’m trying to keep his career alive on paper while he’s literally trying to learn how to sit up straight, and this guy is worried about a missing signature from a CO who’s still in a different time zone."
Sam looked down at the pills, the plastic clicking under his thumb. In her words was a cold reminder of the administrative death that shadowed his physical recovery. Before the blast, he had been at a crossroads and actively reassigning himself away from the door-kicking life of the Teams into a Lead Instructor role back in Virginia. It was supposed to be the job that would allow him to actually have a life with Jolene. Now, that notion felt like a freefall.
He was a Chief Petty Officer with almost a decade of specialized training. A man whose worth was measured in tactical expertise and the ability to lead men through hell. But to the Navy’s vast, uncaring bureaucracy, he was currently a medical liability with a contested paper trail. The thought of losing that training billet and of being forced into a medical retirement before he could even prove he was still useful, felt like a second explosion. One that was slowly dismantling the person he had worked so hard to become.
He watched Jolene's back, her slight frame shaking with the intensity of her rant to Victoria. She was fighting a war on two fronts: the physical battle in every room he occupied and the bureaucratic one in the hospital’s administrative offices. And the worst part was, he was currently a spectator in both. He wanted to tell her to stop, to let the Navy do whatever it was going to do, but he knew the moment the uniform was gone for good, a part of him would go with it. He looked at the stew, then back at the pills. He realized then that the humility he’d been feeling wasn't just about the wheelchair. It was about the fact that his entire future was being held together by the sheer, stubborn will of the woman currently yelling into a cell phone about "Annex B" and "Personnel Procurement."
Sam didn't argue. He didn't even pull the face he usually made when the chalky aftertaste of the nerve blockers hit the back of his throat. He just worked his way through the handful of pills, washing them down with lukewarm water while his eyes remained fixed on Jolene. She was still pacing, her free hand gesturing wildly as she gave Victoria one last rapid-fire instruction about looking up a specific contact in Norfolk. "I don't care if it's after hours, Vic. If he’s breathing, he can answer an email. I’ll talk to you tomorrow."
She snapped the phone shut and stood there for a second, her shoulders rising and falling as she took a deep, shaky breath to purge the adrenaline. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing the loose strands back before she turned toward the bed. The mask she’d been wearing all day finally softened, but only just a fraction, as she grabbed her own bowl of stew and settled onto the mattress beside him.
For a few minutes, the only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic. Sam didn't eat much; he was too busy watching the way the lamplight caught the exhaustion in the hollows of her cheeks. He watched the way her jaw remained tight even as she chewed, her mind clearly still iterating through military codes and personnel files.
"What?" she asked suddenly, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. She didn't look up, but she could feel the weight of his stare. "What’s wrong? Is the leg hitting a ten? Do you need the ice pack?"
"Nothing’s wrong, Jo," Sam tried to soften his expression, to give her that reassuring nod that used to work back in Virginia, but his face felt tired. "Just eating my dinner."
Jolene finally looked at him then. She didn't offer a smile, and she didn't offer comfort. She just set her bowl down on the bedside table with a thud and turned her full attention to him, her eyes narrowing.
"Cut the bullshit, Sam," she said, her voice flat and uncompromising. "I’ve spent the last two years learning the difference between your 'everything is fine' face and your 'I’m spiraling' face. You’ve been staring at me like I’m a ghost for the last ten minutes. Now, talk to me. Is it the pain, or did you hear too much of that phone call?"
Sam let out a heavy breath, his spoon resting uselessly against the side of the bowl. "I wasn't aware things had gotten that messy," he admitted, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. "I thought when I was at PT, you were just... grabbing coffee or meeting with the patient advocate. I didn't realize you were in the trenches with the bureaucrats trying to stop them from erasing my life."
Jolene leaned back against the headboard, a long, weary sigh escaping her. She looked at the ceiling for a moment, as if searching for patience in the popcorn texture of the plaster. "It’s not your job to deal with that right now, Sam. You have enough on your plate just trying to move from a chair to a bed without passing out."
"It pertains to my career, Jolene. So yeah, it is my job," he countered, the old spark of authority flickering in his eyes.
"Sam, look at the nightstand," she said, her voice softening but remaining firm. She pointed to the plastic organizer. "Your mind is mush half the time. Between the nerve blocks and the oxy and the sheer amount of pain you’re processing, you aren't in a state to argue with a Personnel Officer who lives for fine print. Your priority is getting strong enough to get us back to Virginia. Once we're home, we can have someone come to the house, do a formal assessment, and figure out what the future actually looks like. Until then, it’s my job."
Sam scoffed and looked away from her, his gaze landing on the small digital clock on the dresser. "In two days," he said quietly, "it’ll be exactly nine years. Nine years to the day since I walked into that recruiting office in New Haven and signed on the dotted line. I remember thinking that by year nine, I’d have it all figured out." He shifted his leg, a hiss of pain escaping through his teeth. "The time I officially agreed to give them after my last extension... it would’ve been up. I should be at a point where I’m deciding if I want to stay, not waiting for some clerk to decide if I’m 'retainable.'"
Jolene reached over, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, forcing him to look back at her. Her expression was a mix of empathy and that brutal, honest reality she never shied away from. "Unfortunately, the Navy doesn’t see a calendar the same way you do," she said. "Until you’re medically cleared as either useful or useless in their eyes, you’re locked in. You’re still property of Uncle Sam, and they aren't letting go of their investment until they’ve squeezed every last bit of paperwork out of the situation."
She gave him a small, sad smile. "But hey, on the bright side? If you're still property of the government, at least they’re the ones paying for this five-star resort while we eat Loretta’s reheated stew."
Sam let out a long exhale, his forehead coming to rest against her temple. The heat of her skin was the only thing that felt solid in a world that currently felt like it was made of shifting sand and red tape. "How are things going with the shop?" he asked, his voice low. "Really, Jo. I know you’re checking the books at night when you think I’m asleep."
Jolene pulled back just enough to look at him, a wry, tired smile playing on her lips. "Being the owner of an auto body shop I haven’t stepped foot in since November has been... unique, to say the least." She reached for her water, taking a slow sip as she looked around the cramped, functional room. "But honestly? We're lucky. Thank God my dad was as stubborn as he was about that mortgage. Having the house paid off before he passed... it's the only reason I can afford to be sitting here instead of worrying about a foreclosure notice on top of your status." She leaned her head back against the headboard, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief second. "As for the shop, it’s fine. I have good people, Sam. I employ mechanics, not children. You know most of them are veterans. They know the drill, they know the customers, and they know why I’m here. The shop is so low on the list of priorities right now it’s practically in the basement."
Sam shifted, his fingers tangling with hers. He knew how much that shop meant to her. It wasn't just a business. It was her father’s legacy. The place where she’d learned to turn a wrench and hold her own in a man’s world. "You worked too hard on that place to let it idle," he murmured, his thumb stroking her knuckles.
"It's not idling, it’s just on cruise control," she countered, opening her eyes and fixing him with that steady, unwavering gaze. "The shop can wait. The Navy can wait. Hell, even the world can wait. My only priority is getting you to a place where you can tell me to shut up without needing a nap five minutes later." She squeezed his hand, her expression softening into something fierce. "Don't spend your limited brainpower worrying about my bottom line, Walsh. You just worry about those PT transfers. I’ll handle the rest."
Sam leaned back against the mountain of pillows, the conversation about the shop leaving him with a hollow sense of gratitude. He watched her for a moment, tracing the way her hair was starting to escape the clip at the back of her neck in a way that usually meant she had spent the day running on caffeine and pure spite. Jolene looked down at the half-empty bowl of stew on his tray table, her eyebrows lifting in a silent question. "You done with that? Or are you just moving the carrots around to make it look like you ate?"
Sam gave a shallow, weary nod. "I'm done, Jo. My stomach isn't quite ready for a full Loretta-sized serving yet."
She didn't push him. She just gathered the bowls and the tray, her movements heavy and uncharacteristically slow. He watched her retreat to the tiny kitchenette, the sound of the faucet running and the clink of ceramic against the sink echoing in the small space. When the water cut off, she stayed there for a long beat, her hands braced against the edge of the counter, her head hanging between her shoulders. "I think I need a shower," she murmured, wiping her damp hands on her jeans. "A long one. I feel like I’ve got the smell of this entire wing stuck in my pores."
She had already spent the afternoon wrestling him into his own shower, navigating the bench and the waterproof covers for his pins, her own shirt getting soaked in the process. Now, she just looked like she was ready to collapse.
In the hospital, he was never alone, but they were rarely together. There was always a nurse, a therapist, or a wall of medical equipment between them. Even here, in the transitional housing, the 'patient' and 'caregiver' roles felt like a barrier.
"Hey," he called out softly, beckoning her back toward the bed.
She hovered in the doorway of the kitchenette. "Yeah?"
Sam looked at the door to the small, accessible bathroom and then back at her. "Can I just... come in there with you? I’ll just sit in the chair. I just... I want to be in the room."
Jolene blinked, her tired brain seemingly trying to process the request. It was a simple thing, but it was a bridge. He wasn't asking for help, and he wasn't asking to be the patient. He was asking for her company in a way that had nothing to do with bandages or bureaucracy.
"You want to sit in the bathroom and listen to me groan about water pressure?" she asked, a small, genuine spark of a smile finally touching her eyes. Jolene’s eyes lingered on him, the exhaustion momentarily giving way to a soft, curious vulnerability. Sam watched her, but his mind drifted back to three nights ago. A memory that had been festering. He’d been propped up in bed, the TV volume turned low to a mindless nature documentary, when she’d retreated for her nightly shower. He’d heard the pipes groan, the familiar hiss of the water hitting the plastic stall, and then, beneath the white noise, he’d heard it. A muffled hitch of breath. It wasn't a full-blown cry. It was the sound of someone trying to swallow their own heart. She’d been sobbing, her forehead likely pressed against the cool tile, letting the steam hide the salt of her tears. She did it because she thought he was asleep, or because she thought the drone of the television provided a thick enough veil.
He was tired of her breaking down in the margins of the day. He was tired of her thinking she had to be a fortress of stoicism every second she was in his line of sight. Beyond that, there was a more primal, simpler ache. He missed her. Not the "Jolene who managed his meds" or the "Jolene who argued with the Navy," but the woman whose body he knew as well as his own. The thought of seeing the curve of her spine, the damp skin of her shoulders, the raw, unburdened reality of her nakedness was the first thing in weeks that made him feel like a man. He felt the stirrings of the man he used to be, the one who didn't take fine for an answer.
"Sue a man for wanting to see some tits, then," he said, his voice dropping into that unapologetic rasp that usually signaled he was feeling like himself again. The corner of his mouth hitched up in a ghost of a grin, the first one that actually reached his eyes in days.
Jolene let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, the kind of sound she’d made a thousand times in his kitchen or at the shop when he’d stepped over the line. "God, you are such a pig, Sam Walsh," she muttered, though the bite was gone from her tone, replaced by a weary, reluctant amusement. "Six weeks of morphine and you’re still exactly the same."
"I’m a pig, yeah. I'll take that," Sam agreed, his thumb continuing its slow stroke against the inside of her wrist. The smirk faded then, and he didn't let go of her. "But I’m also just a guy who spent way too long wondering if I’d ever get to see you in a room that didn't have a crash cart in the corner. Who is tired of hearing you cry in the shower when you think I can't hear you through the door."
Jolene flinched, her eyes dropping to the floor, her shoulders hunching just a fraction as the secret she thought she’d kept so well was laid bare.
"This whole situation is a nightmare, the Navy is a mess, and my leg is a goddamn science project. But right now? We’re in a place with a lock on the door and if I’m sitting in that bathroom while you’re in the shower, it feels like we’re a couple again."
"God, Sam," she whispered, her voice vibrating with a sudden honesty that stripped away the last of the hospital-grade politeness. "I really miss having sex. I miss you. I miss feeling like a woman instead of a glorified nurse and a logistics coordinator."
Sam felt a sympathetic jolt that mirrored of her own longing. "I know, Jo," he rasped, his hand moving from her wrist to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of her hair. "Believe me, I know. It’s the one thing the doctors don't give you a physical therapy plan for."
Jolene pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his with a flicker of genuine surprise. She wiped a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand, a small, incredulous smile playing on her lips. "Honestly? I’m shocked you even have the brainpower for that thought right now. Between the nerve blockers, the oxy, and the sheer amount of trauma your body is processing, I figured that part of your brain was permanently offline for the season."
Sam gave a slow, effortless shrug, his gaze dropping to the curve of her mouth. "The hardware might be glitchy, and the software is definitely running on a delay, but the core programming hasn't changed. I’m always desperate for you. That doesn't go away just because I’m currently held together by titanium and spite." He shifted in the bed, the movement sending a dull, familiar throb through his leg, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the way her pupils blew wide at his words. "Look, I’m not exactly looking forward to figuring out the logistics of how we make that work in the near-to-distant future," he admitted, his voice dropping into a low, intimate hum. "The thought of trying to navigate this frame and a bed without breaking myself further is... daunting, to say the least. But I don't need a mission plan for tonight. I’d be perfectly happy just sitting in that bathroom, watching the steam come off your skin, and maybe jacking off while you shower."
Jolene stared at him for a beat, her face heating up with a flush. "You really are a piece of work, Walsh. A broken, medicated, perverted piece of work."
"But I'm your piece of work," he countered, his smirk widening as he saw the tension finally break in her expression.
"Then quit stalling and help a man out," Sam said, as he gestured vaguely toward the wheelchair parked just a few feet from the bed. "I’d love some assistance getting into the 'VIP' seating for the best porno known to man."
Jolene let out a genuine laugh. The kind that finally reached her eyes and stayed there. She shook her head, moving toward him with a grace that had been missing under the weight of the morning’s phone calls. "You are absolutely terrible. A literal disaster of a human being."
"But I’m your disaster," he reminded her, his eyes tracking her every move with hunger. She didn't argue. Instead, she stepped into his space. She grabbed his hands with a firm grip, bracing her weight against his as he maneuvered his center of gravity toward the edge of the mattress. There was a brief, tense moment of physical negotiation. The grunt of effort from Sam and the steadying strength of Jolene’s stance, but they moved in sync spoke of the last weeks of struggle.
As he settled into the chair, his breath coming a little shorter from the exertion, she didn't immediately pull away. She hovered over him, her hands resting on his shoulders, her thumbs tracing the line of his collarbone. The exhaustion was still there in the shadows under her eyes, but the hard, defensive shell she’d been wearing all day had finally cracked. "Best porno known to man, huh?" she teased, her voice a soft murmur as she leaned down to press a lingering kiss to the top of his head. "I hope you’re prepared for the reality of me struggling with a loofah and slipping on a bar of cheap soap."
"I’ve seen you rebuild an engine in a heatwave, Jolene. I think I can handle you with a loofah," Sam countered, his hand reaching up to squeeze her waist, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt. She straightened up, grabbing the handles of the chair and pivoting him toward the narrow doorway of the bathroom. Steam began to billow out, curling around the edges of the plastic curtain and filling the small space with a damp, heavy warmth.
She positioned his chair near the sink, giving him a clear line of sight to the stall, before she turned to face him. She didn't start undressing immediately; she just stood there for a second, framed by the rising mist, looking at him with an expression that was part amusement, part raw, aching tenderness. "You just want to sit here?" she asked, her hand moving to the hem of her shirt.
"I really want to be here," Sam corrected, his voice steady and sure. He leaned back in the chair, his hands resting on his lap, his gaze fixed on her with a quiet, reverent intensity. "Now quit talking and get to the good part. I’ve been waiting since June for this particular matinee."
Jolene didn’t look away. There was a shift in the room, the clinical atmosphere of Walter Reed finally dissolving in the rising heat of the steam. She moved with a deliberate cadence, her eyes locked onto his. It wasn't the polished, high-energy seduction of their nights back in Virginia, but something deeper. A raw, weary intimacy that felt more honest. As she pulled the soft cotton over her head, the lamplight from the bedroom spilled through the doorway, catching the elegant, sharp lines of her collarbones and the slight, tired curve of her shoulders.
She let the shirt fall to the tile, standing before him in just her bra and a thin pair of black lace-edged thongs. He’d seen her naked a thousand times, had memorized every inch of her skin by touch in the dark, but after months of seeing her only in oversized hoodies, the sight of her was a revelation. She was thinner, the hollow beneath her ribs more pronounced, but to him, she looked like the only beautiful thing left in a world made of metal pins and antiseptic.
She reached behind her back, unhooking the clasp of her bra with a flick of her fingers. She let the straps slide down her arms, her breasts spilling free, heavy in the humid air. She took a step closer to his chair, her hip cocking to the side, a ghost of her old, defiant spark flickering in her gaze. She knew the power she held over him, even now.
With a slow, swaying motion of her hips, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear. She slid the lace down the length of her legs, stepping out of them with a grace that made Sam’s pulse thrum. She didn't hide herself; she stood fully exposed. With a playful, wicked little smirk, she picked up the small scrap of black lace with her toes, flicking it upward into her hand before launching it at him. "A souvenir for the fella in the front row," she teased.
Sam let out a genuine, booming laugh that felt like it was clearing out the cobwebs in his mind and caught the fabric mid-air. He pressed the lace to his face for a split second, inhaling the scent of her skin and her perfume, before draping it over the arm of his wheelchair. He reached for the drawstring of his loose-fitting gym shorts, his hands steady despite the cocktail of meds in his system. He didn't care about the indignity of the chair or the fixator. He pulled his shorts down, freeing himself, his gaze never leaving hers.
"Like I said, Jo," he murmured, his voice thick with a hunger that was purely, vibrantly alive. "Best view in the building."
Jolene leaned against the cool tile of the shower wall, the water hissing behind her, and just watched him for a beat. There was no pity in her eyes, only a matching heat that made the small bathroom feel like the center of the universe. She didn't say anything. She just reached back and pulled the curtain open, stepping into the spray and leaving the edge of it pulled back just enough so he didn't miss a single second of the show.
Through the rising veil of steam, Sam watched her with a fixation that felt religious. The water cascaded over her, slicking her hair back and turning her skin into a glowing, translucent map of everything he’d nearly lost. His gaze traced the familiar slopes he’d spent so much time navigating. The gentle swell of her hips and the way the water pooled in the dip of her lower back before racing down the firm curve of her thighs. He watched the dusty pink peaks of her nipples tighten against the spray, prominent against the pale softness of her breasts. She reached up to lather her hair, her arched back pulling her skin taut over those ribs he’d worried over earlier, but from this angle, she just looked like a masterpiece of grit and grace.
Sam’s hand closed around himself, his grip firm but his body struggling to keep pace with his mind. The physical reality of the situation was a muted, frustrating haze. The high-dose narcotics in his system acted like a dampener on his nerves, making the connection between his brain and his groin feel like a radio station drifting in and out of signal. He could feel the stirrings of a genuine erection. A thick, heavy throb of blood, only for it to ebb away into a frustrating softness the moment a wave of chemical lethargy washed over him.
He didn't care.
He continued the rhythmic strokes, his eyes devouring the sight of her soapy hands sliding over the curve of her stomach. The friction of his own palm felt distant, like it was happening to someone else, but the visual of Jolene with head back, eyes closed, water sluicing over the dip between her collarbones, was enough to keep him anchored.
"You have no idea," he rasped, the sound of his voice nearly drowned out by the hiss of the shower. "How many nights I spent picturing exactly this. Just you. Not a memory, not a dream. Just you, right there." He watched a bead of water roll from the tip of her nose to the peak of her breast, and he tightened his grip, forcing his body to respond to the sheer, stubborn want in his chest. The erection ebbed again, softening under the weight of the meds, but he just adjusted his pace, his thumb circling the head of his cock with a relentless, patient focus.
It wasn't about the perfect performance or a quick release. It was about the fact that he was here, alive, and breathing the same humid air as the woman who had dragged him back from the edge. Watching her move, seeing the way her muscles rippled in her back as she rinsed the soap away, was a better hit of dopamine than anything the nurses could push through his IV. He let out a low, shaky breath, his gaze locked on the way the water clung to the area between her legs, and kept his hand moving, content to chase the feeling for as long as she’d let him stay.
Jolene turned under the spray, the water plastering her hair to her back in dark, heavy ropes. She wiped a hand over her face to clear her vision, her eyes landing on him through the shifting plumes of steam. She watched his hand move despite the chemical fog clearly fighting him and a slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.
"God, Sam," she breathed, her voice a low, echoing rasp against the tiles. She leaned one shoulder against the wall of the stall, letting the water hit her back while she just looked at him, taking in the sight of him in the chair, hard-eyed and focused. "You look so desperate. Like you’re dying for it."
Sam didn’t flinch. He didn't try to play it cool or hide the frustration of his body’s muted response. He just nodded once, his hand never breaking its rhythm. "I am," he admitted. "I’m starving for you, Jo. I’ve been hungry for this since I left the driveway in Virginia."
She reached down, her fingers tracing the line of her own hip, letting them linger where the water ran in rivulets over her skin. She was fully aware of the power she held, of the way he was hanging on every movement. "Is that right?" she teased, her voice dropping to a whisper that cut right through the hiss of the shower. She took a step toward the edge of the stall, the water now only hitting her legs, leaving her torso glistening and exposed in the dim light. She tilted her head, watching the way his eyes tracked the movement. "What do you want, Chief? Tell me exactly what you’re sitting there thinking about."
Sam’s grip tightened, a fleeting, heavy throb of blood finally winning the battle against the narcotics for a brief, glorious second. He looked up at her, his dark eyes dark with unadulterated need.
"I want you to touch yourself, Jo," he rasped. He watched her hand linger on her hip, and the sight was almost enough to bridge the gap his meds were creating. "Better yet... come closer. Let me do it. I want to watch you get off right here in front of me."
Jolene’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of the caregiver’s instinct that had dominated her life for weeks. She looked at the water splashing off her skin and then down at the heavy, intricate metal of the fixator on his leg, just inches from the shower’s edge.
"Sam," she started, her voice laced with a sudden, sharp concern. "If I get you wet, or water hits the pins, we’re going to be in for an hour of cleaning and a lecture from a night nurse. I don't want to mess up the dressings."
"Don't worry about the goddamn dressings," Sam countered, his voice steady and commanding, the Chief Petty Officer asserting himself over the patient. "You can keep enough distance. Just stand right there, on the edge. I’m not made of glass, Jolene. It’ll be fine."
She hesitated, her hand hovering near the shower curtain, the conflict written clearly across her face. "I don't want hesitation, Jo," he said. He reached out, his hand catching her damp calf, his skin searing against hers. "I want to make you feel good for once. Now, come here."
The look in his eyes must have won her over. She let out a soft, defeated breath and stepped to the very edge of the stall, the spray hitting her back but leaving her front open to him. She stood close enough that the steam from her skin mingled with the air he was breathing, her body glistening and slick. Sam’s hand traveled up from her calf to her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft, wet skin with a possessive strength. He didn't care about the logistics or the mush of his brain. In this small, tiled room, with the water hissing behind them, he was finally the one in control again.
Sam’s hand, heavy and scarred but fueled by a sudden, singular clarity, slid upward from the curve of her knee. His palm dragged against the slick expanse of her inner thigh, the friction of his skin against her wet heat drawing a sharp, hissed breath from Jolene’s lungs. He didn't offer a gentle lead-in. He didn't have the patience for it, not when the phantom weight of the last six weeks was finally being pushed aside by the reality of her under his touch.
He hooked his fingers firmly behind her other thigh, prying her legs wider until she was forced to stand in a vulnerable, open stance at the very lip of the shower basin. Without a second of hesitation, Sam drove his middle finger inside her. Jolene let out a choked, truncated cry, her head snapping back as she scrambled for purchase. Her hands flew behind her, palms flat against the cool, slick tile of the shower wall to stabilize herself as her knees threatened to buckle. The suddenness of the intrusion, combined with the raw, commanding way he took up space between her legs, seemed to short-circuit the exhaustion she’d been carrying like a shroud.
"Sam–" she gasped, her voice lost in the steam.
"Shh," he silenced her, his focus entirely on the way she felt. He hooked his finger upward, finding the sensitive, internal curve he knew by heart. He watched her with an intensity that was almost predatory, his dark eyes tracking the way her stomach muscles rippled and tightened with every movement of his hand. Even with the narcotics dulling his own nerve endings, the visual feedback. The way her hips involuntarily bucked toward his hand, the way her chest heaved as she fought for air.
Jolene’s eyes drifted shut, her fingers clawing at the grout lines of the tile as she surrendered to the friction. The water continued to drum against her back, a relentless white noise, but all she could feel was the weight of his hand and the steady, grounding pressure of his thumb as it began to circle the sensitive heat of her clitoris.
He increased the pace, his knuckles brushing against her damp skin, his breathing turning into a series of low-timbered growls. He wanted to see her break. He wanted to be the reason she forgot about the CLO, the shop, and the persistent, nagging fear of what the next surgery would bring. In this small, humid square of the world, he wasn't a patient and she wasn't a caretaker; he was her man, and he was taking exactly what he’d been dreaming of for a thousand lifetimes.
"Look at me, Jo. Open your eyes," Sam commanded.
Jolene’s lashes flickered, wet and heavy, as she forced her eyes open. Her head was still tipped back against the tile, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. When her gaze finally settled on him, she noticed the shift immediately. His left hand, which had been working on himself with such frustration just minutes ago, was resting idle on the arm of his wheelchair. He’d given up on the battle with the meds, letting his own shorts fall back into place, his focus entirely centered on the space between her legs.
"Sam," she whispered, her voice thick with a mix of pleasure and a sudden, sharp guilt. "You’re not... you stopped."
"Don't worry about it," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, selfless smile that lacked any of his usual bravado. It was replaced by a raw, quiet devotion that made her heart ache more than her body. He increased the pressure of his thumb, his rhythm becoming more deliberate, more punishingly perfect. "My body’s being a stubborn bastard tonight, but yours is doing exactly what it's supposed to."
He leaned forward as much as the chair would allow, his face just inches from her wet hip, his eyes locked onto hers with a searing intensity. "You’ve spent every second of the last six weeks taking care of me, Jolene. You’ve fought the doctors, you’ve fought my mother, and you’ve fought to keep me whole when I was falling apart," he rasped, his knuckles brushing against her slick skin. "Tonight, I’m taking care of you. I don't need a finish, Jo. I just need to hear you forget about everything else but this."
Jolene let out a soft, broken sound as she looked down at him. He tried not to feel the burning shame as she looked down on him, pushing past the mental barrier that he hated knowing his body in no way looked like it used to. He tried his best to be her Sam, and that meant reclaiming his place as her partner in the only way he could. "I've got you," he murmured, his fingers hooking deeper, more insistent. "Let go, Jo. Just for me."
She didn't fight him anymore. She gripped the shower wall until her knuckles went white, her eyes never leaving his as she finally began to shatter. Sam watched the transformation. He felt the ripples begin deep within her. A pulsing that telegraphed her peak before it even fully hit. Then, she fractured. Her back arched as she let out a long sound that was lost to the steam. Beneath his palm, he felt the involuntary reaction of her body. Her walls clamped down with a desperate, crushing strength, clenching around his middle and ring fingers in a series of spasms. The physical grip told him everything he needed to know about her release. He didn't pull back; he stayed there, feeling the fading tremors of her climax as the tension slowly bled out of her thighs.
Jolene’s eyes were glazed, her breathing finally slowing into wet gasps. She looked down at him, her face flushed. With an apprehensive motion, Sam finally withdrew his hand. He didn't reach for a towel or look for the water to wash the evidence away. Instead, he lifted his hand to his face, his gaze never leaving her wide-eyed stare. He slid his fingers into his mouth, his tongue swirling over his knuckles to taste her. He tasted the unmistakable, heady sweetness of her arousal. He sucked the digits deep into his mouth, his eyes dark and satisfied as he watched her chest still heaving.
"Delicious," he rasped after he pulled his fingers free with a faint, wet pop and accompanying grin spreading across his face. "Best meal I've had since I got back to the States."
Jolene let out a shaky, breathless laugh, her hand finally sliding down the tile to rest on his shoulder for support. "You’re unbelievable, Sam Walsh," she murmured, her voice still thick with the aftermath of the high he’d just given her.
She stayed there for a moment, the water still drumming against her back, looking at him with a tenderness that made the air in the small bathroom feel heavy. Sam reached up, his clean hand cupping the side of her neck, pulling her down just enough to press a hard, lingering kiss to her lips. "Go on," he murmured against her mouth, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Finish your shower. I'm just gonna sit here and enjoy the afterglow."
Jolene gave him one last, lingering look before pulling the curtain shut. Sam leaned back in the chair, the physical exertion of the last ten minutes catching up to him as the adrenaline began to dip. He didn't mind the fatigue. He just listened to the water and the occasional soft sigh that escaped her. The hiss of the shower had acted like a sedative, weaving through the narcotic fog in his brain until the edges of the room blurred into a warm, humid haze. Sam didn’t even realize his chin had tucked toward his chest until the sudden, cool sensation of fingers brushing against his temple jolted him back to the present. He blinked, his vision clearing to find the bathroom transformed. The steam had mostly dissipated, leaving the mirrors streaked with moisture.
Jolene was standing right beside him, tucked into the narrow space between his chair and the sink. He hadn't felt her move him, hadn't heard the tell-tale whisper of the wheels. She was wrapped in a thick, white towel that she’d tucked tightly over her chest, her damp hair already brushed back and beginning to air-dry.
"You're fading on me, Walsh," she murmured. She didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she cupped his jaw, her thumb tracing the uneven line of his facial hair. "This beard is getting a mind of its own."
Sam let out a grunt, leaning his face into her palm despite himself. "Don't have a razor that isn't a safety-guarded piece of plastic shit," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. "Hard to keep a tight line when the nurses look at you like you're gonna use the blade for something other than grooming."
Jolene smiled as her fingers moved upward. She reached the hair at his temple, winding a short, dark strand around her index finger. It had grown out since the blast. What had been a harsh and simple shear down almost to his scalp was now growing dense and soft. The extra inch and a half of length allowing his natural texture to assert itself. "It’s getting long," she mused, her eyes tracing the way the hair over his forehead had begun to curl outward. She brushed a stray lock back, her touch lingering. "You’ve got these pretty little curls coming back, Sam. I’d almost forgotten about them."
Sam’s brow furrowed, his expression instantly shifting into a grumpy scowl. "They aren't pretty, Jo. It’s just overgrown."
"They're definitely pretty," she countered, her smirk widening as she deliberately ruffled the top of his head. "Reminds me of the last time you came home from that long deployment. You were looking like a messy-headed teenager. I remember thinking then that I liked you better when the Navy didn't have a say in your grooming standards."
Sam gave a noncommittal shrug, though he didn't pull away from her touch. To him, hair was a utility. Something to be kept out of his eyes and away from his collar so it didn't itch under a helmet or a headset. But internally, he felt the familiar, quiet hum of satisfaction knowing she was looking at him and finding something to like. He knew she had a weakness for the length because in those two weeks of leave he had after said deployment, she’d just constantly wound her fingers in the hair at his nape.
"I was looking forward to retirement for a lot of reasons," he admitted, his voice dropping an octave as he looked up at her, the grumpiness softening into a weary honesty. "Being able to grow it out was on the list." He paused, his gaze dropping to the towel-clad curve of her hip before returning to her eyes. "Doing it like this, though... stuck in this chair while it happens... it isn't exactly the relaxed civilian look I was going for."
Jolene didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze shifted from his face to their shared reflection in the fogged-over vanity mirror. Her eyes were heavy, the sadness she’d been suppressing all day finally pooling in her expression as she looked at the man in the chair. "Every discussion I’ve had with the logistics officers and the medical liaison... they made it pretty clear, Sam. No one is going to give a shit about your appearance. Likely from here on out." She let out a dry, mirthless puff of air, her fingers still absentmindedly tangled in those soft short curls at his temple. "They’re basically keeping you on retainer at this point until they determine if you can gain some sort of desk job, get well enough to go back to the training billet like you planned, or if it's medical retirement with severance. Right now you are a name on a spreadsheet until some board decides your fate. Regulations don't really apply to a man they aren't planning on putting back in a uniform any time soon."
Sam stared at himself in the silvered glass. He saw the way the hair curled over the tops of his ears and the way the beard was creeping down his neck. It was the look of a man who had been sidelined. He let out a scoff, turning his head slightly to catch the profile of the mess. "Yeah, well," he muttered, his voice rough. "Retainer or not, it’s getting out of hand."
Jolene watched him, her hand sliding down to rest on his shoulder, her thumb stroking the skin through his thin shirt. She saw the flick of irritation in his eyes. The way he hated the lack of control, even over something as trivial as a haircut. "I can run by CVS," she offered softly. "I need to pick up a few things anyway. I can grab a pair of clippers. If you want it gone, I can buzz it right here."
Sam looked at the curls one last time, then back at the woman standing in a towel, looking at him with a devotion that transcended military rank or grooming standards. He gave a slow, indifferent shrug, the fight leaving his shoulders. "Doesn't matter," he said, his voice flat but not unkind. "Do whatever you want with it, Jo. At this point, I don't really care. If you like the curls, keep 'em. If you’re tired of looking at a mountain man, mow it down.”
Jolene paused, her hand going still against his temple. She looked at him through the mirror, her brow furrowing with a flash of that stubbornness he knew so well. "You don't mean that. You’ve always been particular. Even when you’re miserable, you’re particular."
"I'm telling you, I don't give a damn," he countered, a sharp edge of genuine apathy cutting through his tone. He shifted in the chair, the movement making the metal fixator on his leg give a heavy clink. "Hair is just hair, Jolene. It grows, you cut it off. It doesn’t change anything."
She watched him for a beat, her eyes narrowing as she searched for a trace of the man who once tried to buzz his hair off on her back porch because he hated the way it felt and could do it entirely on touch alone. She must have decided to poke the bear, hoping for a spark of his old, playful fire. "Oh, okay. So the same logic applies to me? Hair is just hair?" She caught a long, damp strand of her own hair, winding it around her fingers and pulling it taut. "Maybe I’ll just cut it up above my shoulders, maybe go for a pixie cut. Since it doesn’t change anything, right?"
Instead of the smirk or the clever comeback she might’ve expected, Sam’s entire body went rigid. He jerked his head away from her touch, his hands gripping the armrests of his wheelchair with white-knuckled intensity. A dark, irrational cloud settled over his features, his jaw locking so tight it ached in his molars. For a split second, his mind betrayed him, forced to visualize it. Jolene, stripped of the long red waves he’d spent a thousand nights memorizing by touch. He saw her with hair chopped into some unrecognizable shape that didn't belong to the woman he knew. The image made him recoil, a visceral wave of nausea hitting him.
"Don't," he spat. The anger was sudden and volcanic, bubbling up from a place he couldn't name and certainly didn’t have the brain capacity to understand. "Don't you even start with that shit, Jolene. It's not a joke. It's not funny."
Jolene’s hand hovered in the air where his head had just been, her eyes widening. "Sam, I was just–"
"I don't care what you were doing," he interrupted. He felt like a cornered animal, unable to articulate the panic rising in his chest, so he channeled it into venom instead. "You don't touch it. You stay exactly the way you are. Do you hear me? You don't get to change a goddamn thing."
He couldn't piece together why the thought felt like a personal betrayal. His brain was a mess of firing synapses and chemical interference, leaving him unable to explain that she was the only fixed point in his universe. All he knew was that the idea of her looking different felt like a threat he couldn't neutralize.
Jolene stepped back, her hands dropping to her sides. The playful light in her eyes died instantly, replaced by a jarring coldness. She stared at him, genuinely startled by the venom in his voice. "Sam... you know I’m messing with you, right baby? I'm not actually going to cut my hair."
He didn't soften. He stared at the tiles of the bathroom floor, his breathing coming in shallow bursts. The humor didn't register. The sarcasm didn't land. In his head, the world was a series of threats and instabilities, and her joke had felt like one more pillar being kicked out from under him. "It's really hard to figure out what's a joke and what's not right now," he muttered, the words sounding bitter and defeated. He wouldn't look at her. "Everything feels like a goddamn trap. I can't... I can't keep track of the layers, Jo. Just say what you mean or don't say anything at all."
The silence that followed was heavy, stripping away the warmth of the shower and the intimacy of the moments before. In the haze, Sam had a realization that the easy banter that had been the heartbeat of their relationship for years was currently broken. The narcotics, the trauma, and the sheer weight of his dependency had turned his mind into a minefield where her usual wit was now a liability. She seemingly sensed it too as she grew quiet, her shoulders slumping as she reached for a dry towel to start patting her hair. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I’ll try and pull back on the sarcasm. I... I forgot for a second. I'll wait until your brain space isn't being limited by the meds."
Sam didn't apologize. He couldn't. He just sat there in the chair, feeling the very real ache of a connection that felt like it was fraying at the edges, unable to find the way back to the woman standing three feet away. He sat in the heavy silence, the sound of the towel muffling Jolene’s movements as she worked on her hair. He felt like he was underwater, trying to catch a sinking object that kept slipping through his fingers. Every time he tried to pin down a coherent thought, be it an apology, an explanation, or a way to bridge the gap between them, it dissolved into the chemical soup in his brain. The narcotics were sanding down the edges of his personality, leaving him with nothing but raw, reactive nerves.
He watched her through the mirror, his chest tightening with guilt. He saw the way she moved. Slower now, her shoulders slightly hunched, her movements stripped of the playful energy she’d had only minutes ago. She was being so careful to be quiet, as if she were afraid that the mere sound of her voice might trigger another explosion.
He shouldn't have snapped. He knew that. But in the moment she’d mentioned changing herself, an irrational panic had flared up. To him, Jolene was the only constant left in a world that had been blown to pieces and put back together with titanium pins and bureaucracy. The thought of her changing, even something as trivial as her hair, felt like the final thread of his old life snapping. His eyes drifted to her hair as it began to air-dry. The damp weight was lifting, and the natural, deep red waves were already starting to coil and spring across the middle of her back. There was the terrifying, unspoken thought that he only felt secure if she stayed exactly as she was, while he was forced to be this broken, overgrown version of himself. He felt like a hypocrite, a man who wanted her to remain static while he was allowed to be a ruin. He wanted to tell her that he knew he had no right to demand things like that from her. That he knew he was being a territorial jackass. But she was the only recognizable thing he had left to look at, and the idea of her altering that image felt like she was receding further away from him. But the words wouldn't come. Every time he opened his mouth to try and find an "I'm sorry," he felt the sheer effort it took just to breathe. Every inhalation felt like a conscious, labored choice. A reminder of how much of his energy was being siphoned off just to stay upright in a chair.
He watched her hang the towel up to dry, her face carefully neutral as she avoided his reflection. He wanted to reach out, to snag her wrist and pull her back into the space between his knees, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. He was trapped in his own recovery, watching the woman he loved retreat into a polite distance because he no longer knew how to be her partner without hurting her.
He forced his lungs to work, pushing through the fog until he managed to catch her eye in the mirror. "Jo," he started, "I didn't... I’m just... My head isn’t right."
It was a pathetic excuse for an apology, a fragment of a thought that barely touched the surface of the guilt pooling in his gut. He waited for her to snap back, to tell him that she was tired of being his punching bag. If only she could give him a target. Something he could actually fight against. Instead, Jolene just stopped what she was doing. She didn't glare. She didn't even look frustrated. She simply turned toward him and offered a small, tired nod, her expression softening into that terrifyingly patient understanding that had become her default setting.
"I know, Hon," she said quietly, her voice devoid of any edge. "I know it’s the meds. It’s okay. Really."
Her kindness made it so much worse. The fact that she was being a saint while he was being a bastard. He watched her, his jaw tightening with a fresh surge of internal fury. He was angry that she wouldn't rise to his level. That she wouldn't just yell at him so they could have a moment of honest, raw friction. Instead, she just absorbed his bile, tucking it away somewhere deep inside where he couldn't see it. He saw the telltale signs, though. He noticed the way she blinked a little too fast, her gaze fixed on the sink as she carefully folded the towel. He knew she was hiding her tears, waiting for the moments when she was in the hallway or the kitchen to let them fall so he wouldn't have to carry the weight of her sadness on top of his own. She was protecting him from herself, and the realization made him want to put his fist through the bathroom tile.
She was firm when she needed to be. Ordering him to take his pills, maneuvering the chair with a strength that shouldn't fit her frame. But she never once fought him for the sake of winning. She was just... there. A constant, steady presence that he was slowly bleeding dry.
Sam looked away, his gaze falling back to the floor. He felt the crushing weight of the debt he was accumulating. A balance sheet of patience and lost tears that he could never fully pay back. Every time she forgave him without a fight, the hole in his chest grew deeper. He was a SEAL, who had always prided himself on carrying his own weight, and now he was drowning in the grace of a woman who refused to let him see how much he was hurting her.
"You shouldn't be so goddamn nice to me," he muttered, the words barely a whisper. The silence that followed was heavy. Sam sat there, the weight of his own words hanging in the humid air. He kept his eyes lowered, unable to bear the sight of his own reflection or the saintly patience he knew was written on her face.
Jolene let out a long, deep sigh. A sound that seemed to carry the exhaustion of the last nine weeks in a single breath. She didn't move away. Instead, she stepped fully into his line of sight, standing there in the light of the bathroom. She hadn't bothered to get dressed. The towel was gone, leaving her skin bare and glowing. Sam finally looked up, his gaze traveling over the familiar, perfect map of her body. Even through the haze of the narcotics, the sight of her was a reminder of everything he was fighting to get back to. She looked down at him, her expression a complex tapestry of weariness and an enduring, stubborn love that he felt he had done nothing to deserve today.
She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, her lips quirked into a smile that barely reached her eyes. She reached out, her fingers warm and soft as she stroked the rough, uneven stubble on his cheek. It was a gesture of profound intimacy. A silent bridge over the gap he’d just created with his temper. Then, she leaned down, the scent of her shampoo filling his senses. She pressed a tender, lingering kiss to the top of his head, her lips grazing the curls he had just disparaged.
"Someone has to be," she whispered, her voice so quiet it was almost lost to the hum of the ventilation fan.
The words were a declaration that she was willing to carry the weight of his anger as long as it meant he was still there to feel it. Sam closed his eyes, his hands tightening on the cold metal of his chair. He didn't have the words to tell her that her kindness felt like a brand, or that he’d spend every day for the rest of his life trying to earn the right to see that barely there smile turn into a real one. He just sat there, a broken man in a humid room, anchored by the whisper of a woman who refused to let him go even when he was being a bastard.
Lord Huron really is such an insane band because they explore themes of regret, grief, and loneliness through the message of even if you had the chance to start your life over again, you will still end up in the same situation because you can’t change who you are fundamentally, and that’s ok by asking the question “what if your life was controlled by the Eldritch Jukebox”
Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) || 13
In progress!
Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; PTSD and vivid flashbacks; hyper-vigilance; Survivor’s guilt; mentions of death and KIA (Killed in Action); detailed grieving and funeral imagery; chronic physical pain and combat-related injuries; traumatic brain injury (TBI) symptoms; mentions of cancer and parental loss; mentions of childbirth; family dynamics and loneliness; Mature Content: Explicit smut including dominant/submissive dynamics, recording sex/sex tapes, mentions of breeding but not actually doing so (the fantasy of it is hot), remote control vibrator, oral sex, and other sexual encounters.
Word Count: 15k
Author's Note: Hi friends, Thank you so much for your patience with this update! I know I stepped away from Sam and Jolene for a week to spend a little time in Eddie’s world, and I appreciate you sticking with me. Work has been a bit of a whirlwind lately. As we approach the end of the academic year, I've been a bit busy with students and feeling pretty swamped/exhausted. However, I’m thrilled to say that Jolene is officially back to give Sam the swift kick to the ass he so clearly needs. I know the atmosphere of this story has been heavy lately. The weight of it has felt significant, and I truly appreciate you all hanging in there through the tougher moments. Moving forward, I’m looking forward to injecting a bit more "light-ish" energy into their journey. We will be transitioning into a time jump shortly; the thought of lingering in the hospital any longer started to feel a bit suffocating, and I think we’re all ready for a change of scenery. As always, thank you for reading and for your incredible support. It means the world. Peace and Love ~ Mae
Series Masterlist || Book 1 || Previous || Next || Ao3 LINK
Jolene
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The nursing staff at Walter Reed possessed an almost defiant kind of cheer. A collective effort to buffer the unfortunate reality of the wards against the encroaching holiday season. No one truly wanted to spend Christmas under the hum of industrial HVAC systems and the scent of antiseptic, but Jolene found herself deeply moved by the small rebellions against the bleakness. At the nurses' station, carols played at a respectful volume, competing softly with the beep of monitors. Dusty artificial trees were placed in the communal junctions near the elevators and the dining hall. Their plastic boughs sagging under the weight of mismatched ornaments and half working lights. Even Faith, a sweet-faced nursing student who had become a fixture in Sam’s day time rotation, had gone the extra mile. She’d brought in a felt stocking from a dollar store and painstakingly written SAM in red glittery puff paint. It was a borderline childish gesture, but that tiny bit of whimsy was a lifeline.
Jolene had taken up the mantle of Chief Morale Officer with a ferocity that surprised even her. She had become a master of advocating for Sam until the lead surgeon practically sighed whenever he entered the room. She’d bargained for extra laps around the ward when the walls started closing in on him, and she’d transformed his room to the best of her ability. A string of battery-powered LED lights from CVS now glowed softly along the headboard, allowing them to kill the harsh overhead lights that made Sam’s skin look like parchment. There were small victories, too. Like the extra slice of cherry pie she’d liberated from the cafeteria, smuggled under a napkin like contraband until she’d offered it to him with a smile.
With the immediate threat of pulmonary embolisms and sepsis finally retreating, the horizon was shifting. Despite protective instincts that were as formidable as any SEAL’s, they’d managed to convince Sam’s mother to agree to a timeline. His family would stay through Christmas, but they would head back to Connecticut before the New Year. The plan was solid. If Sam continued to crush his PT milestones, he’d be moved to an on-site residential recovery wing. No more twenty-four-hour hospital surveillance. Just a room of his own and a short wheel over to the hospital for check ins and therapy. It was a move toward independence, but the road there was paved with humiliations that neither of them had been prepared for.
The transition from a bed-bound patient to a mobile one, was less of a triumph and more of a grueling chore. Jolene could still feel the weight of him from that first afternoon he was cleared to move. The way he had leaned on her and a brawny orderly, his body trembling with the sheer effort of a seated shuffle. Seeing the halls of Walter Reed for the first time from the vantage point of a wheelchair hadn't been the victory lap they’d hoped for. It was a sobering tour of a world populated by men and women broken in similar, devastating ways.
The true test, however, had been the shower. It was a logistical nightmare involving waterproof plastic, medical tape, and a grim determination to protect the surgeon’s intricate handiwork on his leg. Jolene had worked alongside Faith and a supervisor, their movements careful while Sam remained trapped in silence. The transition from the wheelchair to the plastic shower bench was a clumsy, shameful dance of exposed skin. The nurses did their best to offer a veil of professional detachment, but there was no masking the reality of it. Jolene had stripped him with hands that tried to be both tender and matter-of-fact, acting as a shield between him and the rest of the room. She took her time, standing between him and the nurses as they chatted about holiday plans, her fingers weaving into the way his hair was just starting to curl at the edges of his neck and hairline from weeks of neglect. He’d seemed relieved by the act, leaning into her palm with soft sighs. But when she finally leaned him back to rinse the soap from his hair she caught his gaze. The look in his eyes was a profound, hollowed-out pity for himself that made her throat tight. She had quickly placed her palm over his brow, ostensibly to keep the suds from his eyes, but really to give him a second of darkness where he didn't have to feel seen.
Now, as the afternoon sun began to dip low over the Maryland skyline, casting long shadows across the linoleum, Jolene sat by the window, watching the dust motes dance in the warmth of the room. Sam was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm. She watched the hitch in his shoulder, a tell-tale sign that even in sleep, his muscles were refusing to unclench from the morning’s exertion. Physical therapy at this stage wasn't the heroic montage of a man reclaiming his stride. It was a grueling, microscopic war against gravity and the limitations of a body held together by titanium rods and prayers. Because Sam was barely fourteen days out from a reconstruction that looked more like a bridge-building project than a medical procedure, the activities were deceptively simple and utterly exhausting.
The session had started with isometric holds, which sounded clinical but looked like torture to a man in Sam’s position. Jolene had watched, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle of his wheelchair, while the therapist coached Sam through the process of simply trying to wake up the muscles that had gone dormant or been severed by shrapnel. He’d had to lay flat on his back and attempt to squeeze his quadriceps without actually moving the shattered limb. He’d stared at his thigh with a terrifying intensity, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he tried to bridge the gap between his brain and the mangled tissue. When a tiny, reflexive twitch finally rippled under the skin, Sam just closed his eyes and exhaled a breath that sounded like he was fighting a sob.
Then came dangling. It was a prerequisite for the standing goal, designed to let his circulatory system adjust to the blood rushing back into his lower extremities. The therapists had assisted him in swinging his legs over the side of the mat table, letting them hang for a few minutes. Jolene had seen the color of his foot shift from a pale, post-surgical ivory to a bruised, angry purple as the pressure mounted against the incisions. She knew the sensation was like a thousand hot needles waking up all at once, but Sam had refused to ask them to stop. He’d gripped the edge of the vinyl table until his fingers turned blue, his jaw set so hard she feared he might crack a tooth.
But it was the standing frame that had truly broken her heart that morning. They hadn't expected him to bear weight on the reconstructed leg, that was months away, but they wanted him to simply start moving his good leg. With two therapists flanking him and a harness secured under his arms as a safety net, Sam had leveraged himself upward.
The sheer effort of the movement had turned his face a ghastly shade of grey. Jolene had stood in his line of sight, a fixed point for him to focus on. For three agonizing minutes, he held the position, his body vibrating with tremors so violent they were visible. When they finally encouraged him to relax, he had slumped forward, his forehead resting against Jolene’s stomach, completely spent. Now, watching him sleep, she realized he was overcompensating. He was trying to outpace the trauma, as if he could sprint away from the reality of the IED by sheer force of will. She looked at the heavy, white cast and the external fixator pins that protruded through his skin, and she wondered how much of his spirit was being burned as fuel to keep that leg. She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches above his hand, afraid that even the lightest touch might remind his nervous system of the battle it was currently losing to exhaustion. In the quiet of the ward, the only sound was the hum of the holiday carols and the whistle of his breath, a fragile, hard-won peace that she knew would shatter the moment he opened his eyes and remembered he had to do it all again tomorrow.
The memory of yesterday’s confrontation still sat like a stone in Jolene’s chest. It had been a three-way standoff in the sterile, narrow corridor outside Sam's room, the air thick with the smell of floor wax and the simmering tension of people who all had the best interests of the same man in mind but trusted him in entirely different ways. All Sam had done since he’d first learned what happened was ask about Elliot. It was a refrain that surfaced every time he regained consciousness. A fixation that transcended his own physical agony. To Sam, recovery apparently wasn't a solo mission.
The argument had been sparked by a chance encounter in the cafeteria. Jolene had run into Dottie, Elliot’s mother. Through tears that fell into her lukewarm coffee, Dottie had shared the news: Elliot was awake. He was groggy, drifting in and out of a heavy, pharmacological fog, and the brain trauma had robbed him of his speech for the time being, but the light was back on. The news had hit Jolene with profound relief until the confirmation that Elliot’s leg had been taken just above the knee, made her breath catch.
When she brought the news back to the ward, the pushback had been immediate. Mary had crossed her arms, her face set in a mask of maternal protection. To Mary, Sam was a glass figurine recently glued back together. Any emotional vibration, any surge of adrenaline or sympathetic trauma, threatened to shatter him again. She didn't want him seeing the cost of their deployment so viscerally. She wanted to keep him in a vacuum of healing, shielded from the sight of his teammate’s missing limb.
Dr. Mason, Sam’s lead surgeon, had been equally clinical in his hesitation. He spoke in terms of "cortisol spikes" and "hemodynamic stability," arguing that the sheer emotional load of such a visit could impede the delicate cellular repair happening in Sam’s leg. He was worried about Sam seeing the amputation. As if he worried that the sight would act as a dark mirror, showing Sam a version of "what could have been" and spiraling him into a depression that no amount of physical therapy could fix.
But Jolene had found a voice she didn't know she possessed. One tempered by months of navigating his moods and the specific, stubborn pride of a Navy SEAL. "He isn't going to heal if he thinks he's alone," she had argued, her voice low but vibrating with a fierce, quiet authority. She had looked Mary in the eye, refusing to flinch. "You think you're protecting him from stress? The stress of not knowing is what’s killing him. He’s a teammate, Mary. He sees Elliot as his brother. You keep him locked in this room, and he’ll just keep worrying. Let him see the man."
She had turned the same intensity on Dr. Mason, challenging the clinical coldness of his assessment. She pointed out that Sam’s vitals spiked whenever he was restless and worried, and dropped into a steady, healthy rhythm whenever he felt like he had a handle on the situation. Morale, she insisted, was a physiological requirement, not a luxury. The debate had lasted nearly an hour, a grueling cycle of "what-ifs" and "not-yets," until Jolene finally wore them down through sheer, relentless advocacy. They had reached a fragile compromise: a ten-minute visit, strictly monitored, provided Sam’s blood pressure remained stable throughout the afternoon.
Now, leaning her head against the cool glass of the window, Jolene felt the weight of that victory. She had won him the visit, but she was acutely aware of the risk. She was the one who would have to pick up the pieces if the sight of Elliot broke the last of Sam’s stoic resolve. She looked at Sam’s sleeping face, the lines of tension still etched around his mouth, and wondered if she had opened a door to his healing or merely a window into a new kind of darkness. But as she watched the slow, steady rise of his chest, she knew she’d do it again. In the world they lived in, a SEAL didn't need a padded room; he needed his team. And tomorrow, for ten minutes, she would give him back a piece of his world.
The vibration of her phone in her pocket broke her out of the daze. Jolene slid it out, the screen glowing with “Loretta” across the smaller front screen. Slipping out into the hallway, Jolene leaned against the cool, painted cinderblock, as she opened the flip open and hit accept. "Hey, Loretta," she whispered, her voice sounding thin and foreign to her own ears.
"Hey, sugar. I was just checking in," Loretta’s warm, Southern drawl flowed through the receiver, instantly making Jolene’s throat tighten. "How are things holding up today? How’s our boy?"
Jolene closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the wall. "It’s... looking up a tad, I think. We had a rough morning in PT, but the big news is Elliot. He’s awake finally. He isn't talking yet, and may not for a while since the brain trauma is still keeping things pretty foggy, but he’s back with us. Dottie is a wreck, but the good kind for once."
"Oh, thank the Lord," Loretta exhaled, a sound of genuine relief. "That’s the best Christmas gift that family could’ve asked for. And Sam? Has he seen him?"
"Tomorrow," Jolene said, a hint of her hard-won pride peeking through. "I had to go a few rounds with the doctor and his mother to make it happen, but they finally cleared a short visit. I think it’s the only thing that’s going to keep Sam from jumping out of his skin."
"That boy is lucky to have you baby," Loretta said firmly. There was a pause, the sound of a heavy door slamming in the background on the Virginia end. "Listen, honey. Randy and I have the truck all loaded up. Everything you asked for from the house is in the back, plus a few things I figured you’d need once you two move into that on-site housing. Some real pillows, a decent coffee maker, and enough Tupperware to keep you fed for a month. We’re heading out at the crack of dawn tomorrow to drive up."
Jolene felt a wave of relief so sharp it was almost painful. Having her own truck felt like a tether back to her identity. "And," Loretta added, her voice softening, "we’ll have a passenger. Chewie is currently sitting and looking very unimpressed, but he’s coming to see his mom."
The mention of the German Shepherd finally broke the dam. Jolene had to bite her lip to keep a sob from escaping. She could almost smell the earthy, corn-chip scent of his fur and feel the weight of his heavy head on her knee. Being away from home for well over a month at this point had created a strange, distorted reality where the world was made entirely of linoleum, bad coffee, and medical equipment. She felt detached from the version of herself that lived in a house, that walked a dog, and didn’t wake up questioning the mood or pain levels of the person she loved.
"Thank you, Loretta. Truly," Jolene managed, her voice thick. "I feel like I’ve been living in a bubble. Everything outside these walls feels like a movie I watched a long time ago. I think seeing that big, shedding goofball is about the only thing I want for the holidays this year."
"That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, sugar," Loretta’s voice took on a cautious, weighted tone that made Jolene’s internal alarms go off.
Jolene shifted her weight, her skepticism immediate and sharp. "Loretta, if this is about the shop, tell Randy he can stop worrying. I already had Ruth pass along the year-end bonuses to Tobias and my lead mechanic. They’ve been holding down the fort for weeks, and I made sure they’re compensated for the extra shifts. Everything is handled. The business isn't going to fold just because I'm stuck in Maryland."
"It’s not the shop, Jolene," Loretta interrupted gently, though there was a persistent edge to her voice. "Your shop is fine. Everyone there is rooting for you. This is about... after. For when you and Sam actually get to come home."
Jolene went still. Home. The word felt like a concept from a dream she couldn’t quite remember the details of.
"Randy and I have been talking it over with some of the regulars at the bar," Loretta continued. "Specifically the veterans. Trey, you know, the one who lost his leg in the Sandbox and his wife, Sarah. I know you talked to her that first morning you got the call about Sam."
Jolene remembered Sarah’s voice from that blurred, horrific morning. Calmly explaining the process and giving her advice on how to fight the bureaucracy. As time went on, she realized how much the woman had been right. At the time, her voice had been the only thing steady enough to keep Jolene upright while she packed a bag in a trance.
"They’ve been through the ringer," Loretta said. "The surgeries, the limb loss, the way the world looks different when you finally step back into it. They’ve come up with a list of things that might prove helpful. Adjustments for the house mostly. So for Christmas, we want to help prep the house before you two get back."
Jolene didn’t answer immediately. She felt a strange, dizzying sensation, like the floor of the hospital corridor had suddenly turned to water. To Loretta and the folks back in Virginia, "after" was a destination they were preparing for. But to Jolene, the "after" didn't exist yet. Her entire universe consisted of the four walls of Sam’s room, the blue-tiled PT gym, and the path to the cafeteria. The idea of a grocery store, of a house with stairs, of a life that didn't revolve around a medication schedule felt terrifyingly foreign. She looked down at her hands where her cuticles were dry from constant sanitizing, and realized she couldn't even remember what her own living room smelled like.
"Jolene? You still there?" Loretta’s voice crackled, pulling her back from the edge of a dissociative fog. "I know it’s a lot to wrap your head around while you’re in the thick of it, but we’ve already been in touch with James. He’s got a guy coming over to start on a ramp for the front door."
Jolene blinked, trying to visualize her front porch. Now, in her mind's eye, it was being overlaid with industrial wood and grip tape. "A ramp," she echoed.
"And we measured that downstairs bedroom," Loretta continued, "Randy thinks if we take out that old bookcase off the far wall, there’s plenty of room for a king-sized bed in there. Enough clearance for a wheelchair to make the turn, too. We’ll need to widen the door frames a tad to make it comfortable, but Randy’s already got the trim pulled back. He says he can manage the rest by the weekend."
Jolene frowned, her brain snagging on a logistical detail that felt safe to argue about. "Loretta, wait. I don’t even have a king-sized bed."
"I know you don't, sugar," Loretta said gently, though there was a hint of don't-you-argue-with-me in her voice. "That’s why we went ahead and bought one. High-end, firm enough for his back, with an adjustable base. It’s sitting in your living room right now. And if you’re okay with it, Randy wants to get a decent shower seat and some grab bars set up in that downstairs bathroom before you get home."
The hallway seemed to tilt. The downstairs bedroom. The downstairs bathroom.
She thought of their bedroom upstairs. The loft with the slanted ceilings, the soft rug she’d picked out in Richmond, and the way the morning sun hit the pillows. Something that had shifted over the years from her teenage bedroom, to her adult cave, now their sanctuary. The place where Sam felt most like Sam and least like a soldier. And suddenly, she realized he wouldn't be seeing it. Not for a long time. Those sixteen oak steps she ran up and down twenty times a day, were now an insurmountable mountain range for her boyfriend. "The stairs," Jolene whispered, her voice cracking. "He can't... he won't be able to go upstairs."
"Not for a while, honey," Loretta said softly. "But that's okay. We’re going to make that downstairs room feel like a suite. We’ll move your nightstands down, get your favorite quilt on that new bed. It’ll be home, Jolene. Just a different version of it."
Jolene leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, a single hot tear tracing a path down her cheek. The time Loretta was describing wasn't the homecoming she had hallucinated during the dark hours in the waiting room. It wasn't a return to their old life. It was the beginning of a heavily modified one. The house was being dismantled and rebuilt before they even set foot in it, stripped of its old flow to accommodate the hardware and the struggle he’d continue to endure once he left the walls of this place. The detachment she felt from Virginia suddenly flipped into a terrifying intimacy. Her home was changing without her. Her life was being rearranged by people who knew the path because they’d seen others walk it, and while she was deeply, bone-wearily grateful, she also felt a mourning for the simplicity of the life they’d had before that IED changed the gravity of their world.
"Okay," Jolene finally managed, her voice thick with the reality of it. "Okay, Loretta. Tell Randy... tell him thank you. And tell James I'll pay him for the materials as soon as I can get around to writing a check."
"Oh hush baby. It takes a village and there are more than enough people willing to help you out," Loretta said. "We'll see you at the hospital, sugar. Chewie’s already whining for you." Jolene hung up and stood in the silence of the hall for a long minute. She looked at the door to Sam's room. On the other side of that divide was a man who still didn't know he was coming home to a downstairs bedroom and a plywood ramp.
The weight of it finally became too much to carry standing up as. Jolene let her back scrape against the wall as she sank down. She tucked her head between her legs, wrapping her arms tight around her shins as if she could physically hold herself together before she scattered across the floor. The first sob was silent. A quiet catch in her throat that made her chest ache, but then the tears came. She had been so focused on now. She had survived the last weeks by shrinking her world down to the next hour, the next pill, the next twitch of Sam's toes or grumpy retort coming from his morphine haze before he fell back asleep. She’d prided herself on that stoicism. But Loretta’s words had forced the future into the room, and it was a future that felt like a haunting in a way.
That downstairs bedroom wasn't just a guest room to Jolene. It was the room where her father’s life had ebbed away, one labored breath at a time. She could still see the ghost of the hospital bed that had sat in the center of that space, the smell of rubbing alcohol and the oppressive silence of a house waiting for a heart to stop. She’d spent years reclaiming that room, filling the shelves with books and the walls with life, trying to scrub away the memory of the man she loved being reduced to someone who couldn't lift a glass of water.
And now, history was looping back around.
The image of Sam – vibrant, unstoppable, indomitable Sam – laying in that same space, trapped by a shattered leg and a long recovery, made her stomach turn. She saw him in her mind's eye, struggling to manage the shuffle to the downstairs bathroom, his eyes filled with that same hollow pity she’d seen in the shower only a few hours ago. At Walter Reed, she was an extra set of hands that could step back when the heavy lifting began. But going home meant being stripped of the safety net of the nursing staff. Once they crossed the threshold of that house, the title of girlfriend would be buried under the title of caregiver.
She hadn't even had a moment to breathe in the relief of him being back on American soil before the terms of his return had manifested. There would be no easy transition back into the rhythms of a couple like last time. No joyful time spent reuniting in every corner of the house until they were spent. No quiet evenings with a hum that said “You’re finally home”. Instead, there would be the dehumanizing logistics of the everyday. She’d be the one holding the hand-held urinal in the middle of the night because the trek to the bathroom was too much. She’d be the one kneeling on the floor of the downstairs shower, wrestling with trash bags and medical tape to wrap his leg, making sure the water didn't touch the wounds that still looked like a roadmap of a war zone. Every inch of her home was being audited for his current disability. She’d be the one moving their plates and glasses to lower, accessible shelves so he didn't have to strain from a seated position. She’d be the one policing the perimeter of his pain.
Then, a sharper, more intense grief pierced through: Chewbacca.
She could see it so clearly now. The big, clumsy German Shepherd she’d not seen in over a month. The seventy-pound ball of enthusiasm and fur, bounding toward the front door the moment they arrived. Chewie’s love was physical. He lived for the weighted press of his body against theirs. He would vault onto the bed and sprawl across their legs until they were pinned beneath his warmth. But a king-sized bed in a downstairs room wouldn't be a playground anymore. It would be a recovery zone. One misplaced paw, one joyful leap to greet his dad, and the fragile architecture of Sam's reconstructed bone could be shattered all over again. She would have to be the one to push him away. She’d have to train the dog she loved to keep his distance from the man he’d missed for months. The image of Chewie sitting confused at the edge of the rug, ears tilted as he watched Sam from a safe distance, made Jolene’s breath hitch in a fresh wave of sorrow.
Everything was being cordoned off. Every intimacy was being traded for an intervention. She stared at the speckled pattern of the linoleum floors through a blur of tears, realizing that the home she was going back to was a house where she’d have to be a soldier just as much as Sam had been. She pressed her forehead further into the crook of her elbows, pulling her knees tighter until she was a small, impenetrable knot against the wall. She didn't want the pity of a passing intern or the practiced, gentle hand of a nurse on her shoulder. She needed to be invisible while she fell apart, hidden behind the shield of her own arms. As she gripped her legs, the metal of the ring on her left hand pressed into her skin.
The promise ring Sam had slid onto her finger only nights before he deployed as a placeholder for the life they were supposed to start the moment his boots hit Virginia soil for the last time. He’d had it all mapped out with that quiet, SEAL-commanding confidence of his. He was going to go straight to Randy and tell her Godfather that he wanted to be the man to provide for her. They’d talked about a small, barefoot ceremony in the backyard under the oak trees, with just the people they cared about. No fuss, no fanfare, just a sunset, a few cold beers, and a promise that the distance was finally over.
But the backyard was going to have a ramp now.
The simple, beautiful image of Sam standing tall at the end of a grass aisle, looking at her with that lopsided grin, felt like a photograph that had been left out in the rain until the edges bled into nothing. A wedding wasn't just a low priority now. It felt like a cruel joke to even contemplate. How could they dance in the grass when he was not even close to relearning how to stand for three minutes at a time? How could they celebrate a new beginning when every day was a grueling battle just to maintain the status quo? That mental image of the backyard and Sam’s hand in hers, had been her North Star through the lonely and terrifying months of his deployment. It was the only thing that had kept the shadows at bay when the news reports grew grim.
He had promised her, over a static-filled satellite call, that this was the last time. He was done chasing the horizon. He’d seen enough of the world’s rough edges. He’d started making real plans, for a life that didn’t involve a go-bag by the door. The last time they’d spoken before the world went sideways, his voice had been uncharacteristically light, buzzing with a secret he couldn't quite keep. "I’ve got a surprise for you, Jo," he’d told her, the smile evident in his tone. "Next time we talk, it’ll all be officially in place. Just hold on a little longer, baby."
She had held on. And now, having spent hours scouring his military and medical files to play the part of his advocate, she knew exactly what that surprise was. She’d found the transfer order tucked in the denser file provided by the military officer liaison here at Walter Reed only a few days ago. He had been talking with command about a permanent instructor position at Little Creek. He wasn't leaving the Navy entirely, and she truly hadn’t thought he would any time soon. The SEAL teams were in his marrow at this point. But he was stepping off the front lines. He was going to be a mentor for the next generation. It meant he would still be a Petty Officer, but he would be out of the path of immediate danger. He would have been coming home every day at the same time, pulling into the driveway while the sun was still up, shedding his gear to take Chewie for a walk before dinner. A life of boring, beautiful routine.
Seeing those papers had felt like a second casualty. He had been so close to safety. He’d had one foot out the door of the war zone, only for the universe to reach out and snag him by the heel at the very last second. Now, the instructor job felt like another thing they’d lost. How could he meet the physical requirements of the Teams now? How could he stand on a range all day when his leg was a mosaic of titanium and trauma? The career path he’d carved out as their sanctuary was now as uncertain as a walk down the aisle.
Jolene squeezed her eyes shut, the fabric of her sleeves soaking up the tears. She hated herself for the salt in her wounds. As she sat there, curled into a ball on the hospital floor, an ugly guilt began to seep in, tainting her grief. She felt like a monster for mourning a backyard wedding and a five-o'clock homecoming while the man who had tried to give them to her was lying twenty feet away, physically shattered.
Sam hadn't done this maliciously. He hadn't chosen that specific path in the dirt. He hadn't asked for the IED to be there, and hadn't wanted to trade his instructor's post for a wheelchair and months long ambiguous recovery. He had done everything right. He’d secured the transfer, he’d bought the ring, he’d looked toward the exit. And that was why the anger felt so suffocating. It had nowhere to go. She couldn't scream at Sam, so she bottled up that frustration at the world, at the timing, at the cruel, cosmic joke of it all.
But beneath the anger was something even darker. A whispered resentment that she fought to kill every time it flared. She resented that her life was now a series of modifications. She resented the downstairs bedroom would be different and there’d be a plywood ramp. And then, the crushing shame followed. Because how could she resent him for being a victim of the very danger he had tried to leave for her sake?
She thought of him in the shower today. The way his pride had stripped away along with his clothes, leaving only that raw, pitiful exposure. He looked so diminished and unlike the man who had promised her a surprise, and it made her heart break. She was angry for him, but she was also, selfishly, angry at the situation he had brought home with him. She felt like a traitor for even thinking about it. She should be grateful he was alive. She was grateful he was alive. But as she tucked her face deeper into her arms, she had to admit to the empty hallway that she was also exhausted by the weight of his survival.
She was trying so hard not to let that resentment take root, trying to ensure that when she looked at him, she didn't see a burden or a broken promise. She wanted to see Sam. Just Sam. But as the image of the struggling look in his eyes flashed back into her mind, she realized that the hardest part of being his caregiver wouldn't be the urinals or the bandages. It would be the constant, daily battle to keep her love from being replaced by a weary and dutiful compassion.
The scuff of footsteps approached, echoing against the linoleum with a deliberate, slow pace. Jolene didn't move. She didn't want to see the pity in a stranger's eyes or the professional concern of a floor nurse. She stayed tucked into her own fortress of denim and grief. The footsteps stopped right in front of her. For a moment, there was only the sound of the soft Christmas Carols from the nurses' station. Then, there was a soft rustle of fabric, and someone sank down onto the floor beside her.
Jolene didn't look up. She assumed she knew who it was. It was likely Stephanie, Sam’s sister, who had been hovering on the periphery of the ward with a similar look of shell-shocked exhaustion. Or perhaps it was Dottie, seeking out the only other woman in the building who understood the specific, agonizing weight of waiting for a man to see what was left of himself. When the arms finally reached out and pulled her in, Jolene didn't resist. She let herself be drawn into a firm embrace, her forehead coming to rest against a shoulder that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and a floral perfume she couldn't quite place. She sobbed quietly, the sound muffled by the other person’s coat, the dam finally breaking completely now that she wasn't crying into the empty air. She expected a word of comfort. An "it'll be okay" that she could silently scoff at. Instead, she felt a hand stroke her hair, smoothing the messy strands back from her face with a practiced, maternal tenderness.
"I know," a voice whispered, and Jolene froze.
It wasn't Stephanie’s youthful tremor or Dottie’s southern lilt. It was Mary.
Sam’s mother held her tighter, her own frame surprisingly strong despite the weeks of worry that had carved deep lines into her face. This was the woman Jolene had been fighting with only twenty-four hours ago. They had stood on opposite sides of a clinical divide, but here, on the floor of a hallway that led to a room they both haunted, the distance vanished. Mary didn't offer platitudes. She just held the woman her son loved, letting Jolene’s tears soak into her shoulder, acknowledging the silent, terrifying truth they both shared. That the man they loved might never be the same.
"He's my son," Mary whispered, her voice barely carrying. "But you’re the one he’s trying to get back up for. I’ve had him for almost thirty years, Jolene, but I know who he’s looking for when he wakes up."
She didn't pull Jolene in immediately. There was a visible stiffening of Mary’s shoulders as if she were weighing whether she even had the right to offer comfort. She eventually reached out, her hand coming to rest on Jolene’s arm with a careful lightness. Jolene let out a shaky, broken breath, finally pulling back just enough to look at Mary. The older woman’s eyes were rimmed with red, her expression uncharacteristically guarded. She looked like she wanted to apologize for a dozen things at once, yet she remained poised, navigating a conversational minefield.
"I'm sorry," Jolene managed, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. "I’m not… I’m usually better at this. I’ve just been so focused on starting physical therapy that I didn't think about how different everything is going to be when we get back to Virginia."
Mary’s gaze flickered to the promise ring on Jolene’s hand, and for a fleeting second, a flash of genuine pain crossed her face. Not for the situation, but for something internal. "You’ve been doing the work of three people," Mary said, her voice strained with a strange kind of restraint. "And I know I haven't exactly made it easier. I’ve been… difficult. Protective. Perhaps in the wrong ways." She paused, as if she seemed to be debating how much to say, her eyes darting toward the closed door of Sam’s room. "I said some things to him, Jolene. Before his birthday. Things I thought were… well... I was worried about the weight all of this would put on you. The unfairness of it."
Jolene frowned, her brow furrowing through the fading tears. "Unfairness? Mary, I want to be here."
"I know you do," Mary said quickly, her tone almost pleading. "I’ve never questioned that. It’s just… when you love someone as much as we love him, you start fearing the breaking point. I was so afraid of you reaching yours that I think I ended up hurting him. I put a pressure on him that he didn't need, especially not now."
Jolene pulled back slightly from Mary’s embrace, her eyes searching the older woman’s face. "What do you mean?" Jolene asked, her voice hovering between curiosity and a growing sense of dread.
Mary looked down at her lap, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. The poise she usually wore like armor seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a woman who looked deeply ashamed. "I cornered him," Mary began, her voice a fragile whisper. "The night before his birthday, while you were asleep on his arm. I saw the way you were looking after him. Handling the paperwork, talking to the CO, doing everything a wife does. And I... I let my own fears and my own ideas of how things should be, get the better of me. I told him it was selfish. I told him he was asking you to carry the weight of a spouse without giving you the protection of his name. I told him he was using your devotion without committing to you in the eyes of God."
Jolene felt the air leave her lungs as if she’d been struck. The memory of Sam’s quiet withdrawal over the last few days. The way he’d let his hand slip from hers, the way he’d stare at the ceiling with a haunted, distant look. He hadn't been pulling away because he was tired. He had been pulling away because his own mother had told him he was a burden and a thief of Jolene's time.
"He told me he had a plan," Mary continued, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the lines on her cheek. "He broke down, Jolene. I’ve never seen him like that. He said he was going to do it the moment he got back to Virginia. He was going to talk to Randy. He wanted to do it right. And he told me... he told me he wouldn't propose to you from a hospital bed while you were holding a bedpan. He refused to offer you a broken version of himself."
Jolene didn't explode. She didn't stand up and scream at Mary for her interference, though the impulse flickered deep in her chest. Instead, she leaned her head back against the cinderblock wall and let out a long, shuddering breath. The anger wasn't directed at Mary. At least, not entirely. It was a simmering frustration at the world for making everything so complicated.
"He's so stubborn," Jolene whispered, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision. "He’s so damn proud."
She looked at Mary, and for the first time, she let the mask slip. "You want to know the truth, Mary? I have been bottling it up. All of it. I’m so disappointed that this is our life right now. I’m angry that our new beginning is going to be a ramp and sleeping in the downstairs bedroom. And yeah, it’s hard. It’s incredibly hard to look at the man I love and see him looking at me knowing he’s a charity case. I fucking hate seeing what it does to his pride."
She wiped her eyes aggressively, "But the idea that he thinks I need a better version of him to be happy... that’s what hurts the most. I don't need a SEAL right now. I just need Sam. I don't care about the optics or the pension or the insurance. I care that he’s alive and that he’s here."
Jolene’s hand went instinctively to the promise ring, twisting it until it bit into her skin. "I’m not letting it stain how I see him. I won't. But God, it’s exhausting to fight the doctors and the military and then come back to the room and have to fight him just to let me love him through this."
Mary reached out, her hand trembling as she covered Jolene’s. "I didn't realize how much my words would reinforce his own worst fears. I thought I was defending you. I see now I was just making the mountain he has to climb that much steeper."
Jolene let out a long, heavy sigh. She didn't have the energy left for a grudge, not when they were all already drowning in the same sea. "There isn't a manual for this, Mary," Jolene said, her voice sounding older than her years. "There’s no guidebook on how to be the mother or the partner of a man who just had his world blown apart. We’re all just… we’re just making it up as we go."
She looked down at Mary’s hand covering hers, noting the way the older woman’s skin looked like parchment under the fluorescent glare. The poise that usually defined Mary Walsh had been replaced by a raw, naked vulnerability that Jolene had never expected to see.
Jolene grew quiet for a moment, the carols from the nurses' station fading into the background of her own thoughts. She thought about the woman standing in the kitchen in Connecticut who’d dropped a wine glass. The woman who took pride in her traditions and even greater pride in her son’s career even if it pained her terribly.
"I appreciate what you were trying to do," Jolene said softly, the confession costing her a significant amount of pride. "I mean that. I recognize the intention, Mary. You were trying to look out for me in the only way you knew how. You were trying to make sure I wasn't being taken for granted." She looked Mary in the eye, her expression weary but sincere. "It came out really badly. It hit every one of Sam’s insecurities at exactly the wrong time. But I know it came from a place of love. You just wanted things to be right for us. You wanted us to have a foundation you believe in."
Jolene squeezed Mary’s hand back, a brief, firm pressure. "But we have to stop trying to make things right by some old standard. Nothing is going to be right for a long time. It’s just going to be... this. And I need you to trust that I’m here because I choose to be, not because I’m waiting for a title to make it worth my while."
The tension in Mary’s face didn't vanish, but it shifted, the lines of shame softening into something more like a quiet, mournful understanding. "I’m sorry," Mary said, her voice small and stripped of its usual rehearsed grace. "I am so sorry for how difficult I’ve been. I’ve made a hard situation nearly impossible for you, Jolene."
"It’s okay," Jolene replied automatically, the reflex of a woman who preferred a quick fix to a long, drawn-out emotional autopsy.
"No, it isn't," Mary countered, her eyes flashing with sharp honesty. "It isn't okay to treat the person helping my son like an obstacle."
Jolene huffed a short, dry laugh, the sound startled and honest. "Well, you're right. It’s not. But I’m not exactly great at the 'feely' stuff, so it’s just easier for me to say it’s fine and wipe the slate clean so we can move on." She wiped a lingering streak of salt from her cheek with the back of her hand, her movements brisk. "I’d rather just get back to focusing on being there for him."
Mary looked at her then with a gaze that felt like it was finally seeing past the blunt girl who fought back with her in the hallways, and slowly finding the woman Sam held in his mind's eye. "I know why he likes you so much," she said softly.
Jolene paused, her hand halfway to her hair. She gave a skeptical tilt of her head. "Really? Because I’m pretty sure most days I just give him a headache and tell him his form in PT is sloppy to try and get him to laugh."
Mary didn't smile, but her expression warmed in a way that felt authentic. She looked down at the linoleum. "I’ve never seen him like this with anyone. Not ever."
"Like what?" Jolene asked, her voice dropping into a quieter, more guarded register. It echoed that conversation they’d started in Germany, but never quite finished. "Miserable? Because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who's had to deal with this particular version of him."
"No," Mary said, shaking her head slowly. "Vulnerable. He’s always been... dutiful. He’s had girlfriends before, back in high school and when he first went to college, but it was always from a distance. He was awkward. He was stoic to the point of being cold. I never dreamed of seeing Samuel engage in any form of public affection. It just wasn't in him." She looked back up at Jolene, a ghost of a maternal smirk touching her lips. "You should see his prom photos. He looks like he’s about to hurl, barely touching his date's waist. Poor Rachel, sweet girl, but Sam looked like he was being held at gunpoint for the sake of a photograph in front of the neighbors. He’s always kept his heart behind a locked door."
The image of a teenage, nauseated Sam Walsh BARELY touching a girl's waist for a prom photo flickered in Jolene’s mind, and for a second, she felt a strange sense of vertigo. It was as if Mary were describing a different person entirely. The Sam she knew had carved a permanent place for himself in her life in a way that had never been awkward or distant. Not for a single second.
As Jolene sat there, the memories began to rush back, each one a rebuttal to the stoic boy Mary had raised. She thought back to that first night at her place after the car show. They’d barely known each other, and the air between them was still cautious, yet he’d stepped into her personal space without a flicker of hesitation. He’d reached out and pushed the curls off her face, his gaze heavy, looking down at her with a raw, unreserved intensity that had made her breath hitch. There had been no distance then, only an immediate, magnetic claim.
Since that night, he’d been a ghost in the best way, always finding a way to tether her to him. In crowded bars or noisy spaces, she’d feel the familiar weight of his hand on the small of her back, guiding her through a room. His fingers hooking gently into the belt loop of her jeans. In the supermarket, he’d rest a hand on the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the hairline at her nape in a way that made her feel entirely seen.
She could almost feel it now. The sensation of him seizing those rare, stolen moments when the world wasn't looking. He’d lean down to kiss her temple, with the two-day-old stubble on his top lip scratching deliciously against her skin. The scent of him always filling her lungs from the pure proximity. He wasn't performative about it, but he was possessive in a way that felt like a secret they shared in plain sight.
Mary reached out, not to grab Jolene’s hand this time, but just to gesture toward the door of the room. "But with you... even when he’s angry or he’s hurting, he’s open. I saw the way he was touching your hair when you were asleep. I’ve seen the way he looks for you the second he hears a door open. He’s never been warm like that, Jolene. You’ve brought out a side of my son I didn't think existed. I knew it from the first time I saw you in Clinton."
It was a rare, humanizing glimpse into the man before he became hers. It made her heart ache with a fresh, complicated kind of love. The realization that she wasn't just his caregiver or his partner, but the only person he’d ever felt safe enough to be soft with. Even now, in his wreckage, he was more present with her than he’d ever been with anyone else. Jolene’s eyes searched Mary’s for a moment, the heavy silence of the ward pressing in on them. She needed to breathe, to push back against the darkness. A small, tired smile finally ghosted across her lips as she leaned her head back against the cold wall.
"He’s really ridiculous, you know," Jolene said, her voice lighter, catching on a genuine thread of memory. "Before the deployment prior to this one, we were having one of those slow Sundays. Chili on the stove, laundry piled up on the floor, radio playing quietly. The kind of day where you actually feel like a normal person for five minutes."
Mary watched her, the tension in her brow easing as she followed Jolene’s lead away from the metaphorical ledge.
"So Sam decided it was time for a trim," Jolene continued, a huffed laugh escaping her. "But he was convinced he had to do it on the back porch. He had this whole rant about how the sound of the clippers would traumatize Chewie. He’s a Navy SEAL, Mary. You know he’s seen things that would make most men go gray, and he was genuinely worried about the dreaded blender incident repeating itself with my weird dog."
Mary tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a soft, recognizing chuckle escaping her. "He always was overly sensitive about pets. He cried for three days when his first goldfish went belly-up."
"I followed him out and there he was. Crouched near the porch rail, about to buzz his own head without a mirror, purely out of some weird, misplaced loyalty to a German Shepherd who once gave him an afternoon of side eyes for making a smoothie."
Jolene’s smile widened, her eyes distant as she drifted back to that kitchen. "I ended up taking the clippers from him and marching him back inside. I told him he had a second pair of eyes now and he might as well use them. He was so... nonchalant about it. Trying to act like he didn't care, telling me I’d probably scalp him because I’m 'bad at taking direction.' But when I finished, and I hadn't butchered it, he got this look. That quiet, crooked half-smile of his where only one dimple pops out on the right side."
She paused, her thumb tracing the edge of her ring. "He told me thank you. Not for the haircut, but for the slow Sunday. He told me he was grateful to just exist in the same space as me, doing the boring stuff. Folding laundry, mopping floors... he made it sound magic." Jolene looked at Mary, her expression softening into something profoundly steady. "That’s the man I'm taking home, Mary. Not the science project he thinks he is. The man who worries about my dog's feelings and thinks folding is a privilege."
Mary let out a breath as she looked toward the closed door of Sam’s room, her expression shifting from maternal worry to profound relief. "I used to lie awake when he was overseas," Mary admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Not just praying for his safety, but praying that he wouldn’t end up one of those men who only knows how to be a soldier. I was so afraid he was going to spend his life behind those walls he built, eventually turning into a bitter old man who died alone because he never let anyone close."
Jolene huffed a small, watery laugh, wiping the last of the salt from under her eyes. The image of a crotchety, gray-haired Sam Walsh scowling at the neighborhood kids from a porch chair was too easy to conjure. "Oh, he’ll probably still be bitter and old," Jolene teased, her voice regaining its characteristic grit. "I can already see him grumbling about the weather and telling me I’m mopping the floors wrong when he’s eighty. But he won't be alone."
She straightened her shoulders, the exhaustion in her bones still there, but the flickering light of her resolve burning a bit brighter. "My daddy raised me to be stubborn as a mule. Once I’ve set my mind on a person, there’s no shaking me off. For better or worse, Sam’s stuck with me now. He can try to push me away with all the pride he wants, but he’s going to find out pretty quickly that I’ve got nowhere else I’d rather be."
Mary reached out one last time, a brief but firm squeeze of Jolene’s forearm. "Then I suppose I should start praying for you instead," she said with a weak, tired smile. "Because a Walsh man is a lot for any woman to handle. Even one as tough as you."
"I like to think he’s met his match," Jolene said simply. Jolene gave her face one last, aggressive rub with the back of her hand, trying to chase away the puffiness that screamed of a hallway breakdown. She looked around the corridor, her eyes landing on the door to the women’s restroom near the elevators. "I’m going to go wash up," she said, her voice finally steadying into that pragmatic, "get-it-done" tone she used like a shield. "Sam probably shouldn't see me like this. He’s already got enough of a complex about being a burden. He doesn't need to see me falling apart in the hallway over the thoughts of a ramp."
Mary started to speak, a soft "Jolene–" escaping her lips, but then she abruptly cut herself off, her jaw tensing as she looked away.
Jolene paused, "Yes Ma'am?" she asked, her brow lifting.
Mary hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of her cardigan. She looked at the door to Sam’s room. "Maybe he should see you like this," she said quietly.
Jolene’s skepticism flared. "I’m trying to keep his morale up, not tank it."
"I know," Mary countered, her gaze shifting back to Jolene. "Not right this very second, but maybe later, when the lights are low and the doctors aren't hovering. You spend every waking hour being his strength. But if you hide every tear, you’re just building a wall between you two."
She took a small step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If you don't show him your own exhaustion and fear then you aren't really letting him be your partner. Maybe he needs to know that you still trust him enough to handle the not so fun stuff, too. Even from that bed."
Jolene stood frozen, the paper-thin logic of her stoicism suddenly feeling brittle. She’d been so busy being strong that she hadn't considered that it could all be making him feel isolated or useless.
"He wants to feel like a man," Mary added softly. "And part of being a man, the kind of man I tried to raise Sam to be, is being the one who wipes his woman’s tears. If you don't let him do that, you’re taking away one of the few things he can do for you in all this mess."
Jolene looked at her hands, the promise ring glinting under the harsh lights. She thought about the slow Sundays in the kitchen back in Virginia. How they’d worked side by side to share the domestic load. Now in a mission to be perfectly strong, she was inadvertently keeping him at arm's length, treating him like a patient, while he was starving to be her partner.
"I'll think about it," Jolene managed, her voice thick again. "But for now... for the sake of his blood pressure before he sees Elliot... I’m going to use some cold water."
Mary nodded, a look of quiet respect in her eyes. "Of course, dear. One battle at a time."
Jolene turned and walked toward the restroom, the weight of Mary’s words settling into her chest alongside the memories of the backyard and the dog. She wasn't just bringing him home to a ramp. She was bringing him home to a life that required both of them to be honest about the wreckage.
·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··
The drive back from Elliot’s wing was the quietest Jolene had ever known Sam to be.
Earlier he’d been a live wire. He hadn't stopped talking since he woke up from his nap with his voice raspy but urgent as he rattled on about how he just "needed to lay eyes on him." To Sam, seeing Elliot was the finish line of the first leg of this marathon. He’d convinced himself that once he saw his brother-in-arms alive, the rest of the recovery would finally make sense. They’d been warned, of course. Dottie had come up to Sam's floor to walk down with them, her face pale but her eyes steady. She’d given them the rundown in the elevator. Elliot was off the ventilator, drifting in and out of consciousness just like Sam had those first few days. He wasn't speaking and might not ever due to the trauma, but he was in there. He was responsive enough to squeeze Dottie’s hand for "yes" or "no" questions.
But no amount of briefing could prepare someone for the visual reality of it all.
Jolene watched from the doorway as Sam rolled his wheelchair closer to Elliot’s bed. He was wearing that impenetrable mask of stoic resolve. But as he got closer, his gaze couldn't help but snag on the white bandages where Elliot's leg used to be. It didn't matter that Sam was looking at his own shattered limb every day. Dottie leaned over, her voice a gentle whisper against Elliot’s temple. After a moment, Elliot let out a low, pained grunt. His eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of the sedatives, until they finally cracked open. His gaze wandered aimlessly for a second before snapping into focus on Sam.
The shift was instantaneous. As the haze cleared, Elliot’s eyes didn't fill with relief. They filled with a raw, shimmering confusion and a sudden well of tears. It was a look of such profound vulnerability that Sam actually had to flinch, his gaze dropping to his own lap before he forced himself back up.
"Look at you, you lazy prick," Sam rasped, his voice forced into a rough, familiar joviality. "Sleeping the day away while I’m out here doing laps in this chariot."
Elliot didn't speak, but his gaze remained locked on Sam, wide and searching.
Sam started talking. He told the story Ray had recounted about the medevac and how Sam's pants had fallen down while they were loading him into the tank. "My damn pants fell right to my ankles, El," Sam chuckled, though the sound was tight. "Dick just hanging out in the breeze for the whole world to see. Ray’s trying to lift me, and I'm yelling at him to at least buy me dinner first. Everyone’s screaming, there’s smoke everywhere, and I’m just worried about my modesty."
A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch pulled at the corner of Elliot’s mouth. It wasn't a laugh, but it was a sign of life. Elliot’s eyes eventually drifted past Sam, landing on Jolene where she stood near the monitors. Sam noticed the shift immediately. He didn't hesitate as he reached back, his hand finding Jolene’s and pulling her forward until she was standing right beside his chair.
"Yeah, I brought the unit milf to see you," Sam joked, a glimmer of his old self surfacing. "Thought you might need something better to look at than my ugly mug."
That earned a genuine, weak smile from Elliot. Sam squeezed Jolene’s hand, his thumb tracing her knuckles in a way that felt both possessive and incredibly tender. He looked up at Elliot, his expression turning uncharacteristically soft.
"She's doing a hell of a job taking care of me, El," Sam said quietly. "She’s currently staring down the Navy and my mother alike. I don't know how she hasn't walked out yet." He paused, a self-deprecating shadow crossing his face. "I'm sure as shit not good enough for her, but I’m too selfish to let her know that."
Elliot looked from Sam to Jolene, and for the first time that day, the tears in his eyes seemed to settle. He slowly, deliberately shook his head, a small but certain smile lingering on his lips. He knew, better than anyone, that Sam was wrong. Elliot’s gaze dropped away from them then, shifting toward the center of the bed. With a slow effort, he twitched the fingers of his right hand, gesturing toward the flat, empty space beneath the blankets where his leg should have been. It was a silent, heavy question. One that didn't need words to be devastating. Sam understood the code immediately. He didn't flinch this time. Instead, he gripped the wheels of his chair and pushed himself back a few inches, creating enough space to gesture toward his own mangled leg.
"Still attached," Sam said. He pulled back the light sheet covering his lap to reveal the external fixator of metal rods and pins protruding through his skin. "They’ve got me pinned together like a goddamn Erector Set. Doc says I’m more titanium than man at this point."
He tried for another smile, but the air in the room had suddenly become too thin. Seeing his brother's empty space right next to his own mangled limb made the reality of the blast feel less like a memory. "Listen," Sam said abruptly, his hands tightening on the wheels of the chair until his knuckles turned white. His breathing had hitched. "We gotta get moving. PT's gonna be breathing down my neck if I'm late." A lie Jolene immediately caught knowing they’d done PT this morning. She looked at him bewildered.
Sam leaned forward, briefly touching the edge of Elliot's mattress. "Merry Christmas, brother. You keep fighting. We’ll be out at the bar getting drinks before you even know it. I’ll make sure Ray pays for the first three rounds in exchange for letting my dick hang out."
Elliot’s eyes searched his, a flash of something desperate and knowing flickering in the depths of his pupils, but Sam was already turning the chair. "See ya, El. Bye, Dottie," he called out over his shoulder, his voice tight and clipped.
He didn't wait for a response. He navigated the door with a speed that bordered on reckless, the tires of the wheelchair squeaking against the polished floor. Jolene stood frozen for a half-second, offering a quick, sympathetic nod to Dottie with a “Good to see you Elliot” and a kiss to his cheek before she hurried out after him.
By the time she cleared the doorway, Sam was already twenty feet down the hall, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. "Sam! Hey, slow down," Jolene called out.
He didn't stop until he reached the alcove near the elevators, where the hallway opened up. He slammed the brakes on his chair with a sharp clack and just sat there, staring at the closed elevator doors. His chest was heaving, his hands still gripped so hard on the metal rims that they were shaking. Jolene caught up to him, stepping into his line of sight. She reached out, hovering her hand near his shoulder but not quite touching him yet. "Sam? What happened back there? You were doing so good, baby. Talk to me."
Jolene didn’t care about the people walking by or the sterile chill of the floor. She dropped to her knees right there in the alcove, bracing her hands on the armrests of his wheelchair so he had to look at her. His face was a mask of fractured granite, his jaw working so hard she could see the pulse jumping in his neck.
"Sam," she pleaded, her voice low and steady. "Look at me. What just happened?"
He shook his head, a violent, jerky motion. He wouldn't meet her eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. "I shouldn't have gone in there," he rasped. "I shouldn't have looked at him."
"You needed to see him, and he needed to see you," she countered softly. "Dottie said he’s been more alert today knowing you were coming to visit. You did that for him."
"I did that to him, Jolene!" Sam finally snapped, his eyes flashing toward hers, raw and bleeding with a guilt so heavy it made her flinch.
Jolene went still, her heart dropping into her stomach. "What on earth are you talking about? Sam, you were in the same blast. You were hurt just as bad–"
"No," he cut her off, his voice dropping. "Elliot wasn't supposed to be there. Not in that moment."
Jolene frowned, her fingers tightening on the metal of his chair. "What do you mean?"
"Earlier," Sam said, the words coming out like they were being dragged over broken glass. "Before the big one. We took a hit. A grenade. A tiny, insignificant piece of frag caught Elliot in the upper arm. It was a clean through-and-through, Jo. He could’ve tied a rag around it and kept moving. He wanted to." He let out a shaky breath, his head dropping forward until his forehead almost touched hers. "But I called for an evac. Just for him."
"Sam, that’s protocol, isn't it?" she asked, trying to find the logic, trying to find the bridge back to his sanity. "If a man is hit, you get him out."
"Sort of," he whispered. "But as the second, especially with medical calls, I had leeway. I could’ve cleared him to stay. It was a scratch, Jolene. But I was cautious. I wanted him out of the line of fire, so I called it in." He looked up at her then, and the agony in his eyes was unbearable. "We wouldn't have been on that specific stretch of dirt if I hadn't made that call." He choked back a sound. "Elliot would’ve been fine with a few stitches and a scar to brag about. But because of a decision I made, he’s in that bed with a missing leg and a brain that can’t find the words to say hello. He's in worse shape because of me."
"Sam, stop it. Right now," Jolene said, her voice unwavering. She reached up, cupping his face with both hands, forcing his head up so he couldn't hide in the shadow of his own guilt. "You cannot do this to yourself. You are not a god, Sam. You had absolutely no way of knowing what was going to happen. You were looking out for him like a good leader does."
But Sam didn't stop. He didn't even seem to hear her. He was back in the smoke, back in the heat and the smell of burnt ozone and copper. "I was guiding him," Sam rasped, his eyes vacant, staring through her. "The smoke was so thick you couldn't see your own hands. I had him by the plate carrier, pushing him toward the tank from behind. It made sense at the time. Keep him oriented, keep him moving forward while I had him in view."
He let out a sharp, bitter sound that was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a choke.
"If I had been in the front, Jolene... like a leader is supposed to be. If I’d been the one leading the way instead of pushing from the back, I’d have been the one closer to the center of it. I’d have taken the brunt of the pressure wave. I’d have been the shield."
He gripped the armrests of the wheelchair so hard the metal groaned.
"He was only in that spot because I put him there. I gave the order to move, I chose the path, and then I stood behind him while the world opened up under his feet. How am I supposed to look Dottie in the eye? How am I supposed to sit in that room and talk about getting drinks, when I’m the reason he’s never going to walk into a bar on his own two legs again?" His hands were shaking now, a violent tremor that traveled all the way up his shoulders. "I should’ve been the one in that room unable to speak."
Jolene’s hands stayed firm on his cheeks, even as she felt the heat radiating from his skin. She watched the way his pupils were blown wide, apparent even in the dark depths of his brown iris. She could see the way he was vibrating with a self-loathing so potent she could almost taste it. She realized, with a sinking heaviness in her chest, that there were no words in her vocabulary that could dismantle a logic built on survivor’s guilt. To Sam, it was a math equation where the remainder was Elliot’s missing limb, and no amount of "it wasn't your fault" was going to change the sum.
"Sam," she whispered, her thumbs brushing over the wiry hair on his jaw. "You were doing your job."
"I was playing at being a leader and he paid the price!" Sam snapped, his head jerking back out of her reach. His voice cracked like a whip in the quiet alcove. "Stop trying to make it okay, Jolene! Just stop. You weren't there. You didn't see the way the dirt looked before it turned into fire. You didn't feel him get ripped out of my grip."
He glared at her, his eyes red-rimmed and fierce, waiting for her to recoil or snap back. He wanted a fight. He wanted her to be as angry with him as he was with himself, because at least then the world would make sense. But Jolene didn't move. She stayed right there on her knees, her expression as steady as a horizon line. She didn't flinch at the volume or the venom in his tone. She’d spent too many years around hard men with broken hearts to be intimidated by a flare of temper born from agony.
"I’m not trying to make it okay," she said, her voice calm. "Nothing about this is okay. It fucking sucks, Sam. But I’m also not going to let you sit here and claim responsibility for the IED."
"You don't get it," he hissed, his hands white-knuckled on the wheels of the chair. "You just don't get it."
"Then help me get it," she replied, refusing to rise to the bait. She reached out again, not for his face this time, but simply resting her hand on his forearm. "Tell me exactly how me being angry at you is going to fix things.”
Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just stared at her hand on his arm..
"It’s not," he finally choked out, his voice so thin it barely sounded like him. "It’s not gonna fix a damn thing. But at least if you’re angry, I don’t have to sit here and wonder when you’re gonna realize I’m not the man you think I am." He slumped back into the chair, the rigid, military posture finally collapsing.
"I’m not angry at you, Sam," Jolene said. She didn't move from her spot on the floor. She remained anchored right there, trying to stop the spiral he was trying to descend into. "I’m angry for you. I'm angry that you have to carry this. But I am not going to let you use me as a punching bag just because you think you deserve to be punished."
She squeezed his arm where it rested on the armrests.
"You think you’re a failure because you didn't see a hidden bomb in the middle of a war zone? You think you’re a villain because you tried to get your friend medical help for a wound?" She shook her head, a sharp, decisive movement. "That’s not guilt, Sam. That’s ego. You’re trying to take responsibility for things that are bigger than you. You aren't the one who planted that IED. You aren't the one who pulled the trigger. You were just the man trying to bring his brother home."
Sam’s jaw tightened, a single tear escaping and tracking through the short facial hair on his cheek. He reached down, his fingers shaking as they covered hers. "He looked at me, Jo," Sam whispered, his eyes finally meeting hers, and the raw agony in them was enough to make her breath hitch. "When he realized... when he saw me in this chair and saw my leg... he looked at me like I was the only person who could explain why. And I didn't have an answer. I have the leg he doesn't, and I'm the reason he was there to lose it."
"He looked at you because you're his brother," Jolene countered, refusing to let him twist the moment. "He looked at you because you're the first thing that made sense to him since he woke up dazed and confused. He wasn't asking for an explanation, Sam. He was looking for his friend. He was trying to make sure you were okay." She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his hand. "You're gonna have to find a way to live with the 'what ifs,' because they aren't going away. But you don't get to decide for Elliot that he hates you. And you sure as hell don't get to dictate my feelings either."
"I put you in this mess," Sam croaked, the words sounding like they were being forced out of a throat tight with shame. He wouldn't look at her, his eyes fixed on the hospital’s beige floor as if he could see the weight of her future crumbling there. "You don't deserve this, Jolene. You didn't sign up for a man who can’t even get himself to the bathroom without a struggle. You deserve the life we were planning, not... this."
"You’re right, Sam. It sucks," she said, her voice hard and flat, catching him off guard. She didn't offer the gentle platitude he was expecting. "This whole place sucks. The air smells like bleach and death, the food is cardboard, and I am so goddamn sick of looking at these four walls that I could scream until my lungs give out. I don't enjoy a single second of this."
Sam flinched, but she didn't let up.
"I spent most of the morning crying on the floor with your mother because I’m exhausted," she continued, her eyes boring into his. "I’m tired of the PT, I’m tired of the paperwork, and I’m tired of the way people look at us. I get nauseous when I think about what our life looks like when we get back to Virginia. Randy and Loretta are currently dismantling the house as we speak to make sure everything will be easier for you. But here’s the thing, Sam. I wouldn't change a single thing. I wouldn’t be anywhere else. And that isn't a decision you get to make for me. You don't get to protect me by deciding my life is too hard. That’s my choice. It’s always been my choice."
"Jo, listen," Sam started, his voice rising with a desperate kind of urgency. "My mom was right about the weight of it. About the optics, and the fact that you aren't legally–"
"Shut up," Jolene snapped. The harshness of it cut through the air. Sam’s mouth clicked shut, his eyes widening in shock at the sheer venom in her tone. She didn't want the rehearsed guilt, and she certainly didn't want the echoes of Mary Walsh’s rigid morality ringing in her ears. "Just shut up," she repeated. "I know exactly what your mother said to you. I know the conversation you had before your birthday, and I know how she made you feel like I’m some kind of charity case or a victim of your selfishness. Well, newsflash, Sam: she spent most of the morning realizing she should have kept her mouth shut. She knows she was wrong. She knows she hit you where it hurt just because she was scared."
She leaned in closer, her face inches from his, refusing to let him retreat.
"Everyone needs to forget that conversation ever happened. We are wiping the slate clean, do you hear me? The big picture that moves on your terms and your timeline. No one else’s. Not hers, and not mine. No one needs to worry about anything beyond the next five minutes. I am here because I want to be, not because I’m waiting for a certificate to tell me I belong."
She saw his gaze flicker downward then, his eyes snagging on the slim gold band of the promise ring on her finger. The look on his face was agonizing. Without breaking eye contact, Jolene reached down. Her fingers gripped the gold, sliding it slowly over her knuckle until the ring sat in the palm of her hand. She held it out between them, the metal cold and mocking under the fluorescent lights.
"Is this the problem, Sam?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of heartbreak and defiance. "Because if it is... if it’s just a reminder of what you think you can’t give me right now, then tell me. Would it be better if I don't wear it? Is that what you need to stop feeling like I’m a hostage?"
Sam’s reaction was visceral. The moment the ring left her finger, his hand shot out, his fingers closing over hers. Not to take the ring, but to trap it against her palm, pinning her hand between both of his. "No," he choked out, the word thick and desperate. "God, Jo, no. Don't take it off. Please don't." He looked up at her, "I’m a mess," he whispered, his thumbs stroking the back of her hand. "I'm a goddamn wreck and I’m scared, and when I look at that ring, I think about how I was supposed to do better for you. But if you take it off..." He swallowed hard, his jaw working. "If you take it off, it feels like the last piece of the man I was is gone too. Like I really did leave him back in that dirt."
She looked at his hands, those large, capable hands that were currently trembling as they held hers. She didn't pull away. Instead, she slowly closed her fingers back around the ring, curling her fist tight so the gold bit into her palm.
"Then it stays on," she whispered, her voice cracking just enough to show him she was human, too. "But you have to listen to me, Sam. The man you were didn't stay in the dirt. He’s right here, being a stubborn, prideful pain in my ass. That’s the man I love. Not the one who leads a team or the one who stands perfectly on two feet. Just the one who’s honest with me." She took a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against his, closing her eyes so she could just feel the heat of him. "I’m not a martyr, and I’m not a victim. I’m the woman who decided a long time ago that your 'everything' was the only thing I wanted. If that 'everything' looks a little different right now, it doesn't change the value of it to me." She pulled back, her eyes fierce as she searched his. "My dad used to say that a good mechanic doesn’t discard things just because they’re dented. We fix them. Or we learn how to use them differently. But we don't throw them away."
Sam let out a long, shuddering exhale, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. He looked down at the ring, then back at her, a ghost of that crooked, tired smile finally touching his lips. "You’re too good for me, Jo," he rasped, the words sounding less like a self-imposed sentence and more like a simple, humble truth. "I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to catch up to you."
"Good," she said, leaning in to press a firm, lingering kiss to his forehead. "Keep that in mind during PT tomorrow. I expect extra minutes on the bars if you want to keep up."
She stood up then, wiping her eyes one last time and smoothing her hair back. She stepped behind the chair, her hands gripping the handles with a renewed sense of purpose. "Now," she said, her voice regaining its pragmatic edge as she began to wheel him toward the elevators. "We’re going back to the room. You’re going to eat something that isn't Jell-O, and I’m going to sit in that uncomfortable chair and tell you all the things your mother said about your prom photos.."
Sam let out a surprised, choked-off laugh, the sound echoing through the sterile hallway. "Oh, God. She told you about the prom photos?"
"She did," Jolene smirked, feeling the air in her lungs finally start to circulate again. "And honestly, Sam? If you look that awkward in our wedding photos I’m going to keep making you take reshoots until you get it right."
Sam let out a breathy, genuine laugh, his head dropping back against her stomach until he could make eye contact with her while looking up. The tension in his neck finally seemed to snap, replaced by a warmth that reached his eyes for the first time all day. "Don't worry," he murmured, "I think we both know I’ve never been awkward with you, Jo. Not from the second I saw you."
He reached back, his hand finding hers on the handle of the wheelchair, his thumb tracing the line of her knuckles. It was a silent callback to what she’d told his mother in the hallway. That he’d never been the distant, stoic soldier with her. He’d been the man who stepped into her space and took root there without asking permission.
"I know," Jolene said softly, her smirk softening into something more tender. "You’ve been a lot of things, Sam Walsh, but awkward isn't on the list." She reached out with the hem of her sleeve, gently dabbing at the dampness still clinging to the corners of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. As she worked, her fingers brushed against his brow, and she couldn't help but pause, her head tilting in mock-annoyance. "Honestly, Walsh, it’s actually offensive," she muttered, her thumb grazing his cheekbone.
Sam blinked, confused by the sudden shift. "What is?"
"These eyelashes," she said, huffing a dry laugh as she finished wiping his face. "You’ve been through a war zone, you're covered in metal, and you still have these long, sweeping lashes that most women would pay a fortune for. It’s completely unfair. You’re sitting there looking like a tragic Disney prince."
That got another genuine, albeit tired, chuckle out of him. "Well, you know what they say. Halfway-handsome, remember?"
"Don't get cocky," Jolene teased, though she leaned down to press a quick, firm kiss to the tip of his nose. "Now, let’s get you back. I want to hear your version of the prom story before I decide how much to tease you about it."
"I’m fine with the Rachel stories," he murmured. "But only if it's a fair trade. I think I’m owed some more 'Adam' lore in exchange."
Jolene scoffed, trying to tug her hand away, though she didn't pull very hard. "Absolutely not. That is entirely different, and you know it."
"How?" Sam asked, one brow lifting in a silent challenge. "He was your prom date too, wasn't he?"
"Yeah, he was, but there’s a massive difference between a high school girlfriend and an ex-fiancé, Sam. The stakes were a little higher than a corsage and a rented limo."
Sam gave a noncommittal shrug, his thumb tracing the back of her hand. "Same era, Jo. It’s not my fault you Southern girls try to rush down the aisle before you've even voted for a President. You were practically a child bride in training."
Jolene let out a sharp, indignant sound and smacked him firmly on the shoulder. "I was twenty-one, you jerk! That is a perfectly respectable age to tie the knot," she retorted, though a grin was fighting its way onto her face. "And I realized the error of my ways and jumped ship before the 'I do's,' which shows excellent judgment, thank you very much."
"Mm," Sam hummed, his eyes dancing with a familiar, wicked spark. "Excellent judgment. Like choosing a stubborn, injured SEAL who makes you cry in hospital hallways? Your track record is definitely improving."
"Shut up, Sam," she laughed, finally pushing the chair toward the elevator. "You're lucky I like the eyelashes, or I’d leave you here to hitch a ride with a resident."
"You wouldn't," he said confidently. Jolene didn’t answer right away. She let the elevator doors slide open and wheeled him into the small, mirrored box, the hum of the machinery the only sound between them. She looked at their reflection. The wheelchair, the metal fixator, her own tangled hair and the dark circles under her eyes.
"No," she said softly, her voice catching him by surprise with its lack of snark. "I wouldn't."
She tightened her grip, her knuckles white. As the elevator began its smooth descent, a wave of clarity washed over her, settling into her bones. She thought about the metaphorical shit she’d waded through to get here. The years of navigating her father’s decline, the suffocating expectations of her small town, the spectacular wreckage of her engagement to Adam. She’d spent her life bracing for impact, waiting for the next thing to break.
And then there was Sam.
She looked down at the top of his head, at the wispy hair just starting to curl over his ears and along his nape. Hair she’d once help trim in her kitchen on a Sunday that felt like a lifetime ago. She realized that even now, with a body that had been shattered by high explosives, he was the only thing in her life that didn't feel like a mistake. She’d told Mary she wouldn't change a thing, but saying it to the man himself felt like a different kind of vow. She wouldn't trade the hospital smells, the long nights, or the plywood ramps for a perfect life with anyone else. She wouldn't trade his survival for a version of her own life where she was comfortable but didn't have him.
"I'd take a thousand more days in this hallway," she whispered, leaning over to rest her chin on the top of his head as the elevator dinged for their floor. "I’d take every bad meal and every shitty update, as long as it meant I was taking you home at the end of it. Your life... that’s the win, Sam. Everything else is just irrelevant."
Sam didn't say a word but the way he pulled her hand down to press it against his shoulder told her he heard her. He knew. For all the wreckage behind them, they were moving forward, and for Jolene, that was the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
if you’d ever be up for it, i think you could definitely pull off an eddie x reader based on that 70s show - their relationship is similar to eric and donna because eddie is also a nerd who loves his woman. ugh, just found your blog and LOVE
Hi darlin’! Thank you so much!
I do genuinely see the vibes you are going for! I mean…
However that all said… I only have caught that 70s show here and there? It’s not one I’ve watched start to end? I’ve mostly seen sporadic episodes of the first 3 ish seasons when it happened to be on… so if you have any particular sort of moments from Donna and Eric’s that might be a bit more helpful? I am familiar with the overall vibe but not the nitty gritty?
I could see working it into the Stumblin’ in setup! She’s kind of like a cool girl already ? And I imagine maybe a few months into their relationship would look a bit like Donna and Eric’s! And if you are going for that childhood friend/neighbors kind of aspect I did a spin on that with In Your Own Sweet Time!
Anyways, thanks again! And if you want to provide a bit more clarity (here or in DMs I promise I don’t bite lol) I’d be happy to put some brain cells to it!
Pairing: Eddie Munson x female! reader (No use of y/n)
Summary: When the Starcourt Mall went up in flames, it took Hawkin's only local music shop with it, forcing Eddie to trek a town over just to find a set of guitar strings. He expected a boring errand. He didn't expect the quiet, smoky atmosphere of a hole-in-the-wall shop or the girl behind the counter who looked like she stepped out of a folk-rock fever dream.
Series Warnings: Mentions of parental loss, mentions of bullying, Explicit sexual intercourse, dirty talk, first-time sex (male), tobacco use, semi-public sex (in a vehicle), sort of corruption kink if you SQUINT, mentions of reading/watching porn, oral sex (male & female receiving). awkward sex. Not quite a warning but mentions of "Flight of Icarus" and some events/canon from that.
Disclaimer: In an effort to be a better neighbor to all my readers, I am working to keep my descriptions physically vague. As I navigate this learning curve, some white-coded/specific language may accidentally slip through my editing. I’m sharing this disclaimer so you can curate your reading experience with that in mind!
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: 31,000+
Author's note: I got inspired by the utter crumb we received from behind the scenes recently. After consulting with the lovely @sheneedsrocknroll92 we both came to the consensus that Eddie having a meet/cute with someone a bit more like him (but still her own person) would be a fun angle. I don't really have much explanation other than that folks? I just missed Eddie and wanted to pop back in with him taking a different direction. Let me know if you would want/could see a follow-up with this 'reader' (since you all know I'm always going to make her a character even if I try to avoid specific descriptors). Also pushing off Sam and Jolene's update till next week because... I'm exhausted and don't want to rush it. Peace and love folks ~ Mae
Welcome to Hellfire || My Other Work || Ao3 link
Eddie Munson didn’t have a crisis on his hands. It wasn't the kind of earth-shattering revelation that brought your entire world crashing down in a heap of metaphorical rubble. It was more of a... pesterization. A low-frequency hum of annoyance that he’d grown just apathetic enough to tolerate, mostly because he didn't see it changing anytime soon.
One week into his third attempt at senior year, and the problem he’d first tripped over at thirteen was becoming glaringly apparent. On the cusp of high school, Eddie had made the error of trying to kiss one of his only friends, only to be gently informed that she didn’t exactly do the “boys” thing. He’d spent years silently hoping it was just an age thing, a phase they’d both outgrow, until she confessed before heading off to New York that she’d definitely had sex with a girl in the marching band. And since then? Nothing. Radio silence. Sure, he found fantasy tucked inside the gloss of magazines and the grainy flickers of cheap pornos from the back of the video store like every other red-blooded guy in Indiana. But when it came to the living, breathing variety of girls? He was inexperienced, terrified, and frankly, bored.
His third lap around senior year had taught him that the scenery never changed, it just swapped out the actors. There was always a fresh crop of jocks convinced that the universe ended at the edge of the football field. There were the nerds acting as if a B-minus on a lab report would derail their entire existence. The names changed, but the archetypes remained. The kid getting shoved into lockers today was named Fred; a year ago it was Todd, and before that, Arthur. Same script, different face. Yawn.
The girls of Hawkins High weren't exempt. According to the general consensus of the locker room, girls occupied three very specific boxes: the Buddy, the Porn Star, and the Sweetheart. Take Chrissy Cunningham with those baby-pink sweaters and wholesome smiles. Adorable? Sure. But she was the type who would likely burst into tears if she found herself alone in a room with him. That put her firmly in the friendly category, even if a friendship between a cheerleader and a freak was about as likely as Eddie passing Calculus.
Then there was Tina, a girl from his original graduating class. He’d heard the rumors from Billy Hargrove and the other cavemen at school about her extracurricular talents. She had the personality of a wet brick and cared more about her perm than her pulse, but that hadn't stopped Eddie from watching her lips move across the hall and wondering if the rumors lived up to the hype.
As for that third category… the ones you actually wanted to hold hands with? The kind of girls who could make your heart stop with just a smile or a quick remark? He hadn't met a soul who fit the bill. Eddie wasn't sure if he was a romantic, but he was a realist. Who wanted the son of the town criminal? A guy on his third try at Grade 12, who dealt weed to keep the van running? He’d perfected the art of being offensive to avoid the need to be defensive. Scare 'em or weird 'em out before they realize how easy it is to shove a scrawny metalhead into a locker.
He flung open the door to his rusted-out GMC, tossing his beat-up Jansport that had managed to survive since Freshman year, onto the passenger seat with a satisfying thum. He peeled out of the parking lot without a second thought, the engine groaning in protest as he left the school behind. Just another year in the Hellhole, all because he couldn't grasp the basic principles of chemistry. At least it was Friday. And Fridays meant freedom. It also meant he had a chance to deal with his other little pesterization. This one wasn't quite as existential as his quest to find a girl who’d laugh at his dorkier jokes before helping him finally retire his nineteen-year-old virginity, but it was an annoyance nonetheless.
Since the age of nine, Eddie had been a regular at the downtown music shop. It started with replacement strings for the battered Alvarez acoustic his Uncle Wayne had rescued from a pawn shop. A guitar that had seen hell and back as Eddie bled over chords until his callouses finally took. As the years passed and he saved every cent, he’d graduated to the electric variety, but the constant need for fresh strings and heavy-duty picks remained. The Starcourt Mall had changed everything. In its short, neon-drenched life, it had swallowed the downtown shop whole, only for the entire place to go up in flames. Now, with the mall a blackened shell and the downtown storefront still empty, Hawkins was a musical desert.
A quick session with the White Pages had revealed the closest oasis. Mainstreet Music in Bedford, about twenty minutes down the road. That was the Friday plan. Drive ten miles out of his way on a half-empty tank, pray that Bedford wasn't as soul-crushing as Hawkins, and see if this new shop could actually provide the gear he needed to keep Corroded Coffin’s output loud enough to piss off the neighbors.
The drive to Bedford was fueled by a warped Iron Maiden cassette and the flickering orange light of his fuel gauge. When he finally pulled up to Mainstreet Music, he found it tucked between a hardware store and a dusty laundromat. It wasn't the gleaming palace of rock he’d hoped for, but the window display featured a cracked Gibson and a stack of Marshall amps that looked like they’d seen a tour or two. Good enough, he thought. The bell above the door gave a weary chime as he stepped inside, but the muffled ring was immediately swallowed by the sheer scale of the place. From the outside, it looked like a cramped hole-in-the-wall, but the interior was a TARDIS-like trick of architecture. It was massive, stretching back into the shadows of the building with rows of instruments that made his breath hitch.
It wasn't just the gear, though that was impressive enough. The walls were a sensory overload, plastered floor-to-ceiling with posters of bands ranging from the household names to obscure acts he couldn’t have identified if his life depended on it. It was a chaotic museum of sound: metal logos sat right next to soft-focus folk singers. Neon-drenched pop stars shared space with gritty, black-and-white country legends. Beneath the posters, the floor space was a maze of wooden crates overflowing with vinyl and precarious stacks of cassettes that looked like they might topple if he breathed too hard.
"Just a second! I'll be right out!" a voice called from somewhere deep in the back, muffled by a heavy curtain. Eddie barely offered a grunt of acknowledgement, as he drifted toward a rack of vintage offsets. He was too busy drinking in the atmosphere to care about service. Then, the silence of the shop was broken by a familiar sound. The distinct sound of a needle dropping onto a record, followed by the soft crackle. A second later, the stinging lick of an electric guitar cut through the air. Albert King’s "Born Under a Bad Sign."
The opening notes hit Eddie, pinning him to the spot. Suddenly, he wasn't in a music shop in Bedford; he was five years old, sitting on a linoleum floor in a sun-drenched kitchen, watching his mother hum along to this exact track while she sewed. She’d been the one with the blues records. The one who taught him that music wasn't just noise, but a feeling you pulled out of your soul. She was the reason he’d ever bothered to pick up a guitar in the first place.
He stood there, paralyzed by a rare moment of vulnerability, his hand hovering over a pack of guitar strings as the horns blared through the shop's speakers.
"Dio. Nice." The voice was right behind him. Cool, steady, not to mention entirely too close. Eddie jumped, nearly knocking over a display as he spun around. His heart hammered against his ribs as his carefully cultivated "Lord of the Freaks" persona momentarily was replaced by the wide-eyed look of a startled cat.
Eddie finally managed to find his footing, his sneakers scuffing against the floor as he fully faced her. He opened his mouth to deliver some biting, eccentric remark but the words died in his throat. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked right out of the room, leaving him lightheaded and strangely hollow. He’d spent years cataloging the girls of Hawkins into his little mental boxes, but as he looked at her, the system crashed. She wasn't a "Sweetheart," a "Buddy," or a "Porn Star." She was something else entirely. A category all of her own.
She looked to be right around his age, though she carried herself with a groundedness that Eddie felt he’d been lacking his entire life. She was pretty but it wasn't the manicured, hairsprayed beauty of the girls in the hallways at school he’d grown used to. There was an edge to her, apparent in the way an unlit cigarette was perched behind her ear and her wrists were covered in a collection of woven bracelets. Smudged smokey looking eyeliner adorning a bottom row of lashes that drew his focus to the beautiful color of her eyes. An authenticity that matched the heavy blues track still vibrating through the speakers overhead.
A searing jolt of attraction hit him, sharp enough to make his pulse thrum in his ears. But beneath that was a second feeling, something he couldn't quite put a name to. It wasn't just that he wanted to look at her. It was a sudden, desperate urge to be known by her. He realized he was staring, his hands still awkwardly raised from his momentary fright. He looked like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck, and for the first time in his life, Eddie Munson was genuinely, painfully speechless.
"Uh," Eddie managed, a masterclass in eloquence. He cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the Munson charm, but his rings felt heavy on his shaking fingers. "Yeah. Ronnie James. The man, the myth, the... very short legend." He stood there, scrawny and wide-eyed in his battle vest, feeling like for the first time in his life, he was the one who was totally out of his depth. She was pretty with a look in her eyes that suggested she could see right through his "scary freak" mask to the nervous kid underneath who still missed his mom's singing.
“Men," she said, her voice dry and laced with a playful edge as she tilted her head toward his Dio patch. "Always seemingly obsessed with size?"
Eddie froze. He stood there for a beat, his brain short-circuiting as he replayed the comment. He looked at his vest, then back at her, the realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water. She wasn't just talking about Ronnie James Dio’s height, or lack thereof. She was making a joke about... that. The male obsession with measurement. The length of the sword, so to speak.
A heat he couldn't control climbed rapidly up his neck, flooding his cheeks with a vivid, traitorous crimson. Eddie Munson, the man who stood on cafeteria tables and barked at jocks, was officially speechless. He opened his mouth to deliver a witty, rock-and-roll themed comeback, but all that came out was a faint, pathetic squeak.
Then, she laughed.
It wasn't a dainty, princess-like giggle, with a manicured hand covering her mouth. It was a loud, uninhibited, soul-deep sound that echoed off the stacks of vinyl. It was messy and real, and in that instant, Eddie decided it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He watched her, mesmerized, his own embarrassment softening into a dazed, lopsided grin.
She caught her breath, wiping a stray tear from her eye as her laughter subsided into a lingering, mischievous spark. She leaned against the glass counter, crossing her arms as she looked him up and down. "You know," she said, her voice dropping into a teasing, rhythmic lilt that made his stomach do a backflip. "For a guy dressed so satanic by rural Indiana standards, you sure are adorable when you get flustered."
The word adorable should have been an insult. To a guy like Eddie, it should have been a blow to his carefully cultivated ego. But coming from her, delivered with that specific, flirtatious tilt of the head, it felt like a damn coronation.
Eddie scrambled to find a foothold, his brain a frantic mess of "don't screw this up" and "say something cool." He opened his mouth, his tongue feeling like a heavy piece of lead as he tried to summon a suave, biting quip. Something about how he was actually a creature of the night who just happened to enjoy a good laugh. But as she scrutinized him, her eyes dancing with that playful, observant light, the words just died in his throat. He ended up letting out a half-formed "I,well–" before trailing off, sheepishly adjusting his rings. He was failing. Spectacularly. But for some reason, looking into her face, he didn't even mind.
"I haven't seen you around here before," she noted, her gaze traveling from the chaotic curls of his hair down to the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "And I usually remember the ones who look like they’ve climbed out of a Black Sabbath pit."
Eddie finally managed to get a coherent sentence out. "I'm from Hawkins. Just a quick, twenty-minute trek down the road. Usually, I'm a big fish in a very small, very judgmental pond."
She hummed, a low sound of acknowledgement that seemed to vibrate right through him. "Hawkins, huh? Explains it. I’ve seen more traffic in here lately since that mall of yours turned into a giant charcoal grill."
"Yeah, the Starcourt disaster," Eddie said, leaning against a nearby rack of acoustic guitars, trying to look like a guy who wasn't currently having an internal meltdown. "Ruined the only music shop for miles. Which is exactly why I found myself wandering into your neck of the woods today. Desperate times, desperate measures."
She straightened up from the counter, her playful demeanor shifting, though the spark in her eyes remained. "Well, consider me your savior for the afternoon kind Sir who hails from Hawkins," she said. "What exactly does thou seek on this quest to the far land of Bedford?"
Eddie’s brain hit a screeching halt. Did she just... did she really just "kind sir" me? His heart practically performed a double-bass beat against his ribs. Because now it wasn't just that she was pretty, or that she liked the blues. Or even that she’d successfully made a dick joke at his expense. It was the delivery. That specific, nerdy, high-fantasy cadence. The kind of talk he usually had to reserve for a small circle of social pariahs gathered around a twenty-sided die. The crush he’d felt five minutes ago had just been upgraded to a full-blown obsession. He felt like he was looking at a unicorn in the middle of Indiana. He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape, searching her face for any sign that she was mocking him. But all he found was that same, sharp-eyed amusement.
"Has the traveler been struck by a silence curse?" she asked, leaning over the counter just enough to bring the scent of old paper and vanilla into his personal bubble. "Or hast my presence rendered thee speechless in the same way the sirens lured sailors to their doom?"
Eddie snapped out of it, clearing his throat so hard it actually hurt. He scrambled for a shred of dignity, reaching out to gesture vaguely at the rack of guitar strings he’d been hovering over before the Albert King track had transported him. "I, uh... no. Just...," he stammered, finally finding a smirk to hide behind. "I seek the tools of my trade, oh mysterious guardian of the Bedford realm. My current strings are sounding a bit too much like a dying cat and not enough like the heralds of doom."
She nodded, but instead of staying behind the safety of the glass, she rounded the counter and stepped directly into his space. She looked up at him, her presence strangely grounding despite the way he was vibrating with nerves. "A noble pursuit," she murmured, her eyes scanning the wall of Slinkys and Cobalts before settling back on him. "And what exact gauge of steel does thou require for this 'herald of doom' business? Are we talking light enough for those flashy solos, or heavy enough to shake the foundations of the earth?"
Eddie took a small breath, trying to steady his hands. "Heavy."
She reached out, her fingers brushing past a pack of Ernie Balls near his shoulder, and he felt the contact like a jolt of electricity. She pulled a pack down, but she didn't hand it to him. Instead, she turned the small package over in her hands, a sheepish, genuine smile finally breaking through the fantasy persona. "Sorry," she said, her voice dropping the theatrical lilt for a second. "I was a total drama nerd in high school, and I’ve been stuck in set design for the local community Shakespeare production all week. I keep slipping into the 'thee' and 'thou' without even thinking about it."
"Theater nerd?" Eddie repeated, a laugh bubbling up that was actually genuine this time. "Well, that explains the dramatic entrance. And here I thought I’d finally found someone who spent as much time in a dungeon as I do."
Her eyebrows shot up, and she leaned an elbow against the shelf, eyeing him with a newfound curiosity. "Don’t tell me you’re a traveler of the tiled maps and polyhedral dice variety. Do you play?"
Eddie’s chest puffed out, a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride washing over him. This was his home turf. "Play? Sweetheart, you are looking at the Dungeon Master of the Hellfire Club. I don't just play, I run the whole show at Hawkins High. I’ve spent more time crafting campaigns and painting lead miniatures than I have studying for... well, basically anything."
For a split second, he felt like a king. But then he saw it. The slight twitch of her lips, a tiny deflation in her shoulders as she looked at him over again. "High school?" she repeated, her voice losing a bit of that playful spark. "Oh. So you're... what, sixteen? Seventeen?"
Eddie winced, the mystique he’d hoped he was projecting evaporating instantly. He quickly held up his hands. "Whoa, hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m nineteen. Almost twenty. Technically, I should’ve been Class of ’84. I’m just... on the extended, scenic tour of the twelfth grade. My third attempt, if you’re keeping score. Chemistry and I have a long-standing mutual hatred."
The change in her was immediate. She let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, as she practically sagged against the instrument rack. "Oh, thank god," she laughed, and that beautiful, loud sound was back, making his heart do another clumsy backflip. "Whew! I was starting to sweat for a second. I was really out here thinking I was about to be a cradle robber."
Eddie grinned, the relief infectious. "And you?"
"Nineteen," she confirmed, tossing the pack of strings into the air and catching them with ease. "Class of ’84, actually made it out on the first try, though barely. I’ve been working here and going to the community college for art classes since. So, technically, we’re from the same brand of vintage."
"Vintage," Eddie mused, his confidence finally clicking into place. He leaned one hand against the shelf, closing the gap between them just an inch. "I like that. Makes me sound like a fine wine instead of a guy who just can't remember the periodic table."
She hummed, her eyes flicking down to his lips for a fraction of a second before meeting his gaze again. "I think vintage suits you, Hawkins. It’s got a bit more character than a repeat offender."
"I'm Eddie," he finally offered, realizing he’d been talking to a goddess for ten minutes without a name to call her. "Eddie Munson. Local freak, master of the dungeon, and currently your most intrigued customer."
She told him her name then, and the sound of it seemed to hang in the air between them, vibrating at the exact same frequency as that Albert King record. Eddie repeated it internally, testing the weight of it, the way the syllables felt like a hook to a song he knew was going to be stuck in his head for weeks. It was a name that had grit but a certain kind of melody to it, too. "Well," she said, pulling him out of his internal daze as she tossed the pack of strings from her left hand to her right. "Now that the introductions are out of the way, what exactly are we stringing up? Please tell me you aren't putting these on some cheap, dusty plywood box."
Eddie shook his head, a smirk returning to his face. "Give me some credit. She’s an Iron Maiden-inspired beauty. B.C. Rich Warlock."
She whistled lowly, nodding in approval. "A Warlock. Bold choice. So, are you just a solo act? A lonely bard shredding in his bedroom to a wall of posters?"
"Absolutely not," Eddie corrected, his pride flaring up again. "I’m the front-man, lead guitarist, singer, and because I own a van, transportation for Corroded Coffin. We’re currently the loudest, most offensive thing to happen to the Hawkins music scene. Have a dedicated crowd of about… 5 drunks on your average Tuesday night at the local dive bar."
She hummed, leaning her hip against the counter as she considered him. "Corroded Coffin. It’s got a nice ring to it. And I get it. There’s something about playing with a group that you just can’t replicate on your own. It’s always nicer with a crew." Her expression shifted, a small, weary shadow flickering over her features. "Though, honestly, my situation lately has made getting the band back together feel like a pipe dream."
"You’re in a band?" Eddie asked, his interest peaking.
"A blues-rock outfit," she explained. "Nothing as loud as whatever a Corroded Coffin puts out, I’m sure. We drive up to Bloomington once a week to play this little jazz bar. It’s good for the soul, when we can actually make it happen. One of our guys has been a bit of a wildcard lately. Stuck at home with his kid more often than not. Parenthood and the blues… they go together, but they don't exactly make for a consistent rehearsal schedule."
Eddie leaned in, fascinated. "Bloomington? That’s the big leagues. You’re telling me I’m standing in the presence of a professional?"
She laughed that beautiful, world-ending laugh again. "Let’s call it semi-professional. We get paid in drinks and gas money, but in Indiana, that basically makes us rockstars."
Eddie’s grin widened, his fingers drumming a restless beat against the side of his pant leg. He couldn't help himself. The fantasy metaphors were bubbling up again, fueled by the sheer high of actually talking to someone who didn't look at him like he was a stain on the carpet. "Alright, so we’ve established you’re a high-level bard," he said, keeping the D&D speak lighter this time, more of a shared shorthand than a full-blown roleplay. "But what’s your actual contribution to the party?"
She gave a small, graceful shrug, her eyes following the movement of his hands. "I’m one of the singers. Since our frontman is currently preoccupied with the dad questline, lately I’ve been carrying a lot of the vocal weight. We split the setlist down the middle, which usually works out until he has to bail for a diaper emergency." She stepped closer to the repair bench, picking up a stray pick and flipping it between her fingers. "And when I’m not behind the mic, I’m on guitar. Rhythm mostly, keeping things steady."
Eddie felt a literal physical tug in his chest. A girl who could talk Shakespeare, play the blues, handle a guitar, and didn't flinch at the mention of a d20? He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and if he was, he never wanted to wake up again.
"Singer and a rhythm player," Eddie mused. "The backbone of the operation. That’s a lot of power to hold over a bunch of Bloomington jazz-heads."
"It keeps me busy," she admitted, finally handing him the pack of strings. As she did, her fingers lingered against his for just a second too long to be accidental. "Though I have to say, Hawkins, a Warlock is a lot of guitar for a guy who gets as red as a tomato over a little dick joke."
Eddie took the strings, his skin buzzing where she’d touched him. "The Warlock is for the stage. The blushing? Well, let's just say you caught me with my armor unequipped."
The air between them suddenly felt thick, charged with a tension that was far more electric than any amp in the room. Eddie found himself caught in her gaze, his usual restless energy replaced by a grounded stillness. He didn't look away, and for a long, heart-hammering minute, neither did she. It was a silent standoff. One where Eddie felt like he was being read like a book, and for once, he didn't mind the scrutiny. Finally, she broke the spell, clearing her throat and glancing down at the counter. "So," she started, her voice a little huskier than before. "Did you actually just venture into the wilds of Bedford for one pack of strings, or is there something else on your quest log?"
Eddie exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders dropping as he tried to find his swagger again. "I, uh... I could probably use a few extra picks. I tend to lose them in the abyss of my van or my hair if I’m honest."
"Follow me, Hawkins," she said, gesturing for him to follow her toward the glass display cases at the back of the store.
As they walked, Eddie watched the way she moved. Comfortable, confident, and entirely in her element. He couldn't help himself; He had to know. "So, if you’re holding down the rhythm for a blues band, what’s your weapon of choice? Please don't tell me it's a Squier."
She laughed. A sound that made him grin. "Hardly. I’m a traditionalist at heart. I usually stick to a Gibson ES-335. Ebony finish. It’s got that warm, woody growl that just... well, it does things to a song that a solid body can't touch."
Eddie stopped dead in his tracks. A low, playful moan escaped his throat in a sound of unadulterated appreciation. In a sudden surge of confidence he leaned in slightly, a wolfish, dazed smile spreading across his face. "God," he breathed, his eyes wide. "Could you say that again? But, like, way slower this time? Because a pretty girl describing her ebony Gibson ES-335 is officially the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire nineteen years of existence."
She paused, her hand hovering over the tray of picks, and turned to look at him. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, and for the first time, Eddie felt like he might be the one in trouble. “Careful there, Eddie the Head," she chuckled, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register that made his skin prickle. "You’re wandering into dangerous territory. You keep inflating my ego like that, and I might just decide to keep you here as a permanent fixture. I’ve been looking for a roadie who’s easy on the eyes and knows his way around a headstock."
Eddie stood there, the nickname hitting him with the force of a freight train. She knew Iron Maiden well enough to pull out the mascot’s moniker, and she was using it to flirt with him. He took a long, exaggerated pause, tilting his head back as if weighing the heavy consequences of his next move. He tapped a ringed finger against his chin, his eyes darting toward the ceiling in faux-contemplation.
"Well," he finally said, a slow, reckless grin splitting his face. "A lifetime of service to a Gibson-wielding siren in the heart of Bedford? Honestly, as far as traps go, it’s a lot more enticing than a weekend at the trailer park with a six-pack of cheap beer and a physics textbook." He leaned an elbow onto the display case, looking her dead in the eye, all the stuttering nervousness from before replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. "I think I’m willing to take that risk. Lay it on me. I’m a big boy. I can handle a pretty girl with a guitar."
She laughed, the sound lower and more intimate now that they were tucked away in the back of the shop. She reached into the case, pulling out a handful of heavy-gauge Tortex picks and let them rain slowly into his open palm. "I like the confidence, Hawkins," she murmured, watching him as the plastic clicked against his palm. "But let’s see if you can still talk that big when you’re actually holding a guitar instead of just talking about one. Most guys come in here and talk a lot of game, but the second they plug in, they sound like they’re trying to strangle a cat."
Eddie caught the last pick out of the air, clutching it tight. "Is that a challenge? Because if you’re asking me to audition for the role of your most loyal subject, I’ve got a whole repertoire of metal that’ll shake the dust off the rafters."
"Maybe," she countered, her gaze lingering on his hands. "But for now, let's just get you checked out before my boss, who also happens to be my aunt, comes back and wonders why I’ve spent twenty minutes hovering over the picks with a guy who looks like he’s about to start a riot."
“Ah nepotism… snatching up all the good local gigs,” he teased at the mention of her aunt owning the shop.
She hummed, a soft, wistful sound that didn't quite match the sharp wit she’d been wielding moments before. "Less about nepotism," she said, her fingers tracing the edge of the glass counter. "After my folks passed in a car accident, my aunt, the cool one, thankfully, took me in. It’s been just the two of us since I was in middle school. Working here... it’s how I pay her back for the groceries and the roof over my head. Rent’s cheap when you’re family, but the debt’s still there."
The timing was almost eerie. Just as the weight of her words settled into the air, the record on the speaker system reached the end of the side. The stinging blues guitar faded out, replaced by the empty hiss-thump of the needle spinning in the run-out groove. The silence that followed was heavy. She seemed to realize the gravity of what she’d just dropped on him, and she cleared her throat, shifting her weight as if she were about to bolt back to the safety of the repair bench. The playful spark in her eyes had flickered, replaced by a momentary, awkward vulnerability that made Eddie’s heart ache in a way he wasn't prepared for.
She started to turn away, murmuring something about finding a bag, when Eddie reached out. Not touching her, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her arm. "Hey," he said, his voice dropping the theatrical projection entirely. She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. Eddie cleared his throat, "I get it. More than you know." He looked down at the counter, a rare flash of somber honesty crossing his face. "I've been living with my Uncle since I was a kid. My mom... she passed a long time ago. And my old man? Well, he traded his parenting duties for a permanent residency with the state after he got busted for five finger discounting some cars. It’s been me and Wayne against the world ever since."
The air in the shop shifted, the shared weight of their histories acting like a bridge between them. She turned back fully now, her shoulder losing its defensive tension as she leaned against a stack of amplifiers. There was a new light in her eyes. Not just the spark of a flirtatious challenge, but the quiet, steady gaze of someone who had seen the same shadows he had. "He sounds like a good man. Your Uncle. It takes a certain kind of soul to take in a kid with baggage like us and not try to sand down all the rough edges."
Eddie let out a short, dry laugh, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his denim vest. "Oh, he’s the best.He’s the only reason I haven't dropped out and headed for the coast already."
She nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She moved toward the record player, the silence of the shop feeling too loud now that they’d traded pieces of their souls. She flipped the vinyl, and a moment later, a new track began to fill the room. Something a bit more upbeat, that cut through the somber mood.
"Well, Eddie Munson," she said, stepping back behind the counter and held out her hand for the strings and picks to ring him up. "I think you’ve officially earned a 'kindred spirit' discount, though don't tell my aunt. I have a feeling if I let you walk out of here without a reason to come back, I’d be failing some kind of cosmic quest."
Eddie handed over his treasures, his heart doing a slow, controlled roll in his chest. "A reason to come back, huh? You think the twenty-minute drive and the threat of my van running out of gas isn't enough of a hurdle for me to leap?"
"I think," she said, her eyes locking onto his as she punched the keys on the old-fashioned register, "that for the right kind of music, and the right kind of company, you’d drive a lot further than ten miles out of your way."
“I’ve got a counter-proposal for you," Eddie said, his voice regaining that theatrical flair, though it was softened by the genuine heat behind his gaze. He gestured toward the counter, his fingers mimicking a scribbling motion. "Dear maiden, might I humbly request a quill and parchment? Or, you know, a ballpoint and a scrap of a receipt will do."
She smirked, sliding a notepad and a pen across the glass. Eddie took it with a flourish, leaning over the counter as he began to write. His handwriting was a chaotic scrawl as he jotted down his number and the address of The Hideout. "Tuesday night," he said, tapping the pen against the paper before sliding it back to her. "Corroded Coffin is taking the stage. It’s loud, it’s unapologetic, and it’s definitely not a jazz bar in Bloomington. But, if you don't mind a little heavy metal, you should come see me actually put this equipment to work." He straightened his vest, hooking his thumbs into his pockets as he looked at her. She only raised an eyebrow, fingers tapping the bar surface as if pondering his request. "I’d love to see you there," he added, his voice dropping into a sincere, quiet register. "I’ve spent three years playing to the same bored faces in that town. It’d be nice to have someone in the crowd who actually appreciates music."
She picked up the paper, her eyes scanning the address before she tore the sheet and tucked it carefully into the pocket of her jeans. A thoughtful smile spread across her face. "Tuesday," she repeated, her gaze meeting his with a weight that made his breath hitch again. "I’ll see what I can do. But you better make sure those strings are tuned perfectly. I’m a very harsh critic."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Eddie grinned, finally backing toward the door. He felt like he was walking on air, the jingle of the bell above the door sounding less like a warning and more like a victory chime.
He paused at the threshold, one hand on the brass handle, and turned back for a final flourish. He swept a low, exaggerated bow. "Until then, my silver-tongued siren," he called out, his voice ringing through the shop with a newfound warmth. "May your chords stay true. This humble bard shall count the hours until Tuesday's moon rises."
He winked, and finally stepped out into the afternoon. He hopped into the GMC, slamming the door and letting out a triumphant shout that was promptly swallowed by the roar of the engine. As he pulled away from the curb, his eyes caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The blush was still there, staining his cheeks a dusty rose, but his grin was wide enough to hurt. He reached over, patting the bag of new strings on the passenger seat like a prized trophy.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, shifting into gear. "Don't screw this up. You’ve got a Gibson-wielding goddess to impress, and only four days to make sure the Coffin doesn't sound like a literal trash compactor." He cranked the volume on his Maiden tape, the twin-guitar harmonies of The Trooper flooding the cab. For the first time in three years, the drive back to Hawkins didn't feel like a sentence. It felt like a countdown.
🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆
It was Tuesday night, and the air inside The Hideout was a thick, stagnant cocktail of stale cigarette smoke, spilled draft beer, and the electric hum of overworked Marshall stacks. Eddie had arrived two hours early, his nervous energy manifesting as a buzzing restlessness that his bandmates had already grown tired of. He’d recounted the story of the "Bedford Siren" no less than six times since load-in. By the fourth retelling, Jeff had stopped looking up from his drum kit, and by the sixth, Gareth had threatened to shove a drumstick in Eddie's mouth if he mentioned the words "Gibson Goddess" one more time.
"She’s not coming, man," Gareth muttered, "You met her once in a music shop ten miles away. Girls like that don't just show up to dive bars because an awkward guy in a vest asked nicely."
"She’s not just a girl, Gareth, you uncultured swine," Eddie shot back, though his stomach did a nervous flip at the suggestion. He was currently pacing the small expanse of the hallway that led to the stage, his rings clicking against the neck of his Warlock. "She’s a kindred spirit. A fellow music lover. A theater nerd who knows her way around a fretboard. She’ll be here."
He looked at the door every time the heavy oak wood creaked open, his heart jumping into his throat only to sink back down when it was just another local regular looking for a cheap pitcher. The bar was filling up. Well, "filling up" by the Hideout standards. A few fellow metalheads, some curious stragglers, and the usual crowd of misfits who found sanctuary in the dark corners of the bar. Eddie checked his reflection in the grime-streaked mirror in the hall next to the stage. He’d put a little extra effort into his hair tonight. "Five minutes, Munson," the bar manager grunted, signaling toward the clock.
Eddie took a deep breath, the scent of the bar suddenly feeling suffocating. He adjusted his guitar strap. He’d spent hours yesterday stretching the new strings she’d sold him, making sure they were settled and ready to howl.
"Alright, boys," Eddie said, "Tonight, we don't just play. We melt faces. We go out there like the Prince of Darkness himself is in the front row. Clear?" He was met with the excited energy that only can come from teenage boys indulging in their favorite pastime as they finally stumbled out of the hallway. He stepped up to the mic, the feedback whining in anticipation. He took one last, desperate scan of the room. The door swung open again, letting in a swirl of cool night air and the muffled sound of a car engine cutting out. For a second, the silhouettes were just shadows against the neon "Budweiser" sign. But then, he saw the shift of a leather jacket and the unmistakable movement of a confident stride.
She slid through the crowd with a devastating ease, stepping toward the edge of the light. She paused, reaching up to shed her jacket, and Eddie nearly dropped his pick as he took in the change. She looked like she’d been pulled straight from a 1970s rock festival. She was wearing a tight, shortly cropped Wings t-shirt that had seen its fair share of wash cycles, paired with high-waisted black denim bell-bottoms that flared out over the tops of her boots. Topping it all off was the schoolboy cap featuring pins he couldn’t quite make out from a distance, but the overall effect was like an ACDC album cover. It screamed "I know exactly where I am," and it sat on her with a natural, effortless cool that made every other girl in the bar seem to fade into the background. Eddie stood paralyzed, his fingers frozen on the fretboard, his jaw probably hovering somewhere near his knees. He was staring and he knew it, but he couldn't find the mental brakes to stop.
"Eddie!" Gareth’s voice hissed from behind him, sharp and impatient. "Eddie, for the love of God, the intro!" Gareth’s hiss acted like a bucket of cold water. Eddie snapped his head back, blinking rapidly as his brain finally reconnected with his hands. He looked back toward the edge of the stage just in time to see her catch his eye. She didn't look flustered. Instead, she raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her lips quirked into a knowing smile. She gave him a small, two-fingered wave. The kind that said I'm watching, Hawkins, so don't blow it.
Eddie felt the adrenaline hit his system like a live wire. The nervousness was still there, buzzing under his skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a fierce, desperate need to show off. He slammed his hand down on the strings, and the first chord of the set ripped through the smoke-filled air with a raw, aggressive power that made the floorboards groan. He threw himself into the music, the world outside the stage lights blurring into a haze of distorted sound and flickering shadows. Between the shredding and the straining growl of his vocals, he lost track of her in the dark. The Hideout was a sea of shifting shapes and nodding heads, and he couldn't afford to scan the crowd while trying to keep Corroded Coffin from derailing. He played with a manic intensity, his hair flying as he thrashed his head. The new strings she’d sold him biting into his fingertips.
Halfway through the set, the energy shifted. Eddie wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a ringed hand and signaled for Gareth and Jeff to hold up. They knew exactly what was coming, and they weren't thrilled about it. Eddie stepped up to the microphone, his chest heaving. He looked out into the gloom, a lopsided, slightly breathless grin on his face. "Alright, folks!" he barked, though his eyes were searching the back of the room. "I have to offer a little disclaimer. I apologize in advance if this next one sounds like absolute dogshit. It’s... well, it’s one we had to pull from the archives."
Gareth let out a long, dramatic sigh behind him. Eddie’s mind flashed back to the previous forty-eight hours. The absolute war he’d waged to get the guys to agree to this. He had practically held them hostage in the garage, forcing them to relearn a song they hadn't touched since their first month of jamming together. There had been shouting, there had been threats of mutiny, but Eddie had been relentless. He needed something with soul.
He closed his eyes for a second, catching a glimpse of a familiar silhouette leaning against a wooden pillar near the bar. "This one’s for the Gibson wielding Goddess who drove out of her way to hear us butcher Sabbath," he murmured, earning a few chuckles at the self deprecating humor. He let out a slow, steady breath and began the slow, bluesy opening crawl of Led Zeppelin’s Since I’ve Been Loving You. The transition from thrash metal to agonizingly slow blues-rock was jarring, but as Eddie’s fingers danced over the frets, coaxing a mournful, soaring wail from his Warlock, the room went eerily still.
Eddie poured himself into the solo, his eyes squeezed shut as he bent the strings until they practically wept. Chasing that feeling his mother had loved. Every slow slide was a message sent directly across the room. A bridge built of high-voltage wire and raw vulnerability. Behind him, the guys held the rhythm with a surprising steadiness despite it being a last minute addition to their set. He was sweating through his shirt, his curls plastered to his forehead, completely lost in the agonizing beauty of the track.
As the final, haunting chord began to decay, vibrating through the wood of the stage until it was just a ghostly hum, Eddie finally dared to open his eyes. He didn't have to search for her this time. She was right where he’d seen her last, but she wasn't leaning back with that guarded, teasing smirk anymore. She was leaning forward, her arms crossed over the railing, her body language completely open. In the dim, smoky light, he caught her gaze. She was smiling. Not the teasing smile from the shop, but something genuinely impressed. She was nodding her head slowly, a rhythmic, appreciative movement that told him she hadn't just heard the song; she’d felt it. She looked entirely consumed by the performance, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made the rest of the room vanish. The rest of the set was a blur of adrenaline and unadulterated showing off. With her eyes locked on him every time he glanced up, Eddie played like a man possessed. Every power chord felt heavier, every solo faster, his fingers flying across the frets with a precision that usually deserted him halfway through a crate of cheap beer. He barely felt the sting of the strings or the sweat stinging his eyes.
When the final crash of cymbals signaled the end of the night, Eddie didn't wait for the scattered applause or the usual post-show banter with the guys. As the house lights flickered to life he practically peeled the Warlock off his body. He set the guitar into its stand and hopped off the edge of the stage before the feedback had even fully died out. He moved through the crowd with a single-minded focus, sidestepping a drunk regular and ignoring Jeff calling his name. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, his chest still heaving. "So," he panted, his hair a chaotic mess around his face as he wiped a streak of sweat from his temple. He tried to summon the smirk, but his heart was beating too hard for his usual theatricality. "How did I do? Am I still a candidate for that roadie position, or should I stick to my day job of failing calculus?"
She didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him, her gaze traveling from his ripped jeans up to his wide, expectant eyes. The smirk she’d worn in Bedford was back, but there was a new warmth behind it, a softness that made Eddie’s stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. "You're a liar, Munson," she finally said, her voice low and smooth under the humming of the bar’s neon signs.
Eddie blinked, his confidence faltering for a split second. "A liar? I’ve been nothing but an open book!"
"You told me you played aggressively," she countered, stepping into his space, her fingers catching the wallet chain hanging from his jeans, tugging him just a fraction closer. "You didn't mention you could play with that much soul. Zeppelin? That wasn't dogshit, Eddie. That was... something else entirely."
Eddie felt his face heat up, the adrenaline of the performance curdling into a delicious, dizzying sort of bashfulness. He shifted his weight, leaning one hand against the wooden pillar she’d been occupying, effectively caging her into a small, private pocket of the loud bar. As he leaned in, the scent of vanilla he’d noticed in Bedford was now layered with the familiar tang of a recently smoked cigarette and the malty aroma of the longneck beer bottle she held loosely in her other hand. It was the smell of The Hideout, but on her, it was aphrodisia. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and summon the confident persona that usually came so easily. He let a crooked smirk pull at his lips, his eyes dropping to the beer in her hand before flicking back to hers.
"Well, you know," he started, his voice dropping into a drawl that he hoped sounded suave and not just like he’d been screaming for an hour. "I figure if a legendary creature like yourself is going to brave the treacherous journey to Hawkins, the least I can do is provide a soundtrack worthy of the journey. I’d hate for you to think the local talent was... lacking in inspiration."
She let out a soft snort, her eyes tracking the way he was trying to look effortless while his chest was still heaving from the set. She slowly rolled her eyes, the movement playful enough that Eddie didn't feel the sting. "God, you are so corny, Munson," she laughed, taking a slow sip of her beer while she watched him over the bottle. She lowered the amber glass, her thumb tracing the condensation on the label. "Normally, I’d have to penalize you for a line like that." Eddie opened his mouth to defend his honor, but she held up a finger to silence him, her smirk softening into something that made his knees feel like they were made of jelly.
"However," she continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that cut straight through the house music playing over the speakers. "I think I can find it in my heart to grant you a pardon tonight. Only because you went through the trouble of dedicating a Zeppelin track to me. And because you actually managed to hit those high notes without your voice cracking."
"It was a calculated risk," Eddie admitted, his cocky facade finally cracking into a genuine, beaming grin. "High stakes, high rewards. Does this mean the harsh critic is officially satisfied with the evening's entertainment?"
“Very satisfied," she purred, the words vibrating with a low resonance that seemed to travel straight down Eddie’s spine. She took another slow pull of her beer, her eyes never leaving his, and Eddie felt like he was a second away from short-circuiting. The bravado he’d spent the last hour projecting on stage suddenly felt like a suit of armor that was three sizes too big. He was Eddie Munson. He was supposed to have a witty comeback for everything. But standing this close to her, under the harsh yellow glow of the house lights, he found himself utterly tongue-tied. He looked down at his sneakers for a second, his rings catching the light as he nervously fidgeted with his belt loops.
"I, uh... good. Great. Excellent," he stammered, before mentally kicking himself for sounding like a broken record. He cleared his throat and looked back up, trying to regain his footing. "Can I... can I get you another one? Another beer, I mean. Not that I'm trying to ply the Bedford Siren with spirits, but the service in this establishment is notoriously slow unless you know the guy behind the tap."
She tilted her head, looking at the nearly empty bottle in her hand and then back at him. She seemed to weigh the request for a moment, a thoughtful glint in her eyes. "I think I can manage one more and still be okay to navigate the treacherous roads back to my realm," she decided, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
"Music to my ears," Eddie grinned.
Without thinking and driven by a sudden burst of "now or never" confidence, he reached out and took her hand. Her skin was cool compared to his post-show heat, her fingers slender but strong. He tugged her gently, weaving through the lingering crowd toward the bar. Eddie kept her close, his shoulder brushing against hers as he carved a path through the sweaty bodies and discarded plastic cups. When they reached the sticky wooden edge of the bar, he didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he leaned back against the counter, pulling her into the small space beside him, shielding her from the rowdy regulars with his own body.
"Hey, Rick!" Eddie barked, catching the bartender's eye with a wave. "Two more! And make 'em cold. We’ve got a VIP in the house tonight." Rick only rolled his eyes and grabbed two Coors out of the fridge and popped the bottle caps, setting them down before turning away without a word.
“He’s chatty,” she remarked, the corner of her mouth quirked in a grin as she claimed one of the sweating bottles. As she tilted it back to drink, Eddie reached out, his hand hovering briefly to arrest the movement. He held the crown of his own bottle out toward her, an unspoken invitation suspended in the space between them. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flickered with a quiet, curious confusion. The look of someone momentarily caught off guard by a sudden shift in the script. Then, the understanding settled in. She met the gesture with a deft movement, clinking her glass against his with a clack that punctuated the low roar of the bar.
Eddie lowered his bottle, a stray drop of condensation clinging to his thumb, and felt the intense beat of his heart finally begin to settle into something more sustainable. The bar was a riot of sound but tucked into this narrow sliver of space at the counter, the world felt strangely compressed. “So,” he started, leaning his weight onto his elbows. He shifted his weight, trying to find a pose that felt like effortless rockstar and less like a kid vibrating out of his skin. He watched her for a moment, the way she handled the grimy atmosphere of the Hideout as if she’d personally designed the decor. She was so composed, so entirely there, that Eddie felt a pang of certainty that she had lived a dozen lives while he was still stuck repeating his senior year. She likely had a string of Bloomington musicians in her wake. Guys who knew how to talk to a woman. College boys who had an actual future.
He cleared his throat. He wanted to say something smooth, something that suggested he was a man of the world, but his brain could only offer up a clumsy bridge between his two favorite worlds. “Now, I don’t want to presume the nature of your... mission to Hawkins,” Eddie began, his voice laced with a nervous energy he couldn't quite suppress. He toyed with the heavy silver ring on his thumb, his eyes darting to the label of her bottle before snapping back to hers. “But a guy could get the wrong idea. A girl drives all this way, braves the local fauna of the Hideout on a Tuesday? One might think she was looking for more than just a souvenir guitar pick.”
It was clunky. A bit too wordy and transparent. Eddie felt the heat of his own awkwardness prickling at the back of his neck. He watched her carefully, certain that a woman who carried herself with that kind of effortless gravity probably had a trail of much smoother, much more experienced men in her wake. He felt like a level-one bard trying to charm a high-level sorceress with a cantrip he’d only half-learned.
She didn’t laugh at him, though. Rather than letting him flounder in the awkward silence of his own making, she closed the distance, her boots scuffing as she pushed her way into his space. She didn't stop until her hip pressed into his side. Eddie’s breath hitched, his elbows sliding just a fraction on the bar as he found himself suddenly, wonderfully pinned by her proximity.
“You want to know the truth, Munson?” she murmured. “I haven’t been able to get our little encounter on Friday out of my head. Not once. I stared at the phone for two days, but I didn’t want to be the one to call. I didn't want to seem... overeager.”
Eddie’s brain short-circuited. The girl he’d been dreaming about had been sitting at home, thinking about him? The mental image of her wrestling with the same restless, pacing energy he’d been nursing since Friday felt like a victory more significant than any natural twenty he’d ever rolled.
She reached out then, her hand moving with a focused intent that made his heart threaten to beat out of his chest cavity. She didn’t go for his hand or his shoulder; instead, her fingers trailed upward, ghosting over the wild, untamed tangle of his curls. She caught a stray lock of dark hair between her fingers, testing the texture of it with a soft, appreciative hum. “And for the record,” she added, her eyes tracking the movement of her own hand as she tucked a curl behind his ear. “I love the hair.”
The bashfulness hit him then. Genuine reaction of a guy who had spent most of his life being told his appearance was a problem to be solved. He ducked his head slightly, his shoulders hunching as he offered her a small, lopsided smile that was far more vulnerable than anything he’d shown on stage. But then, a flicker of something else stirred beneath the bashfulness. A spark of the guy who had climbed onto cafeteria tables to face down the world. If she was going to bridge the gap, if she was going to stand there and tell him she’d been thinking of him, he wasn't going to let the moment slip away into a stuttering mess of apologies.
With a steadying breath that he hoped didn't look as shaky as it felt, he reached out. His movements were slow, giving her every second to pull away, but she stayed right where she was. He let his hand settle tentatively against her side, his palm finding the narrow, warm expanse of skin where her cropped shirt rode up above the dark denim of her jeans. The contact was electric. Her skin was soft, radiating a heat that seemed to travel directly up his arm and settle in the center of his chest. His thumb brushed against the curve of her waist, his rings feeling cold for a split second against her warmth before they acclimated to her. He felt the slight hitch of her breath beneath his touch.
Eddie’s pulse was frantic now, but as he looked at her, he didn't pull back. He kept his hand there as some sort of physical claim in the middle of the crowded bar. "I, uh... it's a lot of maintenance," he stammered, his voice sounding lower, roughened by the proximity and the sudden weight of his own hand against her. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of the suave persona he’d been projecting, even as his fingers curled slightly against her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him further, her body language shifting from a flirtatious challenge to something more intimate. Her hand settled on his shoulder, her fingers finding a different, thick strand of his hair. She began to toy with it, twisting the curl around her index finger as she looked up at him, her eyes soft and shining with a playful sort of surprise.
“Maintenance, huh?” she asked, her voice a low, rhythmic purr that seemed to vibrate right through his denim vest. “Tell me, Munson, does the Dungeon Master have a specific ritual?”
Eddie opened his mouth to answer, a rambling explanation about specific drug-store conditioners and the struggle of humidity already halfway up his throat. “Well, see, the trick is you can’t actually brush it when it’s dry, or you end up looking like a Pomeranian that’s been…”
He trailed off, the words dying as he caught the look in her eyes. She wasn’t actually listening for hair care tips. She was watching his lips move, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw while she continued to weave her fingers through his curls. The question was just a flimsy excuse to keep her hands on him. She let out a soft, throaty chuckle as his voice failed him, her gaze traveling over the vivid, traitorous heat that he could feel creeping up his neck and flooding his face.
“You know, for a guy who has that kind of stage presence, you really are something else when you’re flustered,” she murmured, her thumb ghosting over the apple of his cheek. “It’s incredibly endearing, Eddie.”
Eddie let out a shaky, self-deprecating breath, his hand on her waist tightening just a fraction as he tried to find his footing. “How is it possible?” he managed, his voice sounding raw and far more honest than he’d intended. “How are you so... grounded?I feel like I’m literally about to turn into a puddle right here. And you look like you’re just having a casual stroll through the park.”
A knowing, secret smile pulled at her lips. She leaned in closer, bridging the final inch of space until her lips were hovering just beside his ear, her breath a warm, tickling sensation against his skin. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered, her voice a smooth, conspiratorial velvet. “I was a theatre nerd. Shakespeare, remember?” She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her expression dancing with a mixture of mischief and warmth. “I’m not actually this cool, Eddie. I’m just very, very good at acting like I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Eddie’s hand stayed anchored at her waist, but his thumb went still against her skin as he processed her confession. The admission that she was "acting" should have made him feel more on her level, but instead, it sent a jolt of caution through his system. His mind flickered back. An unwelcome strobe light of a memory, to a rainy afternoon when he was thirteen. He could almost feel the sting of Ronnie’s gentle rejection, the hollow weight in his gut when he realized he’d completely misread their friendship. He couldn't do that again. Not with her.
“And what are you doing… exactly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rough murmur. He tried to keep it light, to lace it with his usual eccentric curiosity, but the vulnerability he was trying to shield was leaking through the cracks. She didn't pull away. She let the strand of his hair go, her palm flattening against the back of his neck, her fingers tangling slightly in the curls at the nape. She looked at him, her eyes searching his with a steady, unblinking focus that made the air in his lungs feel heavy.
“The real question, Eddie,” she whispered, “is what do you wish I was doing?”
He let his gaze drop to her lips, then slowly back up to her eyes, his thumb tracing a deliberate, trembling arc against her waist. "I think," he began, "that if I actually answered that, the Dungeon Master would have to call for a wisdom saving throw. Because my wishes... aren't exactly PG-rated tonight, Bedford."
He leaned in that final, agonizing inch, until the tip of his nose brushed against hers. The world outside their small circle became a muffled, distant static. “Try me,” she whispered, looking up at him with encouraging wide eyes.
"I wish," he whispered, his breath hitching as he felt her fingers tighten at the nape of his neck, "that you’d stop acting for a second and you’d tell me if this script ends with me finally getting to see if you taste as good as you look, or if I’m destined to spend the rest of the night wondering if I’m just a fading curiosity."
She didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, her gaze dropping to his lips with a heavy, lingering intent that made the air in Eddie’s lungs turn to lead. The silence stretched, thick and humming with the kind of electricity that usually preceded a lightning strike. Then, slowly, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes flicking toward the heavy oak door at the front of the bar before returning to his. “I’m dying for a smoke,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of that dry, practical edge. She gave his shoulder a playful pat, her hand sliding away from his neck. “And you... you should probably go pack up that Warlock of yours. It’s a lot of guitar to leave sitting on a stage in a place like this.”
Eddie felt the floor drop out from under him. The sudden withdrawal of her touch felt like a cold front moving in to replace the heat of a moment ago. He stood there, his hand still hovering awkwardly near the space where her waist had been, his mind racing to find where he’d tripped the wire. He’d been too bold. He’d overstepped. He’d taken a "try me" as an invitation and turned it into something too real, too fast.
“Right,” he managed, the word sounding hollow and brittle. He forced a stiff smile onto his face, his rings catching the light as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He started to turn away, his shoulders hunching in a defensive crouch, the familiar weight of rejection settling into his bones. He was already rehearsing the self-deprecating joke he’d tell Gareth later to mask the sting.
But before he could take a single step toward the stage, she moved. She bridged the gap again, tugging him back into her orbit. She leaned in, her lips finding the shell of his ear, her voice a low, secret vibration that cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Have a little faith, Sir Munson,” she whispered, her breath warm and smelling of vanilla. “I’m not making an exit. I’m just making sure there won't be any interruptions. I'll be by your van. Don't make me wait.” She pulled back, giving him a wink, before turning and heading toward the door with that same confident stride.
Eddie stood at the bar for a beat longer, his pulse thrumming in his ears, before he let out a breathless laugh. He turned and practically bolted toward the stage. Gareth and Jeff were already there, winding up cables and snapping latches on road cases, but their movements were sluggish. They were both staring at the front door as if expecting it to burst back open.
“So,” Gareth started, his voice a mixture of awe and genuine confusion as he looked at Eddie. “That was her? The actual manifestation of your hyper-fixation?”
“She’s real,” Jeff added, shaking his head. “And she was all over you. I think I saw your soul leave your body for a second there.”
Eddie reached for his Warlock, his fingers trembling with a newfound energy as he slid it into its coffin-shaped case. He tried to puff out his chest, catching his reflection in the stage monitors and attempting to summon a look of cool, calculated triumph. He adjusted his jacket, tossing his hair back with a flourish that was about sixty percent bravado and forty percent sheer panic. “What can I say, boys?” Eddie quipped, though his voice cracked just enough to betray him. “The lady has discerning taste. She knows a legendary bard when she sees one.” But as he snapped the last latch on his guitar case, the facade flickered. He leaned his forehead against the cold Tolex of the case for a fleeting second, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “Fuck,” he muttered, his eyes wide and slightly glazed. “I think I’m actually about to die. My heart is doing things it’s definitely not medically cleared to do.”
Gareth snorted, hoisting a drum throne over his shoulder. “Well, don't die on the stage. Rick’ll charge us a cleaning fee.”
“I can't stay,” Eddie said, suddenly galvanized, grabbing his gear with an urgency. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting. Every second I’m in here talking to you two losers is a second I’m risking her realizing she could do infinitely better.”
Jeff frowned, looking around the emptying bar. “Waiting? Where? She walked out the door, man. She’s probably halfway to the county line by now.”
Eddie offered a manic, lopsided grin as he began to back away toward the hallway, the Warlock case bumping against his leg. “She’s waiting by the van while I pack up to ‘ensure there are no interruptions’, I’ll have you know.”
The two of them stopped dead, exchanging a look. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Jeff’s face, and Gareth let out a low whistle that echoed through the darkening room. “The van?” Gareth repeated, a wicked glint in his eye. “In the parking lot? Damn, Munson.”
“Godspeed, Eddie,” Jeff called out, tossing a balled-up bit of tape from their cables toward him as a parting gift. Eddie didn't even bother with a retort. He just flipped the bird over his shoulder and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, his mind already miles ahead of his feet, sprinting toward the cool night air and the girl waiting by the rusted-out GMC.
🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆
The drive from Hawkins to Bloomington was usually a mundane stretch of Indiana blacktop, but this Saturday evening, Eddie barely noticed the miles. His mind was a chaotic rewiring of the last four days, a highlight reel that played on a continuous loop behind his eyes.
Tuesday night in the back of the War Wagon was the undisputed headliner. The air in the van had been thick enough to choke on. Heavy with the scent of her vanilla perfume, the lingering metallic tang of the bar, and the humid heat of two people who had run out of words. He could still feel the weight of her. The way she’d climbed into his lap and draped herself over him like she belonged there. She’d been relentless. The agonizing friction as she rutted against his thighs, her hands tangled in his hair while he gripped her waist with a desperation that bordered on feral. He’d come so close to losing it right there in his denim, his breath hitching in a series of broken, pathetic sounds that she’d swallowed with open mouth kisses, before they’d finally forced themselves to call it a night.
She’d promised to call before she even climbed out of the back into the brisk air. And she’d kept that promise. Every single night since, the phone in the trailer had become Eddie’s lifeline. They talked until his ear went numb and Wayne started knocking on the wall, trading stories that went deeper than the "freak" persona he projected for the world.
Then there was Thursday. A mid-week fever dream where he’d pushed the van to its limit just to meet her at the edge of Bedford. They’d found a nondescript, neon-lit burger joint. The kind of place where the grease soaked through the paper bags before you even got to the window. It was perfect. He remembered the way she’d sighed, kicking off her boots and propping her sock-covered feet up on his dashboard, her toes wiggling to the rhythm of something on the radio. They hadn’t talked much then; they didn't need to. They’d just shared a strawberry shake and watched the lightning bugs congregate in the tall grass, the silence between them feeling more comfortable than any conversation he’d ever had with a girl in Hawkins. But now, the neon "OPEN" sign of the Bloomington blues bar was staring him down. Eddie adjusted the collar of his vest. He wasn't the frontman tonight; he was the visitor in her realm, and he was dying to see if the girl under the stage lights was the same one who’d left her footprints on his dashboard.
The heavy door of the Bloomington club swung shut, cutting off the humid Indiana night. The place felt different from the Hideout; the air was thinner, smelling more of expensive bourbon and old wood than stale PBR and regret. Eddie knew he was early, his internal clock having run on overdrive for the entire drive, so he kept his head down, slipping toward the mahogany bar. He ordered a Jack on the rocks and retreated to a shadowed corner table, a tactical position that offered a clear view of the modest stage.
He didn't have to wait long. A side door near the stage creaked open, and the band began to file out. Eddie leaned forward, his drink momentarily forgotten. He was struck first by the company she kept. He’d expected peers but these men were seasoned. They were middle-aged, faces etched with the kind of lines only decades of late nights and low lamplight could carve. One man, cradling a weathered saxophone, looked to be pushing sixty, his hair a shock of silver against a dark vest. And then, there she was.
She looked radiant, a sharp contrast to the lived-in grit of her bandmates. She was wearing a short, dark dress, paired with a vintage fur coat that was already beginning to slip provocatively down her shoulders. She looked like a starlet who had wandered into a noir film, her presence commanding the room before she even touched a microphone. As the house lights began to dim, a single blue spotlight cut through the haze, catching a flash of silver on her own hand that made Eddie’s heart stop.
They had been sitting in the cramped cabin of the War Wagon, the windows beginning to fog from the heat of their proximity. The radio was a low hum between them, and Eddie’s fingers had been restlessly tapping an uneven beat against the steering wheel. She had reached out, her cool hand catching his, stilling his movements. She didn't say a word as she looked at his hand, her eyes tracing the heavy silver of the ring on his index finger. A piece of gothic hammered metal he’d worn since he was fifteen. She’d slid it off his finger and onto her own. It was too big, hanging loose against her skin, but she didn't seem to mind. She just turned her hand over, admiring the weight of it.
Suddenly, the staticky speakers of the van had flared to life with the opening, upbeat chords of Suzi Quatro’s "Stumblin' In." She’d let out a small, breathless laugh, her shoulders hitching as she looked at the dashboard. "Oh, god," she’d murmured, her voice laced with a sudden, uncharacteristic bashfulness. "I love this song." She glanced at him, her eyes guarded as if she expected him to scoff. "I know, I know. I’m admitting to liking something soft and sugary to a god of metal like yourself. It’s probably a strike against my cool-girl credentials, isn't it?"
Eddie had looked at her, watching the way the neon light of the burger joint turned her features into a palette of pink and orange. Instead of the biting remark she’d clearly expected, he’d leaned his head back against the seat and started to sing. "Our love is alive, and so we begin..."
His voice wasn't the gravelly roar he used on stage; it was softer, a light, melodic baritone that caught the rhythmic swing of the track perfectly. He saw her eyes go wide, her mouth parting in a tiny "o" of genuine surprise. "Foolishly laying our hearts on the table," he continued, a playful, lopsided grin spreading across his face as he nudged her shoulder with his own. "Stumblin' in..."
She’d joined in then, her voice a rich, soulful harmony that bridged the gap between his metal world and her bluesy heart. In that moment, surrounded by the smell of fries and the glow of the radio dial, the genres didn't matter. They were just two kids in a van, finding the same tune.
Back in the present, under the blue light of the Bloomington stage, she gripped the fretboard of her guitar with that same hand. His ring still shining defiantly on her finger. She scanned the dark room, and for a moment, Eddie was certain her gaze locked onto his corner. The smirk she gave the microphone was a silent acknowledgment that she was glad he came.
She didn't introduce the band or offer a rehearsed greeting to the crowd. Instead, she simply nodded to the drummer behind her. The count-in was a sharp, clicking rhythm that was immediately drowned out by the deep, honey-thick growl of her ES-335. Watching her play was a different experience than seeing her lean over a music shop counter. Here, she was the authority. She moved with a controlled, swaying grace, her fingers dancing over the frets with a technical precision that made Eddie’s own style feel like a chaotic brawl.
Midway through the first set, the tempo dropped. The middle-aged bassist fell into a slow, walking groove, and the saxophonist stepped back into the shadows. She stepped up to the mic, the fur coat finally sliding completely off her shoulders to pool around her elbows, revealing the delicate line of her collarbones. She didn't look at the crowd this time. She looked straight toward the back corner, toward the flicker of the candle on Eddie’s table.
She didn't rush the microphone; she drifted toward it, her boots clicking softly against the wood as the band transitioned into a slow, dirty blues shuffle. She gripped the stand with both hands, the fur coat finally surrendering to gravity and slipping to the crook of her elbows.
“We’re gonna slow it down just a hair,” she said into the mic, her voice a low, honeyed rasp that made the ice in Eddie’s drink rattle as his hand shook. She scanned the dark room, her eyes eventually finding his corner and staying there, pinned and unwavering. “This next one goes out to a certain… traveler. A guy who thinks he’s a lot more dangerous than he actually is, but who knows exactly when to lean in.”
A few light chuckles rippled through the sophisticated crowd, but Eddie felt like he was the only person in the building. The band dropped into a heavy beat, the bass player’s thumb thumping out a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat against the floorboards. She leaned into the mic, her eyes hooded and dark, her voice a rich, soulful rasp as she delivered the opening line.
"These men that I've been seeing, baby... got their soul up on the shelf."
He’d spent years watching his peers. The guys who peacocked in the locker rooms or treated girls like trophies to be won and discarded. He thought of his own three boxes theory and realized how shallow he had been. But as she continued, her voice swelling with a gritty, uncompromising power, he realized she was cutting through all of it.
"You know they could never love me, When they can't even love themselves"
She was so casually stripping away the performance. Eddie watched the way she leaned her lips into the microphone, his silver ring catching the blue light as her fingers danced on the frets, and he felt a strange illumination in his chest. He knew what it was like to struggle with that. To hide behind a "freak" mask because the person underneath felt too small, too battered. And yet, all things considered Eddie knew who he was. The parts of himself he could control, he liked. When she reached the chorus, her gaze intensified, locking onto his with a heat that made the back of his neck prickle.
“I want a man to rock me like my backbone was his own. Darlin', I know you can”
The line hit him with the force of a freight train. His mind flashed back to Tuesday night, to the way he’d held her in the van, his hands shaking but steady enough to keep her close. He hadn't wanted to "take her for a ride"; he’d wanted to be exactly what she was asking for. Someone who could hold the weight of her without folding. Someone to be strong enough for the both of them.
She let the guitar do the talking for a moment. A stinging, bent note wailing out from the ES-335 that sounded like a cry for help and a declaration of war all at once. She moved with the music, her body swaying in a slow, hypnotic curve that made Eddie’s pulse hammer.
"I come home sad and lonely... feel like I wanna cry. I want a man to hold me, not some fool to ask me why."
There was a raw vulnerability in her delivery that moved him more than the technical skill of the band ever could. She was telling him what she needed. A man who understood the shadows. Someone who wouldn't put himself above her, or beneath her, but would simply stand beside her when the house lights went down. As she reached the final, lingering notes, her voice dropped to a near-whisper, a conspiratorial secret shared across the crowded room.
"Don't you put yourself above me... you just love me like a man."
The final chord decayed and for a long moment, the bar stayed silent. Eddie sat in the shadows, his drink forgotten, his eyes wide and bright. He felt seen in a way that terrified him, but as she stepped back from the mic and offered him one last, lingering smirk, he knew he wasn't going to run. Eddie lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the last of the blue stage light, and offered a silent, steady toast to the air between them. He capped it with a slow, deliberate wink before taking a long pull of the whiskey.
As the band transitioned into a more upbeat, rhythmic shuffle, Eddie sank back into the shadows of his booth, letting the music wash over him like a tide. She stayed at the microphone for a few more tracks, her voice weaving through the smoky air with an effortless, practiced soul. She shared a few harmonies with the older saxophonist, her head tilted back, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips that seemed to say she was exactly where she was meant to be. She sang a haunting, low-tempo cover of a Janis Joplin track that made the hair on Eddie's arms stand up, and later, she retreated to the edge of the stage to provide a steady, driving rhythm for a long, improvisational bass solo.
But for Eddie, none of it quite reached the heights of that Bonnie Raitt cover. The lyrics to Love Me Like a Man were etched into his brain, playing on a loop alongside the memory of her fingers tracing his silver ring. It was a heavy thing to ask of someone and Eddie found himself wondering if he was actually up to the task. He was used to being the one who needed an audience, the one who filled the silence with noise to keep the dark at bay. It was a new kind of quest, one where the monsters weren't made of lead and paint, but of shared history and quiet, lonely nights. Eventually, the set wound down. The silver-haired drummer let out a final, resonant crash of the cymbals, and the house lights began their slow, amber climb back toward reality. The applause was warm and lingering, a sophisticated roar that filled the room as the band began to unstrap their instruments.
Eddie watched as she handed her Gibson off to the older man, her movements tired but graceful. She didn't head for the stage room or linger to talk to the regulars who were already drifting toward the stage to offer their compliments. Instead, she grabbed her fur coat from the back of an amp from where she’d tossed it towards the end of the set, slinging it over one shoulder.
While the band had been taking their final bows, Eddie had made a quick retreat to the bar, navigating the cluster of Bloomington jazz-heads to flag down the bartender. The man had looked Eddie over, eyes lingering just a second on the denim vest and the chaotic hair, before his expression softened into something knowing. "She’s a powerhouse, isn't she?" the bartender had murmured, already reaching for a heavy-bottomed rocks glass. "Her usual is an Old Fashioned. Extra bitters, easy on the sugar. She likes the bite."
Now, as she reached the table, Eddie slid the condensation-beaded glass toward her. The orange peel twist caught the low light, glowing like an ember against the dark wood.
Her eyebrows shot up, a tired but genuine smile breaking across her face. "An Old Fashioned? You’ve been doing your homework."
"I have my sources," Eddie quipped. "I figured a goddess of your stature shouldn't have to fetch her own libations after a performance like that."
She didn't stay on the other side of the table. Instead, she rounded the edge of the booth and curled up onto the vinyl seat right next to him. She didn't leave a polite gap either as she pressed herself directly into his space. Eddie felt the air leave his lungs as she settled in, her thigh flushing against his in a move that was as forward as the lyrics she’d just sung. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the drink, her eyes closing for a brief second as the bite of the bourbon hit her tongue. When she opened them, she was looking up at him from under her lashes, the silver of his ring flashing as she rested her hand on the table, dangerously close to his own.
“So,” she murmured, her voice a low vibration that seemed to pull the shadows of the booth tighter around them. “Did the reality live up to the day dream, Munson? Or do I need to go back up there and do an encore to keep your interest?”
Eddie looked down at her. The proximity was intoxicating. The scent of the stage, the vanilla, and the sharp, citrusy tang of her drink all swirling into a cocktail that made his head spin. He didn't pull back. He leaned his head against the back of the booth, turning his face just enough so that he could catch the heat of her gaze. “Interest was never the problem,” he admitted.
Slowly, she reached out, her hand disappearing beneath the edge of the table to slide firmly across his denim-covered thigh. Her fingers moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the pressure of her palm sending a jolt of heat straight to his core. She looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes, her eyes heavy with a look that made the smoky air in the bar feel ten degrees hotter. "Yeah?" she asked, the word a soft, sultry challenge that hung in the air between them.
Eddie swallowed hard. He looked at her, noticing the way she was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing. "Yeah," he whispered, nodding slowly. "I'm always stuck in this... middle ground with you. Half the time, I’m trying so hard to be the guy who deserves to stand next to you. And the other half? I just want to drop the act. I want to tell you all the dorky, uncool things I love without apologizing for any of it."
He let out a shaky breath, his own hand finding hers beneath the table, his fingers lacing through hers. "I'm stuck between wanting to just hold your hand and walk through a park like we're in some cheesy rom-com... and wanting to get you out of here right now." He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back to her eyes, his pupils blown wide. "I want to find out if you're just as pretty underneath me as you are standing under those blue lights."
She didn't flinch at the intensity of his gaze. If anything, she leaned in closer, her thumb tracing the seam of his jeans while she studied the vulnerability etched into his face. The smoke-heavy air of the club seemed to hold its breath as she tilted her head. "Eddie," she murmured, her voice dropping the sultry lilt for something far more direct. "Have you ever had sex?"
Eddie froze, his mind instantly spiraling. He could lie. He could weave some elaborate, rock-star tale of a wild night after a gig. Something involving a groupie and a motel room and she’d probably believe him. He was nineteen, after all. He was supposed to have a few notches on his belt. But as he looked at her, seeing the way his ring caught the amber light on her finger, the lie died in his throat. He realized he didn't want to give her a performance. Not after the song she’d just sung for him.
"No," he admitted, the word sounding small and startlingly honest. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh, his gaze dropping to the table. "Believe it or not, there isn't exactly a long, winding line of girls in Hawkins eager to jump into bed with the long haired, super-senior freak."
He felt a sharp pang of shame. The weight of his reputation in that small, narrow-minded town suddenly felt like a lead weight. He waited for her to realize she was wasting her time. Instead, she hummed. "Well," she said, her voice reclaiming that teasing, melodic edge as she tightened her grip on his hand beneath the table. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting just beneath the shell of his ear, "I think those girls in Hawkins must be even more boring and stupid than you let on.”
"I don’t know, I think they just have a very healthy survival instinct," Eddie muttered, his eyes darting to his drink. He tried to rely on his usual shield of self-deprecation, a nervous twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I’m an acquired taste, like... black licorice."
She didn't laugh. Instead, she reached out with her free hand, her fingers catching his chin and firmly turning his face back to hers. She shook her head, her expression settling into something intensely serious, stripping away the layers of his defense until he felt completely exposed. "Stop it," she commanded softly. "I’m not being nice. You are, without a doubt, the coolest guy I’ve ever met."
Eddie’s breath hitched, the joke he’d been about to make dying in his throat.
"You’re incredibly talented," she continued, her voice a low, steady anchor. "You get what it’s like to have a home life that isn't exactly a Hallmark card, which is a rare thing in this corner of the world. And you’re the only person I know who doesn't look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I randomly drop into Shakespearean English."
She leaned in, the thumb of her hand on his thigh traced the heavy denim seam again, her voice dropping into a register that made his entire body hum. "I may have only known you a week, Eddie Munson, but I’ve already spent a significant amount of time imagining things." She paused, her smirk returning. "Some of it is wholesome. Like how cute you looked with mustard on your cheek or how adorable it is after it rained and your hair gets all frizzy. But mostly, I’ve been wondering what it would be like if you played me as well as you play that Warlock."
Eddie choked.
A genuine, undignified sputter as he inhaled a bit of his Jack and Coke at the exact moment she finished that sentence. He coughed into his fist, his face turning a shade of red, until he finally managed to clear his throat and blink the stinging tears from his eyes.
"Right," he rasped, his voice an octave higher than usual before he settled it back down. "Okay. Message received. Loud and clear. Critical hit." He leaned in, his fingers twitching against his glass. "Is there... I mean, hypothetically, if I were to act on that very specific and terrifyingly enticing invitation… assuming that was actually an invitation… is there somewhere we can go? Because I don't think my van is quite the private chamber you deserve tonight."
She smiled, a slow, cat-like curve of her lips as she watched him recover. "My aunt is out of town for the weekend," she whispered, her hand finally sliding up from his thigh to lace her fingers with his on the table. "The house is quiet. And very, very empty."
Eddie didn't even hesitate. "Can I follow you back? I’ll stick to your bumper like glue, I swear."
"Actually," she said, tilting her head toward the stage, "I could use a ride. I tagged along with the bassist tonight since my car’s been making a sound like a dying cat."
Eddie didn't answer with words. He grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his drink in one determined swallow, the ice clinking against his teeth. She followed suit, tilting her head back to finish her Old Fashioned. "Wait here," she commanded, sliding out of the booth.
He watched her weave back toward the stage, her fur coat swinging around her hips. She leaned over to the silver-haired drummer and the older bassist, nodding toward Eddie as she made her excuses. The bassist, the one who looked like he’d seen everything twice, looked over at Eddie and barked a laugh, saying something low that made the drummer grin and shake his head. Eddie stood up, his legs feeling a little like jelly, and met her halfway as she grabbed her Gibson case. He reached for it before she could lift the heavy weight, his hand brushing hers.
"Careful with her, kid," the bassist called out, leaning over the edge of the stage with a toothy, mischievous grin.
"Knock it off, Lou!" she shot back, waving him off with a roll of her eyes. She grabbed Eddie’s free arm, her fingers digging into his leather sleeve, and began pulling him toward the side exit. "Ignore them. They’ve been playing bars since the Mesozoic era. They tend to think they’re hilarious."
They burst out of the side door and into the cool, humid night air of Bloomington. Eddie led the way, his sneakers hitting the pavement in a quick shuffle. He fumbled with his keys as they reached the van, the rusted GMC looking like a majestic carriage in the yellow glow of the streetlights. He threw the side door open and tossed her guitar case onto the bench seat before turning to help her up. "Watch the step," he breathed, his eyes wide and dark as he looked at her in the moonlight.
Eddie practically hoisted her into the van, his hands lingering on her waist for a split second longer than necessary just to feel the heat of her through the dress. Once she was settled, he slammed the heavy door shut with a triumphant thud and sprinted around the front. He vaulted into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. The engine turned over with a guttural, rattling roar that felt entirely appropriate for the state of his nerves. He didn't waste time. He threw the van into gear and tore away from the curb, the tires chirping as he pointed the War Wagon toward the highway that led back to Bedford.
Beside him, she didn't seem bothered by the sudden G-force. She leaned forward, her fur coat spilling over the center console as she began to dig through the disorganized mountain of cassettes littering the floorboards. She tossed aside a few home-recordings before her eyes lit up. "A call back," she murmured, sliding Holy Diver into the tape deck.
The opening synthesized growl of "Stand Up and Shout" exploded through the van's mismatched speakers, the riff immediately filling the cramped cabin. Eddie found himself drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat. "Good choice, Bedford!" he shouted over the music, a wild, reckless grin splitting his face as they hit the open road.
They had just cleared the final flickering streetlights of Bloomington’s city limits, the dark, rolling hills of the Indiana countryside swallowing the highway, when the atmosphere inside the van shifted. The neon glow of the dashboard caught the wicked curve of her smile as she turned in her seat. She didn't say a word. She just leaned across the console and reached out. Eddie’s breath hitched as he felt her cool fingers find the metal button of his jeans.
"Eyes on the road, Munson," she purred, her voice nearly lost under Dio's soaring vocals.
Eddie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white, his heart performing a frantic, chaotic solo against his ribs. The highway was a blur of gray and black, and for a terrifying, wonderful second, he forgot exactly how to breathe. "I... uh...," he managed to stammer, his head falling back against the headrest as he felt the button pop. "Right. The road. Keeping my eyes... on the road."
The heavy bassline of Dio’s anthem pulsed through the space, but it was quickly eclipsed by the rush of blood in Eddie’s ears. He felt the cool slide of the zipper, a sound he felt more than heard, followed by the sudden, sharp relief of the cool night air against his skin as she cleared the path. She didn't hesitate. With a fluid, cat-like grace, she slid out of the passenger seat and knelt in the narrow, carpeted gap between the two pilot chairs. The van hit a small dip in the highway, but she braced herself against his thigh, her touch grounding him even as his head began to swim. When she leaned forward and took him into her mouth, the world outside the windshield ceased to exist.
Eddie’s head snapped back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as a groan tore from his throat. It was a raw, unfiltered sound that drowned out Ronnie Dio’s soaring vocals. His hands cramped around the steering wheel, his knuckles white and shaking, as he struggled to remember the basic mechanics of driving.
"Jesus," he gasped.
The sensation was overwhelming. A localized explosion of heat and friction that made every nerve ending in his body scream. He was nineteen, operating on a decade's worth of built-up anticipation and a week's worth of agonizing tension. Having experienced this long awaited act was almost more than his system could handle. He felt the occasional glide of his own silver ring against his skin as she used her hand to guide what she couldn’t take in her mouth, and it sent a fresh wave of electricity straight up his spine. He fought the urge to look down, knowing that if he did, he’d lose whatever precarious grip he had on his remaining sanity, not to mention, the steering wheel.
"You're... you're gonna be the death of me," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving as he stared blindly at the road ahead, his hips jerking involuntarily upward into her warmth. "The absolute... death of me."
The dashboard hummed with the vibrations of the music, but Eddie felt like he was being slowly dissolved from reality. In his head he’d rehearsed this a thousand times. He’d read the descriptions in the back of the dirty paperbacks Wayne kept in the trailer, heard the guys in the locker room talk about it and had certainly spent enough lonely nights in his bedroom imagining the mechanics. He’d assumed it would feel nice. In theory, the idea of a warm, wet environment pulling at him was a solid concept. A gold-tier fantasy. But theory was a pale, flickering candle compared to the bonfire currently happening in his lap.
It wasn't just the warmth, though that was a shock in itself. It was the intensity of the suction. Every time she moved, her tongue swirled or her throat tightened around him, and a new wave of pleasure surged up his spine, short-circuiting his brain until he couldn't remember his own middle name. The actual experience was a sensory overload he hadn't been prepared for. It was a visceral, bone-deep sensation of being wanted, and of being the sole focus of someone who knew exactly how to dismantle him. He’d spent his life playing the role of Hawkin’s “Freak". Al, the dead beat Munson’s boy. The guy everyone looked down on. But right here, in the narrow gap between two pilot seats, he felt like a king.
As she increased the pace, her hand guiding him with a firm, steady grip, Eddie’s vision blurred. The white lines of the highway ahead became long, glowing streaks of light. The world was narrowing down to a single point of white-hot sensation until an aggressive blare of a horn shattered the spell. The left tires hugging the yellow line as an oncoming sedan flashed its high beams in warning. The sudden jolt of adrenaline was a cold bucket of water. Eddie yanked the wheel back to the right, his heart leaping into his throat for an entirely different reason. She pulled back just an inch as she looked up at him with a look of unbothered mischief.
"I said eyes on the road, Munson," she murmured before she leaned back in with a renewed, predatory vigor.
"I can't–I'm gonna–" Eddie’s words came out jumbled. The combination of near-death on the asphalt and the expert movements happening in his lap was too much. He couldn't keep the van between the lines and keep his soul from leaving his body at the same time. With a shaky hand, he flicked the indicator and guided the GMC onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching loudly as they came to a rolling stop. He threw the van into park, the engine idling. He reached down, his fingers lacing into the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't pull, but he held her there, his knuckles brushing the soft skin behind her ear. "Is this... you're okay? I'm not..." he trailed off, his voice thick and uncertain. He wanted this more than his next breath, but the gentleman buried under the denim and chains needed to hear it. She didn't speak. She just looked up at him, her eyes wide in the dim light of the cabin, and gave a firm, decisive nod.
That was all the permission he needed.
Eddie let out a sound as he finally let go of the restraint. He guided her back down, his hand steadying her as he pushed deeper, the raw reality of her throat closing around him far more intense than any fantasy. He bucked upward, his hips moving. She let out a muffled, involuntary gag as he hit the back of her throat, her eyes watering but never leaving his. The vulnerability of it, the sheer trust of her letting him do this, sent him over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers tightening in her hair as he finally came. His body racked with a series of long, shuddering tremors that felt like they were shaking the very frame of the van.
Eddie sat there for a minute, his head lolling back against the headrest while his chest heaved in uneven bursts. The world was slowly reassembling itself. The smell of the old upholstery, the distant hum of the idling engine, and the fading wail of a guitar solo on the stereo. He felt heavy, light, and completely hollowed out all at once. Eventually, he forced his eyes open, looking down at her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking remarkably composed given she’d just dismantled him.
“Holy… sweet mother of Mary,” he managed to croak out. Panic suddenly flared in his brain. He began to dig frantically through the center console, his rings clattering against loose change and old guitar picks. “Gum. I have gum. Somewhere. I know I have a pack in here for emergencies.” He finally unearthed a crumpled yellow pack and held it out to her with a hand that was still visibly trembling. “In case you, uh… want to get the taste of the Hawkins freak out of your mouth.”
She let out a soft, throaty laugh that made his stomach flip, taking a piece and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks, Munson. You’re a real peach.”
She moved, sliding back into the passenger seat and pulling her fur coat back up over her shoulders. Eddie stayed where he was, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, trying to convince his legs that they still knew how to operate pedals. After a few steadying breaths, he reached across the console. He simply took her hand, his thumb tracing the silver ring of his she was still wearing. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “That was amazing,” he whispered, his eyes dark and sincere as he looked at her. “Truly. But you’ve officially ruined this van for me, Bedford.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Ruined it?”
“Yeah,” Eddie grinned. “Because now, every single time I’m behind this wheel, even if I’m just driving Gareth to practice or going to get cigarettes, I am going to be vividly imagining road head.”
She watched him, her head tilted against the headrest, with a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She looked utterly unbothered, almost serene in the dim amber glow of the dashboard. But as the silence stretched, the manic grin on Eddie’s face began to falter. A flicker of something else crossed his features. He looked down at his lap, then back at her, his expression softening into something uncharacteristically quiet and heavy.
"What?" she asked, her voice dropping the sultry edge for something more curious. She reached out, her finger tracing the line of his jaw. "What’s that look for?
Eddie let out a long, slow breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "I just..." He paused, "I feel like a bit of a prick, honestly. I’m sitting here making jokes about road head and my van being ruined, and you just... you did that. For me." He looked at her then, his big, dark eyes wide. "And as much as I loved every agonizing second of it, it feels a little one-sided for my taste. I don’t want to be the guy who just... takes."
He shifted the van back into drive, but he didn't let up on the break yet. He leaned over the console. "I’d really like to get back to your place, Bedford," he whispered. "Because I’d very much like the chance to show you exactly how thankful I am.”
She didn't say a word, but the way her breath hitched and her pupils dilated told him all he needed to know. "Well then, Munson," she murmured, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. "I suggest you stop talking and start driving.
The twenty-minute crawl toward Bedford was the most exquisite form of torture Eddie had ever endured. The adrenaline from the roadside stop was still humming in his veins, but it had shifted. He couldn't just sit there with his hands at ten and two. Not after that. Tentatively, his hand migrated across the console, his palm finding the smooth, exposed skin of her thigh where the dress had ridden up. The warmth of her was startling. He let his fingers trail upward, tracing the soft curve of her leg with a slow deliberation.
Out of the corner of his eye, he kept a constant, flickering watch on her. He was terrified of overplaying his hand, and assuming that he had a permanent green light. But every time he looked over, she was leaning back against the seat, her head tilted toward him with an expression that was nothing short of encouraging. “Left at the next light, Munson,” she murmured, her voice like velvet.
As he turned the wheel, his hand moved a fraction higher, his thumb grazing the very edge of her hem. The absolute frustration of being strapped into a vibrating metal box while the person he wanted to dismantle was sitting inches away becoming almost unbearable. Yet, the frustration of the drive was being rapidly eclipsed by a spike of anxiety that began to twist in his gut. It was one thing to act the part of the confident lead guitarist, but the reality of a stationary bed and four quiet walls was starting to loom like a boss battle he hadn't leveled up for. Eddie’s mind was suddenly sprinting through every worst-case scenario. He was acutely aware of every flaw. The way his ribs poked out a bit too much, the spastic energy he couldn't always turn off, the fact that his experience was limited to grainy magazines and his own vivid imagination.
"You're awfully quiet over there, Munson," she said, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts.
Eddie swallowed hard, his throat feeling tight. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit that his heart was currently trying to exit his ribcage. But he also didn't want to break the spell. He wanted to be the man she asked for in that song. He squeezed her thigh, and forced a breath out through his nose. "Just concentrating on the road," he lied. “Gotta make sure the Princess gets back to her tower in one piece.”
Sensing the sudden, tight tension in his frame, she reached down and laced her fingers through his, her palm pressing firmly against the back of his hand. Eddie almost groaned aloud when the contact made it undeniable. His fingers were shaking. She didn't pull away or laugh. Instead, she leaned over the center console, her shoulder pressing into his arm. "There is absolutely nothing to be nervous about, Eddie," she murmured.
"I beg to differ," he countered, his voice cracking just enough to make him wince. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of the highway, but his grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. "You’ve already proven, quite wonderfully, I might add, that you’re a goddamn expert in this arena. Meanwhile, I’m feeling like I’m flying a plane in the middle of a storm with no radar and a manual written in a language I don't speak. I don't want to be a disappointment, Bedford."
She squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing the silver rings on his fingers. "Look at me," she commanded softly. He flicked his gaze toward her for a split second before returning it to the road, but the heat in her eyes was enough to make his head swim. "Do you trust me?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered instantly, and he realized with a start that he meant it. It wasn't just about the prospect of sex. It was about the way she looked at him. The way she heard the music in his head, and the way she didn't flinch at him the way everyone else did. "And are you willing to listen to me?"
"Of course," he rasped. "I'm a very attentive student. Well, if you don't count the super-senior thing."
A small, genuine smile touched her lips, and she leaned in closer until her breath was hot against his ear. "Then you have nothing to worry about." The knots in his stomach didn't disappear, but they loosened just enough for him to breathe again. He squeezed her hand back. “Right here,” she whispered, pointing toward a narrow lane lined with overgrown maples.
Eddie turned the wheel, the tires crunching onto a gravel driveway that tucked back away from the street. He put the van in park, the engine giving one final, shuddering rattle before falling silent. He took a moment to just look at the place. It wasn't the sprawling, pristine estate he might have expected for a girl who looked like she belonged on a velvet-lined stage. It was a simple, small historic house. The kind with deep eaves and white siding that had grayed over decades of Indiana winters. A bit decrepit around the edges. A loose shingle here, a slightly sagging porch step there, but it had a soul. A single lamp cast a warm, buttery glow through the living room curtains, and the porch light flickered behind a frosted glass shade, welcoming them into the quiet. It felt lived-in. It felt safe. It felt like the kind of place where the rest of the world couldn't find them.
"Home sweet home," she said softly.
Eddie hopped out of the driver's side, moving with a quietness that was unusual for him. He met her at the side of the van, his sneakers barely making a sound on the gravel as he swung the heavy sliding door open. He reached in and grabbed the Gibson case, handling the instrument with care. She led the way up the front steps, her fur coat swaying under the porch light. Eddie followed a step behind, his eyes fixed on the way she moved.
She fished her keys out of her coat pocket. She turned the lock and pushed the door open, and Eddie stepped over the threshold. He didn't say a word, he just followed her into the warmth of the house, the scent of old wood and dried lavender wrapping around him as the door clicked shut behind them. She lingered by the door for a moment, the heavy fur of her coat slipping slightly as she turned to face him. "Can I... get you anything?" she asked, her voice sounding different now. "I’ve got tea, or I think there’s some wine left in the kitchen."
Eddie paused, his throat still feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of dry Indiana dust. "Water would be a godsend, actually," he rasped, offering a small, tired smile.
She nodded toward the back of the house. "Kitchen’s through here."
Eddie moved into the living room, moving gingerly as if he might break the stillness. He found a spot for the guitar case near an old, velvet-backed armchair. When he straightened up, he noticed her still standing near the entryway. She was shifting her weight, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on her dress’s hemline. "I... sorry," she said, her eyes scanning the room as if seeing it through a stranger’s eyes for the first time. "I realized as we were walking up that I don't really bring people around here. Like, ever. And it’s... it’s a bit of a mess. My aunt isn't exactly a decorator, and the floorboards creak if you breathe on them too hard."
Eddie let out a short, genuine scoff, his head shaking as he looked around the cozy, slightly cluttered space. He took in the stacks of books, the mismatched rugs, and the faint scent of old paper. "Bedford, look at me," he said, stepping back into her space. He gestured vaguely toward the worn denim, the rings, the messy hair that had been through the wringer tonight. "I live in a double-wide trailer with my Uncle. The decor consists of empty beer cans, an aggressive amount of mugs and trucker hats and my half-finished D&D maps. There are layers of dust that are probably older than I am. Clean is a concept I only understand in theory." He took another step closer, his voice dropping. "This place? It’s got a soul. It’s nice. Really."
She looked up at him, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to dissolve. "Okay," she breathed, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Water. Right. I'll be back in a second."
Eddie watched her disappear into the kitchen, the floorboards indeed giving a friendly, familiar groan under her boots. He stood in the center of the living room, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and realized that there was a possibility that she was just as nervous as he was. Only that she’d been better at hiding it up till this point.
He had spent the entire week viewing her as this untouchable, mythic entity. A siren who had stepped out of a folk song and landed in his passenger seat. He’d been so preoccupied with his own shaking hands and the fear of being "just a freak" that he hadn’t considered the quiet weight she was carrying. Seeing her stand there, apologizing for the creak of a floorboard or a stack of unread mail, humanized her in a way that made his chest ache.
He scanned the room again, really looking this time. There were stacks of film theory books on the coffee table next to a bowl filled with take out menus. A stray guitar pick sat on the mantel next to a framed, grainy photo of an older woman laughing in a garden. This was the place where she didn't have to be the girl with the Gibson. She was just a girl living in a town that probably didn't understand her any more than Hawkins understood him.
He heard the tap run in the kitchen, the plumbing letting out a distant rattle. He pulled his hands from his pockets and started to pace the small area of the rug. When she stepped back into the living room, she was holding two mismatched glasses of water. She’d shed the fur coat and in the soft light of the single lamp, she looked smaller. She walked over and handed him a glass, her fingers brushing his, and Eddie noticed that her own hand wasn't as steady as it had been on the highway. "Here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Eddie took a long sip, the water soothing his parched throat, but his eyes never left hers. He set the glass down on a ceramic coaster and reached out, gently catching her wrist. "Hey," he said, "You don't have to put on a show for me here. The Blues Siren routine is great, don't get me wrong but I’m pretty fond of the girl who lives in the creaky house, too."
She didn’t look away this time, but her eyes seemed to fix on a point just past his shoulder. "I'm just..." she started, her voice sounding raw. "I'm not used to people actually seeing me. Not the performance, not the girl on stage with the Gibson. Just... this. And liking it."
She leaned her hip against the back of the armchair, her fingers tracing the worn velvet. "I was a total pariah in high school, Eddie. I wasn't the cool, mysterious girl back then. I was the girl people avoided because I was 'weird' or 'too much.' I never really had friends growing up. The two or three people who tolerated me packed up and left the second they got their diplomas, and I can't say I blame them."
She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "When I got to college, I realized I could just... reinvent. I could fake the confidence. I could be this person because nobody there knew every cringey, desperate thing I did as a teenager just to keep people from messing with me. I built a character so I wouldn't have to be the girl who ate lunch in the library anymore."
"Hey," he said, his voice soft but firm as he reached out, taking both of her hands in his. He squeezed them, forcing her to feel the callouses of his palms. "Look at me. " He waited until her eyes locked onto his. "You think I don't get that? I’m the guy who stood on a cafeteria table and made a speech about being non conformists just last week. I’m a guy who wears all this like it's a suit of armor because if I don't look like I’m dangerous, they’ll realize I’m just a guy who likes to play pretend in a dusty room with my dorky friends. Everything I do is all just a way to survive high school without losing my goddamn mind."
He took a step closer, closing the gap until the warmth of her breath was ghosting over his lips.
"I would never judge you for that. Not in a million years. Especially not for the stuff you do to get by, because I’m doing the exact same dance. If you want to be the confident chick out there, that’s fine. I’ll be your biggest fan. But in here?" He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against hers. "You don't have to fake a single thing."
The tension in her hands finally snapped, and she leaned into him, her face hiding in the crook of his neck. Eddie wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of her heart finally start to sync up with his. Eddie pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He felt a protectiveness that overrode his own hormones. He might have been dying for the chance to finally cross that finish line, but the guy who looked out for the lost sheep of the Hellfire Club wasn't about to let her feel like she had to perform for him just to keep him interested.
"Hey," he whispered, his thumbs tracing the line of her collarbone. "You know we don't have to do... anything, right? The highway stuff was incredible, and I am definitely a fan of your work, but we can just hang out. We can put on a movie, or just sit here and talk. I’ve actually got some pretty decent weed back in the van if you’d rather just get high and forget the world exists for a few hours."
She pulled back, her eyes searching his face with a flicker of skepticism. Her brow arched as she studied his sincerity. "Are you telling me, Eddie Munson, that after everything I just did in that van, you’re offering to go back out into the cold for a bag of weed and a movie?"
Eddie let out a self-deprecating laugh, his ears turning a faint pink. "I’m saying I like you. And I don't want you to feel like you’re on a stage in your own living room. If you’re tired, or if you’re just in your head too much right now, I’m good. I’m content just being in the same zip code as you."
She looked at him for a long beat. Then, the skepticism melted. She leaned closer, closing the small gap, and the vulnerability in her gaze shifted into heat that made his breath catch. "I appreciate the offer, Eddie," she said, her voice dropping back into that bluesy rasp that always made his knees feel like they were made of water. She reached out, her fingers hooking into the collar of his leather jacket and pulling him down until their noses brushed. "I really do. But..." She gained confidence with every syllable, her smirk returning. "I don't want to get high and I definitely don't want to watch a movie," she murmured, her eyes dropping to his mouth before locking back onto his. "I want to get you into my bedroom, where I want to take those ridiculous chains off you.”
He managed to find his smirk again, though it was a little lopsided and breathless. He stepped back, giving her a theatrical, sweeping bow that sent his hair cascading over his shoulders and his silver chains rattling as if to punctuate her sentiment at how ridiculous they were. "Well, in that case," he said, his voice dropping into a playful, faux-chivalrous rumble, "lead the way, milady."
She let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the quiet house. The sound finally chasing away the last of the awkwardness. She reached out, swiping a lock of hair from his face as she stepped past him, her hand trailing along the wall as she headed toward the narrow hallway. "Follow the creaking floorboards, Munson," she tossed back over her shoulder, her hips swaying under the silk of her dress.
Eddie straightened up, and as he started to follow her, he caught the faint, amused whisper she breathed into the dark hallway. "Dork." A ridiculous grin broke across Eddie’s face. He didn't even mind. In fact, coming from her, it sounded like the highest compliment he’d ever received. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them before he truly had time to process it. Eddie stood for a moment, his back against the wood, just taking it in. If the living room was a sanctuary, this was the inner sanctum. It was a chaotic, beautiful explosion of everything she was when the world wasn't looking.
High on the walls, old black-and-white movie posters were tacked up next to charcoal sketches that looked fresh, the edges of the paper still smudged. An easel stood in the corner, a half-finished canvas draped in a thin cloth, surrounded by a minefield of paint tubes and jars of murky water. One entire wall was dominated by a music system that looked like it cost more than his van, flanked by a library of vinyl and cassettes that made his own collection look like a starter kit. And there, glowing under the soft light of a beaded lamp, was a rack holding three guitars. A Fender, a battered acoustic, and a sleek black Gretsch that looked like it could kill a man.
"Damn, Bedford," he whispered, his eyes wide. "You’ve got a whole ecosystem in here." Eddie didn't wait for an invitation this time. He stepped into her space and slid his hands around her waist. He pulled her flush against him looking down at her. "You're incredible," he murmured. He leaned down, and when their lips met, the kiss was different. It wasn't the desperate clash they’d shared in the van.
As the kiss deepened, Eddie’s mind started to betray him.
He was a guitarist. His hands were his livelihood. He knew how to bend a string until it wailed. But as he held her, a sudden, paralyzing wave of uncertainty washed over him. He realized with a jolt that his hands were currently the most important tools in the room, and he had absolutely no blueprint for how to use them. Sure, they’d made out. He knew the basic geometry of a girl’s waist and the way the back of her neck felt. But this was different. This was the moment where "making out" turned into "making love," and the technicality of it all started to feel like an exam he hadn't studied for.
Where was he supposed to start? Should he reach for the zipper of her dress, or would that be too aggressive? Was he supposed to keep his hands on her waist, or would it be better to cup the side of her cheek? He was acutely aware of his rings and he worried about them being too cold against her skin or catching on the delicate silk of her dress. He felt like his hands were suddenly twice their normal size, clumsy and uncoordinated.
He wanted to touch her everywhere. To trace the line of her spine. To feel the heat of her shoulders. To learn the geography of her body with the same precision he used on a fretboard. But he was terrified of the silence that would follow a wrong move. His thoughts all swimming. Don't squeeze too hard. Don't be too light; she’ll think you’re scared. Wait, are you supposed to move your thumbs like that? Should you be taking your own shirt off first?
She felt the way his hands went rigid, she broke the kiss, pulling back just a few inches to look him in the eye. "You’re still in your head, Munson," she whispered. "You’re nervous."
Eddie let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. "No shit," he rasped.
She laughed and gave his chest a playful shove. "Go to the turntable. Pick an album. Any album. Put it on and let it do the work for a minute."
Eddie sighed, but he didn't argue. He welcomed the task. He needed a moment to ground himself, in something he understood. He walked over to the stack of vinyl, his fingers skimming the spines until he found a worn, yellowing cover. Ray Charles. Hallelujah I Love Her So. It felt right: soulful, steady, and a little bit gritty. He slid the record out, placed it on the platter, and carefully lowered the needle. The crackle of the static was a comfort before the upbeat, soulful piano of "Ain't That Love" began to bounce through the speakers.
When he turned back, the room felt different. She was already on the bed, her back propped against a headboard that, upon closer inspection, was just a series of old wooden crates turned on their sides and bolted together. The bed itself was barely a foot off the floor. Just a mattress thrown over a makeshift platform of old shipping pallets. It was DIY, a little rough around the edges, and perfect.
She had already lit a cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling in the lamplight. Eddie walked over and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, the pallet frame creaking. Without a word, he reached out, and she handed him the cigarette. He took a long, slow drag, letting the nicotine steady his nerves. He noticed her boots were already discarded on the rug. Feeling the need to catch up, Eddie leaned over and began to unlace his own sneakers. He kicked them off with a thud, but as he pulled his feet up onto the mattress, he felt a sudden flush of heat creep up his neck. Right there was a decent-sized hole in his black sock, his big toe peeking through like a stray stowaway. "God," he muttered, staring at the hole. "The King of the Freaks, ladies and gentlemen. I'm taking you to bed with a hole in my sock. Truly, I am the height of sophistication."
She let out an unladylike snort. "Oh, knock it off with the self-deprecation routine, Munson," she said, rolling her eyes as she leaned forward. The movement brought her dangerously close, the scent of her perfume overwhelming his senses. She reached out, her fingers ghosting over the frayed edge of the hole in his sock before she leaned in to whisper against the shell of his ear, her voice a seductive purr. "The socks stay on. It’s a very specific kink of mine."
Eddie barked out a laugh, the sound genuine and loud enough to startle himself. The sheer absurdity of it broke the last of the glass walls in his mind. He looked at her and the nervousness that had been a tight, cold knot in his gut began to unfurl. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight on the low mattress, moving closer until their knees were locked together. He didn't hand the cigarette back. He held it up, his hand steadying as he brought the filter to her lips. He kept his eyes locked onto hers, an intense, unwavering stare that challenged her to look away first. The room felt like it was shrinking, the upbeat rhythm of Ray Charles’s piano fading into the background as the space between them became charged. His thumb brushed the corner of her lower lip as he held the cigarette steady. There was a gravity in his gaze now, a silent communication that the dork was stepping aside for a moment to let the man who had been wanting this all week take the lead.
She didn't blink. She met his stare with an intensity of her own, her eyes tracking the slight movement of his hand before she leaned in. She took a slow, deep drag of the cigarette while his fingers remained touching her mouth, the cherry of the tobacco glowing bright between them. As she exhaled, the cloud ghosting over his lips, Eddie didn't move an inch. He just waited, his heart hammering a heavy beat against his ribs, finally ready to see exactly where this was going to lead him.
She reached out and took the cigarette from his fingers, her eyes never breaking the connection as she leaned over to crush it out in an ashtray resting precariously atop a stack of heavy hardbacks. When she turned back, she didn't settle back against the crates. Instead, she rose onto her knees, the mattress dipping and the wooden pallets beneath giving a groan under her weight.
She reached for the lapels of his leather vest. "Can I take this off?" she whispered, her voice soft. Eddie nodded, his throat too tight to offer a witty retort. He worked his arms out of the heavy leather, helping her slide it off his shoulders until it slumped onto the floorboards. Without the vest, he felt suddenly exposed, his white t-shirt clinging to him in a way that felt like it was broadcasting every boney shape of his torso.
She didn't move toward his shirt yet. Instead, her hands found his forearms. Her touch was light, almost feather-like, as her fingertips traced the ink of the puppet master leading toward his elbows, until he turned his arm around and her callouses landed on his bats. She followed the lines of the wings with a slow reverence that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. "Do you have any others?" she murmured, her thumb pressing into the soft skin of his inner wrist.
"Yeah," Eddie rasped. "A few."
"Can I see them?"
He nodded again. His hands reached for the hem of his shirt, and for a second, they stalled. He didn't say he was nervous, but the fabric of his shirt bunched and trembled in his grip. He pulled the shirt up and over his head, the cotton catching briefly on his messy curls before he tossed it aside. The air in the room hit his bare skin, and he felt an involuntary shiver ripple across his shoulders. He didn't look at her immediately. Instead, he looked down at his own lap, his chest rising and falling in shallow, visible hitches. He stayed very still, his elbows tucked slightly inward as if trying to take up less space, his fingers curling and uncurling against his denim-clad thighs. He felt every inch of himself on display. The pale stretch of his torso, the dark ink of the demon on his chest, the way his ribs flared with every breath. He was waiting for the verdict, his entire frame humming with a tension so tight it felt like a guitar string tuned three steps too high, vibrating on the verge of snapping.
She didn't move away. If anything, she drifted closer, the mattress dipping further as she moved her weight to accommodate the new, bare reality of him. Her hands remained steady as they migrated from his wrists up the lean, pale expanse of his arms. When her fingertips finally reached the ink, she traced. Her touch was agonizingly slow. A gentle exploration that turned his skin into a sensory minefield. She lingered especially long on the spider perched near his collarbone, her index finger following the spindly, arched legs of the arachnid where they led into the hollow of his throat. Eddie felt his swallow catch halfway down, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her touch. He was acutely aware of how small her hand looked against his chest, and how loudly his heart was thumping against his ribs.
She let out a low hum that seemed to resonate in the small space between them. "Very metal, Munson," she murmured, a trace of a smile ghosting her lips as she admired the dark artwork. Her hand slid around to the side of his bicep, her eyes scanning the collection of symbols and creatures he’d gathered like a visual diary of his own rebellion. "So, tell me," she whispered, her breath warm against the skin of his shoulder. "Which one is your favorite?"
Eddie took a shaky breath, the air whistling through his teeth as he tried to regain his composure. He shifted his weight, rotating his right arm slightly so the back of it faced her. "This one," he said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward his triceps. Under the amber lamplight, the ink was visible. A sharp-winged, serpentine dragon coiling around the faint, almost non-existent muscle of his arm. Its jaw frozen in a silent, defiant roar. It was older than the others, the lines a bit softer but the detail still fierce.
"The wyvern," he explained, his voice gaining a sliver of that old storytelling gravity. "Most people think it’s just a dragon, but it’s different. Two legs instead of four. It’s a bit of an underdog in the monster manual. It’s got to be faster, meaner, and more resourceful just to survive." He paused, his eyes flickering up to hers for a brief second. "I always felt a bit of a kinship with the lesser monsters. They usually have better stories."
She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her nose almost brushing the ink of the wyvern’s wing as she studied it with a focus that made Eddie’s entire arm feel like it was on fire. "The underdog monster," she repeated softly. Eddie’s gaze flickered away, his neck flushing a deeper shade of red. He couldn’t maintain that level of eye contact. Not while he was sitting shirtless on a pallet bed, feeling like she was reading the fine print of his soul via the ink on his skin. It was exposure of the highest order. The good kind that made your skin tingle and your stomach drop.
His eyes landed on the charcoal sketches tacked to the wall near the easel. Her talent was undeniable. The lines were aggressive but precise, capturing shadows with accuracy. "I didn't realize you were... god, I didn't realize you were this incredible at art," he said, his voice regaining some of its volume as he focused on a sketch of a detailed spindly tree. He let out a breathless chuckle. "I mean, I probably should've guessed, right? You're literally in school to be an artist. It’s kind of in the job description."
She shrugged, her hand dropping from his arm as she leaned back slightly, her expression shifting into something uncharacteristically modest. "I’m decent. It’s mostly just a way to get the noise out of my head."
Eddie shook his head emphatically, his wild curls bouncing. "No, Bedford. You're better than decent. You’re 'enlist-you-to-design-my-next-campaign-map' good. Or better yet..." He looked back at her, a spark of genuine excitement momentarily overriding his nerves. "I’d kill to have you design my next tattoo."
She scoffed, a quick sound of dismissal as she shook her head. "No way. I am not letting you put my doodles on your body permanently, Munson."
Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why not? I like them."
"Because they aren’t good enough," she said, her voice dropping. "It’s just sketches, Eddie. Tattoos are... they're forever. You deserve better than some amateur student's charcoal practice."
Eddie didn't even hesitate. He gestured down to the large, snarling demon head sitting right in the center of his sternum, the lines a bit shaky and the shading somewhat muddy. "Bedford, look at this guy," he said with a lopsided grin, tapping the ink over his heart. "The art here isn't exactly immaculate. The guy who did it was working out of a kitchen in a trailer park and he might have been seeing double by the time he got to the smile. It's there permanently. And I love it anyway, you know? But what you do? That’s a hell of a lot better than half the shit already on this pasty white ass of mine."
Her eyes searched his face as if she were trying to see the version of her art that he saw. "I’ll think about it," she murmured, though the stubborn set of her jaw had softened. "But if I draw it, it’s going to be something that actually lives up to the rest of this canvas."
The conversation about ink and art had acted like a brief bridge over a chasm, but now the bridge was falling away, leaving them right back on the edge of the mattress. The weight of the room shifted. The playful debate ended, and in its place, a thick, pressurized tension settled over them. She didn't move her hand away this time. Instead, she let her fingers wander back to his chest, tracing the outline of the demon on his skin before drifting lower, mapping the lean ridges of his stomach. Her touch was slower now, more deliberate, and her gaze followed the path of her hand with a focus that made Eddie feel like he was being memorized.
"You know," she whispered. She leaned in until her lips were ghosting against the shell of his ear, her breath hitching just slightly. "Under all that leather and the hair... you sure are pretty, Eddie."
Eddie felt his stomach do a slow, dizzying roll as her fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans. He was still vibrating, and feeling like he was one wrong move away from short-circuiting, but when he looked at her, he saw a girl who was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. He reached up, his hand trembling only slightly now as he cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't say anything, and honestly he couldn't have found the words if he'd tried, but the way he pulled her back into a kiss was his answer. It was desperate, heavy, and carried the weight of a week's worth of wanting, finally boiling over in the quiet of the room.
The heavy, electric air of the room seemed to thicken as she pulled back just enough to create a sliver of space between them. The Ray Charles track had transitioned into a slower, more rhythmic groove, the brass section humming steady in the background. She reached behind her back, her shoulder blades moving beneath the fabric as she fumbled with the small zipper at the top of her dress.
Eddie watched her, his hands still hovering in the air where her neck had been just seconds before. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown out until the dark irises were almost indistinguishable. He didn't move until he saw her fingers slip against the metal, a frustrated little huff escaping her lips. He simply tilted his head, a silent, wide-eyed question written across his face: Do you want me to do it?
She met his gaze and gave a single nod. She turned her back to him, the movement shifting the mattress. Eddie took a breath that felt like it had to travel through a mile of lead to reach his lungs. He reached out, his fingers feeling immense and clumsy as he approached the delicate task. As his knuckles grazed her, he felt the heat radiating off her. He found the tiny metal tab and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. He was so agonizingly slow. As the fabric began to part, revealing the graceful line of her spine, Eddie’s pulse spiked so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He followed the path of the zipper all the way down to the small of her back, his hand shaking with a tremor he could no longer suppress.
He didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his hand hovering just an inch from where the dress had loosened. As she reached up, she hooked her thumbs under the delicate silk straps and eased them over the curve of her shoulders. The dress surrendered, sliding down her frame in a rustle until it pooled around her hips on the low mattress.
Eddie’s brain, usually hyperactive, stalled into a total whiteout. He had spent years imagining moments like this. Moments fueled by late-night magazines but none of it had prepared him for the quiet reality of a woman in front of him. He realized then, that there was no lace or wire to be found. She had been wearing nothing but the dress and a thin-strapped pair of panties, leaving her almost entirely bare to the soft light of the room. When she turned back around to face him, the shift in her weight caused the pallet bed to groan softly.
His eyes tracked upward. He viewed the front of her, his gaze lingering on the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He felt the ache of inadequacy. He was so aware of his own frame. The lanky, pale limbs, the dark ink, the tremors he couldn't hide, meanwhile he looked like something carved from marble and moonlight. His hands, still resting near his knees, twitched. He felt a bead of sweat trek down the back of his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling five degrees hotter. He wanted to say something but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth.
She didn't look away, and she didn't try to cover herself. She sat there on her knees, her shoulders back, watching the way his eyes moved over her with a quiet, patient confidence. Sensing his paralysis, she reached out and took his hands and guided them back to her waist. Even as his fingers made contact with the soft curve of her hips, Eddie couldn’t keep his gaze steady. His eyes began to dart, frantic and wide, scanning the room as if looking for an exit. He looked at the Ray Charles record spinning on the turntable, at the charcoal sketches on the wall, at the hole in his left sock. Anywhere but the overwhelming reality of the bare woman sitting inches from him.
"Eddie," she murmured in the storm of his panic.
Before he could find his voice to offer a shaky apology she rose onto her feet for a fleeting second, just enough to step over his legs. In that brief transition, the silk dress, no longer held up by the curve of her waist from where she sat, surrendered completely. It slid down her frame as it hit the floorboards.
Then, she climbed onto his lap. The mattress dipped sharply under the added weight. She straddled him, her knees tucking into the space beside his hips, her weight settling firmly against his thighs. He froze, his head snapping up as he was forced to look at her. She was right there, her breath ghosting over his lips, her heat radiating into his chest. He could see the slight tremor in her own shoulders now, a mirror of his own nerves that she had finally stopped trying to hide. He felt small and large all at once, a chaotic mess of ink and nerves held together by the sheer gravity of her presence.
She reached up, her fingers sliding into the wild, tangled mess of his hair, cupping the back of his head to steady him. She didn't push, just held him there, in the center of the world they had built on a shitty pallet bed in a creaky house. "Breath, Munson," she whispered, her forehead leaning against his.
He reached up, his hands still trembling slightly, and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in a way that grainy magazines and his own imagination had never quite managed to convey. A soft, breathless "oh" escaped him, his eyes widening as the reality of her superseded every fantasy he’d ever had.
She looked down at him, a flicker of concern softening her gaze. "Is something wrong? Do you not...?"
"No," Eddie rasped. "No, nothing is wrong. It's just... I’ve never actually felt bare tits before. I didn't realize they’d be this soft. Or this nice. It’s like... god, it's incredible."
The honesty of it seemed to ground them both. Emboldened by her proximity, his thumbs began to move of their own accord, tracing the peaked circles of her nipples. He wasn't even thinking about it. It was an instinctual, tactile curiosity, like a musician finding the right tension on a string.
Her eyes fluttered shut instantly, her head falling back as a long, shaky sigh escaped her lips. Eddie froze, his thumbs going still. "Are you okay? Did I... was that too much?"
She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes remaining closed as she leaned into his touch. "No, Eddie. It’s fine. It just... it felt really good."
Eddie stayed very still. He looked down at his hands, watching the way his calloused, ring-adorned thumbs were pressed against her. Tits had always been a visual concept to him. He hadn't considered the intricacies of the anatomy or the fact that something so small could be so easily stimulated. He hadn't realized that the texture could change under his touch, or that a simple, unconscious movement of his thumb could elicit a sound like that from her. He moved his thumbs again, more deliberately this time, watching the way her breath hitched in response.
He remembered Tuesday. He remembered the cramped interior of the War Wagon, the smell of gasoline and rain, and the way she had come alive when he’d buried his face in the crook of her neck. He remembered how her hands had gripped his hair, and how her hips had found a frantic, punishing rhythm against his denim-clad thigh the moment his lips hit that one sensitive spot.
With a spike of confidence, Eddie leaned forward, letting his head drop. He pressed his mouth into the hollow of her throat, his lips finding the jump of her pulse point. He tasted the faint salt of her skin and the lingering vanilla of her perfume, and he felt a low, vibrating growl start in the back of his own chest. The reaction was instantaneous and even more violent than it had been in the van. A ragged, choked-off sound escaped her as she arched her back, her fingers clenching into the tangled curls at the nape of his neck with enough force to make him wince even if he didn’t mind the pain. The shift in her body was tectonic as she began to grind against his lap. The contact was devastating. Every time his lips moved against her skin, every time his teeth grazed the column of her throat, she responded with a renewed, desperate pressure, her breath coming in short, staccato gasps that synced perfectly with the beat of the Ray Charles record.
She reached down between them, her fingers fumbling with the heavy silver buckle of his belt. Her knuckles grazed the skin just above his waistband, and the contact made Eddie’s vision swim for a second. She wasn't being delicate anymore. There was a hungry energy in the way she worked the leather through the loops, her breath coming in hot, uneven puffs against his shoulder.
Eddie didn’t need a second invitation. "I've got it," his voice a distorted rumble.
He shifted his weight, bracing one hand against the rough wood of the pallet frame to steady them both as he helped her. He made quick work of the button and then he was reaching down to shove the denim toward his knees. He kicked his legs out, the heavy fabric and his leather belt pooling on the floorboards. Eddie sat there, stripped down to the absolute bare essentials, feeling the cool draft of the room against his legs.
His mind flashed back to the van ride earlier with the ego-shattering sensation of her mouth on him. It had been amazing, a core memory in the making, but there was a world of difference between a dark backseat and this room. Being exposed like this, with the light catching every awkward angle of his lanky frame and the nervous tremors he still couldn't quite kill, felt like being on stage without a guitar to hide behind. As she moved to climb back onto his lap, her weight shifting the mattress again, his hand drifted to the thin, delicate strap of her underwear. He gave it a playful, nervous snap against her hip.
"Hey," his voice cracked just a hair before he steadied it. He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "How exactly does a guy go about... returning the favor?"
A flicker of genuine confusion crossed her face. "Returning the favor?"
"Yeah," Eddie said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "You know. Going down. On you. How does a guy do that properly?"
She shrugged, her gaze dropping for a second as she shifted her weight. "I... I'm not really sure, actually."
The admission caught Eddie off guard. The insecure part that lived in the back of his brain, had been trying very hard not to think about her with other guys. He’d assumed, given the sheer confidence she’d shown thus far, that she’d done this a thousand times with guys far more polished than a trailer park metalhead. He figured if she knew how to handle him like that, she must have had plenty of people eager to return the gesture. But looking at her now, seeing that small, uncertain shrug, he realized he might have been wrong. Maybe the Siren didn’t get as much back as she gave. Maybe nobody had ever bothered to take the time to learn the map of her.
The thought made a desperate desire to be the one who got it right. He didn't care if he was a novice. "Can I..." he started, his voice barely a whisper, a quiet question lost in the soul music humming from the speakers. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the fabric he’d just snapped. "Can I try? To figure it out?"
She sputtered, a startled, breathless sound that was a far cry from her usual composure. "Eddie, I’ve heard... I’ve heard it’s really not that great. Most guys say it’s a chore, or they don’t do it for a reason. You really don't have to."
Eddie just shrugged, a slow, lopsided tilt of his shoulders that conveyed a stubborn lack of concern for what most guys thought. "I don’t really care what the consensus is. I want to try. I want to know everything about you, remember? That includes the parts people are too lazy to appreciate."
She bit her lip, looking at him with a mix of disbelief and a growing heat. Finally, she gave a small, reluctant nod. "Okay. Fine. Lay back."
Eddie didn't need to be told twice. He eased himself down onto the mattress, his head resting against her mismatched pillows. As he settled, she reached down and slid the final barrier down her legs, discarding it somewhere in the shadows near his clothes. Then, she leaned over him, her hand finding the switch on the beaded lamp. The warm glow vanished, replaced instantly by the cinematic palette of the night. The room now washed in the pale, silver-blue light of the moon and the distant, flickering orange of a streetlamp filtering through the window. It cast long, dramatic shadows across the art supplies and the guitar rack, making the space feel even more like a private world.
Eddie reached up, his large hands finding the backs of her thighs. He felt the soft curve of her as he gently but firmly tugged her forward, guiding her weight until she was hovering directly over his face. As his eyes slowly adapted to the shadows of the room, Eddie felt like he was peering through a lens into a world he had only ever heard described in hushed, exaggerated tones. Up close, the perspective changed everything.
The reality was far more detailed than any magazine centerfold. Everything was soft and curved, anchored by the patch of groomed hair that felt like just another texture to memorize. The gravity of the moment was too heavy for a punchline. He let out a shaky exhale and gave a slow, experimental swipe of his tongue across her folds. It was a tentative move, a basic chord struck on an unfamiliar instrument just to see how it sounded.
She buckled, her weight dropping slightly as her knees trembled. One of her hands, which had been resting tentatively on his shoulder for balance, suddenly lunged forward. Her fingers tangled deep into the wild, messy curls of his hair, her knuckles pressing hard against his scalp as she gripped a fistful of him. Eddie’s eyes went wide in the dark. He felt her fingers tighten in his hair, a silent, desperate command to keep going. He didn’t pull away. Emboldened by the way she gripped his hair, Eddie leaned back in, his movements losing their tentative edge and gaining a focused intent. He let his tongue linger this time, a long, slow stroke that started low and followed the center line upward.
He experimented with the pressure, moving from a broad, flat sweep to the sharper, more targeted tip of his tongue. He found that if he swirled it in small, concentrated circles against the sensitive peak hidden in the shadows, her breath shattered. Every time she let out an airy gasp, Eddie cataloged it. He noticed that a soft, suctioning pull of his lips combined with a steady, flicking motion was what made her hips start that searching roll again. He was fascinated by the mechanics of it. The way the textures shifted from soft and velvet-like to something slick and responsive under his touch.
His nose brushed against her, and he breathed in the scent of her deeply feeling it settle into his lungs like a heavy fog. He began to use his lips more, grazing the tender skin of her inner thighs before returning to the center, his tongue now moving with a more confident, metronome-like rhythm. Eddie felt her fingers tighten even further in his hair, pulling him closer as if she were afraid he’d disappear if she let go. The sound of his own heavy breathing and the wet slide of his tongue became the only soundtrack in the room, drowning out the faint crackle of the record player.
Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, and her hips began to shake with a fine, uncontrollable tremor that vibrated right through his jaw. She let out a sound that wasn't a gasp or a moan, but something raw and grounded. Her strength simply vanished. Her knees, which had been bracketed so firmly around his face, gave out as she collapsed forward, her weight landing fully across his chest and face. Eddie didn't mind. He melted back into the pillows, his head sinking into the soft fabric as he took the full weight of her. He let his arms wrap around her back, his hands splaying wide against her skin to steady her as she shook against him. The room was silent except for the heavy, desperate sound of her trying to find her air and the low, skipping hiss of the record player needle reaching the end of the groove. He lay there in the moonlight. He was exhausted, his jaw ached, and his hair was a total disaster, but as he felt her thighs twitching against the side of his cheek , her skin damp and warm, a triumphant grin spread across his face.
She finally stirred, her limbs moving with a slow, clumsiness as she slid off his face. She retreated only a few inches, kneeling beside him on the tangled sheets, her chest still heaving in uneven swells. The moonlight caught the stunned widening of her eyes as she looked down at him, her lips parted but silent, as if the connection between her brain and her voice had been temporarily severed by the sheer force of what had just happened.
Eddie didn’t move for a long moment, content to let the room spin around him while he stared up at the ceiling. Slowly, he turned his head to meet her gaze, his messy curls splayed out against the pillow like a dark halo. "So," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been scraped over gravel. "I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say the general population of men are wrong."
She tried to speak, her throat clicking as she swallowed, but only a faint, airy sound escaped. She looked genuinely shaken, a far cry from the composed girl who had been teasing him about his socks only an hour ago.
Eddie let out a chuckle, his aching jaw stretching into that triumphant, lopsided grin. "Seriously, Bedford. I don’t get it. I don't understand why guys wouldn't want to do that. People talk about it like it’s some kind of chore you have to get through, but that?" He shook his head, his dark eyes glowing in the silver light. "That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of."
She shook her head weakly, her voice finally returning in a hushed, disbelieving whisper. "It’s... it’s messy, Eddie. And it’s not… I don’t know. It feels a bit one sided…"
"One-sided?" Eddie repeated, a spark of genuine amusement dancing in his gaze. He didn't bother with words to argue. Instead, he simply gestured down toward his lap, where the thin fabric of his boxers was stretched taut, the unmistakable, rigid tenting leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Does that look one-sided to you?" he asked, his brow arching in a playful, defiant challenge. "Because from where I’m lying, I’m pretty sure I was getting just as much out of that as you were. Seeing you like that? Hearing those sounds?" He let out a long, shaky exhale, his hand reaching out to trace the line of her knee. "I’d spend every night in this room right between your thighs just to get that reaction out of you again. No contest."
She let out a soft, mortified groan and immediately covered her face with her hands, her fingers splaying wide as if she could physically shield herself from the unvarnished honesty of his gaze. "Hey, none of that," Eddie said. He reached up, his large hands gently encircling her wrists. He didn't use force, just a persuasive tug, prying her hands away from her face until he could see her eyes again. "Don't you dare go covering your pretty face now. Not when I’m trying to tell you how fucking sexy you are."
He leaned up on one elbow, his face inches from hers. "Seriously. Riding my face like you were trying to find a way to take flight? That’s going to be burned into my retinas until the day I die."
She let out a strangled yelp, his name escaping her in a shocked, high-pitched rush of air and immediately surrendered the fight, diving forward to bury her face into the crook of his shoulder. She was warm, her damp skin pressing against his bare chest, and Eddie couldn't help the triumphant rumble of laughter that vibrated through his ribs. He didn't push her for more words. He knew the feeling of being overstimulated and too nervous to speak. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close into the mismatched pillows. He began to draw aimless, drifting patterns on the skin of her back. His fingers traced the line of her spine, circling the small of her back before wandering up to the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades.
He watched the way her breathing gradually slowed. She began to melt into his frame, her limbs losing their defensive tension and draping over him with a comfortable familiarity. The room was quiet, save for the insistent, click-hiss of the turntable needle. Eddie shifted slightly, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he leaned in. "As much as I love this, and believe me, I could stay right here until the sun comes up," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, "I should probably flip the record over. Side B has all the good songs,”
She looked up from his shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded and gave a slow nod. Eddie felt the sudden absence of her heat as he slid off the edge of the mattress. His bare feet met the cold floorboards with a soft creak. He reached the turntable and carefully lifted the needle, the rhythmic scratching finally cutting to a blissful silence. He flipped the record to Side B and lowered the needle, and a few seconds later, the first notes of a low, soul-drenched ballad began to bleed into the room, the bass line thick.
While the music swelled, he heard the sound of movement behind him. He turned back to see her reaching into one of the cubby-style compartments built into the headboard. When he reached the edge of the bed, she was sitting up slightly, her hand extended. Between her fingers, catching a glint of the streetlamp's orange glow, was a small, square foil packet. Eddie froze, his hand hovering over hers as the reality of the situation finally caught up with his adrenaline. He took the packet, the plastic crinkling under his thumb, and let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, sobering sincerity. He sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at the condom in his palm. In his rush to get her clothes off and prove he wasn't just a dork with a hole in his sock, the actual logistics of protection had completely slipped his mind. He’d been flying by the seat of his pants, literally and figuratively. He looked back at her. "I’m an idiot. It just dawned on me that I don't have one in the van, let alone in my pocket. And trust me, Uncle Wayne would personally castrate me if I managed to knock someone up before I got my hands on that diploma.”
Eddie took a deep breath as he reached for the elastic waistband of his boxers and tugged them off, the fabric falling to join the graveyard of denim and silk on the floorboards. Standing there completely bare in the moonlight, he felt a momentary return of that vulnerability, but it was quickly overshadowed by the task at hand. He tore the foil packet open with a shaky thumb and forefinger, pulling out the small latex ring. He squinted at it, his brain working overtime to pull a hazy, half-remembered demonstration from a health class filmstrip out of the depths of his memory. He set it against his tip and tried to roll it down, but the rubber snagged, stubborn and unyielding.
"Dammit," he hissed under his breath, a flush creeping up his neck. He didn't let the frustration take hold, though. He flipped the ring over, centered it, and tried again. This time, it glided down his length with a smooth ease. He let out a silent sigh of relief.
He turned back toward the bed, intending to climb back into the spot they’d carved out on top of the sheets, but he paused. In the time he’d been occupied, she had reached back and pulled the covers open. She was lying back against the pillows now, the pale light tracing the curves of her body as she waited for him. Eddie didn't hesitate. He slid into the bed, the cool cotton of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat radiating off her. He moved, bracing his weight on his forearms as he dragged himself over her frame.
The full length of him settling against her, skin to skin, heart to heart. He could feel every breath she took, and the way her thighs parted naturally to welcome his weight made his head light. He hovered there for a second, his nose brushing against hers, his eyes searching her face in the shadows. In the cool, blue-shadowed light, she looked up at him, her hand reaching up to brush a stray, wild curl away from his forehead.
"Eddie?" she asked, her voice a soft, barely-there thread of sound. "Are you okay?"
He took a breath, his chest expanding against hers. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against her own, his eyes closing. "I'm just nervous," he whispered back. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. I don't want to mess up."
She shifted beneath him, her hands sliding down to rest on his shoulder blades. "We don't have to rush it," she murmured. "We have all night. We can just... be here."
Eddie opened his eyes, his dark gaze locking onto hers. "It's okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, certain rumble. "I want to."
He tilted his head and closed the small gap between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss. This was slow. It was a lingering exploration, his mouth soft and patient. Her tongue began to move against his, a lazy dance. It was a deep, sensory conversation without words, each movement a question and each response a quiet, certain answer. Eddie felt his entire body relax into the mattress, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolving into the warmth of the bed. She let the kiss linger until his heart was thudding a heavy beat against her ribs, and then she slowly pulled away. She didn't go far. Just enough to look at him, her lips damp and parted in the moonlight, her hands tightening their grip on his shoulders as the music outside the covers seemed to fade into the background.
Eddie shifted his weight, bracing himself on one shaky forearm. He reached down between them, his fingers searching for the right alignment, but the angles felt all wrong. He let out a soft, frustrated huff, his brow furrowing as he fumbled. "Dammit," he hissed, his voice a strained, breathy rasp against her collarbone. "I swear... the movies and the magazines always make this part look like a seamless transition. I feel like I'm trying to tune a guitar with boxing gloves on."
She let out a tiny, truncated laugh and reached down to meet him. Her fingers were steady where his were trembling. She guided him. The moment they finally aligned, Eddie let out a long, shaky exhale. He felt the initial, velvet-soft resistance and then the slow, incredible glide as he found exactly what he’d been searching for. He didn't move any further. He just stayed there, poised at the threshold, his eyes fixed on hers. He looked down at her, his pupils so blown out they swallowed the dark irises entirely, leaving only a reflection of the moonlight. He wanted to see her expression.
Slowly, with an agonizingly careful pressure, he pushed in just a tad. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat, his jaw tightening as he felt the sheer, overwhelming heat of the connection. He stayed perfectly still, waiting for her to tell him that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Eddie’s eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting second, his head dropping back as he choked out "God... it’s so hot," the words sounding like they were being squeezed from his lungs by a heavy weight. "It’s really, really hot."
She looked up at him, her hands moving from his shoulders to cup the sides of his face, her palms cool against his feverish skin. "Do you want to stop?" she whispered, her voice laced with a genuine, quiet concern that nearly broke his focus.
He shook his head immediately. He forced his eyes open, pinning her with a look that was raw and desperately sincere. "No," he rasped, his chest heaving against hers. "No, don't–don't stop. Am I... am I okay to keep going. Are you okay?"
She didn't hesitate, giving him a firm, encouraging nod as she pulled his head down to press a quick, salt-sweet kiss to his forehead. "I'm okay. Go ahead, Eddie." He took a breath that felt like it was made of liquid gold and pushed forward, the movement slow and deliberate as he settled deeper into the heat.
He had spent years hearing guys talk about this. Exaggerated stories told over cheap beer and cigarettes, but none of them had ever mentioned the weight of it. Being inside her for the first time felt like finally stepping inside the music instead of just listening to it from across the room. It was an overwhelming, pressurized warmth that seemed to wrap around not just his body, but his very pulse. He was fascinated by the way his own rhythm was being dictated by the velvet-tight squeeze of her, the way every small shift in his hips sent a corresponding ripple through his entire frame.
It wasn't just "sex". That word felt too small and simple for the reality of the silver light, the soul music, and the way her body was stretching and yielding to accommodate his lanky, awkward self. He felt grounded and untethered all at once. A chaotic mix of ink and bone finally finding its center in the quiet, humid dark of the bed. He watched her face as he realized that no magazine or porno could have ever prepared him for the sheer, staggering intimacy of being this close to another human being.
Eddie had always been a creature of high-energy distractions. Loud music, chaotic campaigns, the constant hum of being the "freak" everyone expected him to be. He had assumed that this would follow that same trajectory. He’d expected a surge of pleasure, a release, and maybe a bit of a boost to the ego he spent so much time pretending was bulletproof.
But this wasn't simple. It wasn't just a physical thing.
It was a total, terrifying dissolution of the boundaries he’d built around himself. Being inside her felt less like a conquest and more like a surrender in some odd way. He felt every hitched breath she took as if it were his own. He felt the way her fingers traced the lines of his shoulders and realized she wasn't just touching his skin. She was touching the parts of him he usually kept hidden behind a denim vest and a wall of jokes.
The intimacy of it was overwhelming. Eddie didn’t feel like he was just "getting laid" in the way the guys in the locker room used to brag about. He was being seen, completely and utterly, in a way that made his messy life feel... enough. The pleasure was there, but it was anchored by something much heavier: the weight of being the person she chose to appreciate unfiltered. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers in the pale light, and for the first time, he didn't feel like he had to perform. He didn't have to be the Dungeon Master or the lead guitarist or the charismatic outcast. He was just Eddie, and she was just her, and they were building something in the silence of this room that didn't need a dramatic flair for the sake of survival.
He shifted his weight forward, his brow furrowing as he tried to translate theory into motion. It wasn’t like the movies. There was no automatic rhythm. He started with small, tentative movements, pulling back just an inch and then sliding back in, his body feeling heavy and uncoordinated. He experimented with the angle of his hips, a bit frustrated by the clumsy friction of the sheets against his knees, until he adjusted his tilt and felt the resistance give way to a smoother, deeper glide.He started to move more deliberately, letting the slow, honeyed tempo of the Side B ballad dictate his pace. He went deeper this time, in a long, steady slide that made him let out a low sound against the hollow of her neck. He felt her respond with a gasp, her body unfolding and relaxing around him as if she were finally letting him into the deepest part of her.
He watched her face in the silver moonlight, fascinated by the change. The tension in her jaw was gone, replaced by a soft, dazed expression, her lips parted as her breath began to sync with his. She started to meet him, her hips rising slightly to greet each stroke, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his hair, pulling him down until their chests were fused.
Her fingers dug into his scalp with a new, hungry urgency, and the small moans she let out told him he was finally getting it right. Seeing her enjoy it in the way her eyes clouded over with pleasure, made Eddie feel ten feet tall.
Eddie felt the heat in his core intensifying in a thrumming that started at the base of his spine and radiated outward until his fingertips felt numb. He leaned down, his voice against her ear. "I’m close... God, I’m really close," he managed to choke out, his muscles locking with the effort of trying to maintain his pace without shattering.
She responded by shifting beneath him, her thighs opening wider to bracket his hips, her heels digging into the mattress to pull him even deeper. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice thick and dazed. "Just let go, Eddie. Don't stop."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face pained. He shook his head, a wild curl falling over his damp forehead. "No, wait," he breathed, his chest heaving. "What about you? I want... how do I get you there?"
The sheer, unselfish desperation in his voice must have made her soften. She didn't say a word; instead, she reached down between their fused bodies, catching his hand. She guided his fingers, placing them firmly against the sensitive peak of her clit that was already slick and swollen. Eddie watched, his breath hitching, as she kept her hand over his, demonstrating a steady pressure. She moved his fingers in small circles, with a friction that made her head fall back against the pillows with a sharp inhale.
"Like that?" he whispered, his eyes wide as he cataloged the way her body arched under the touch.
"Yes," she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just like that. Don't stop moving, Eddie. Do both."
For a few seconds, Eddie’s brain short-circuited. He’d find the right pressure with his fingers only to have his hips falter, or he’d get the glide back only to lose the circular motion she’d taught him. "I’m trying," he grunted, his brow furrowed. But then, he stopped thinking. He found a sweet spot where the slide of his hips provided the base and the friction of his thumb provided the high notes. As he locked into it, she let out a gasp that echoed off the walls, her back arching off the mattress until only her heels and shoulders were touching the bed.
The sensation of her clenching around him was a velvet-tight seizure that sent a white-hot spark straight to his brain. Eddie’s eyes went wide and he let out a startled, unceremonious swear. "Holy—!"
He felt the control snap. It wasn't a choice . He came with a force that made his vision blur into a haze of moonlight, his head falling forward into the crook of her neck. He wanted to stop, to just sink into the sheets and breathe, but she wasn't done. Her hand shot down, her fingers locking around his wrist like a vice, pinning his hand in place against her. "Don't," she choked out, a desperate, commanding edge to her voice. "Don't stop, Eddie. Please."
He forced himself to move, his muscles screaming and his heart doing an uneven gallop. He pushed through the overstimulated haze, maintaining the pressure with his hand even as his body felt like it was turning to mush. He kept the rhythm, stumbling but persistent, until she finally hit the edge. She let out a high, broken cry that was muffled against his shoulder, her fingers digging into his wrist so hard he’d probably have nail bites tomorrow.
Eddie lay there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against her damp shoulder, before the reality of his own lanky frame hit him. "Sorry, shit, I'm probably crushing you," he panted, his voice a ghost of its usual self.
He moved, rolling off her and onto the cool side of the mattress. The sudden shift in temperature made him shiver, but he focused on the task at hand. He reached down, his fingers still a bit shaky, to carefully remove the condom and tie it off. He set it aside on the floor, feeling a strange, quiet sense of pride in the plastic proof of his deflowering. Once he was clear, he didn't stay on his side of the bed for more than a second. He rolled back toward her, his arm sliding out to hook around her waist and pull her flush against his chest. He tucked his chin over her shoulder, his wild, sweat-damp curls touching her cheek as he settled into the crook of her neck.
"You okay?" he whispered, his hand splaying against her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her skin. "I didn't... I didn't break you, did I?"
She let out a soft, tired giggle that vibrated through him, her hand coming up to rest over his. "No, Eddie. I'm definitely not broken."
"Good," he murmured, his eyes drifting shut as the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving a deep exhaustion in its wake. Eddie’s eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by a satisfaction so deep it felt structural. He shifted his head slightly, his nose brushing against the soft skin of her nape, and let out a long, contented sigh.
"Hey," he murmured, the word slurring just a bit as sleep began to pull at him. "Your aunt... is she gonna, like, bust in here at dawn and flip her lid? Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have the energy to jump out a window right now. My legs are officially made of lead."
He felt her chest move with a quiet, tired huff of amusement. She turned her head just enough to catch his gaze in the dim moonlight, her eyes soft and glazed with the same lingering haze that was clouding his own mind. "She’s in Chicago until Monday," she whispered.
Eddie’s brain processed it slowly. The implications of a whole weekend of this. Of her, of this room, of the lack of a ticking clock. He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer until there wasn't a single gap of air between them. "So," he started, his voice barely audible over the hum of the house. "You want me to... you want me to stick around? Or do you want your bed back?”
She didn't even hesitate, the answer leaving her lips with a soft, certain breath. "Stay," she whispered, her fingers interlacing with his where they rested on her stomach. "I just want you to turn that record player off before the needle wears a hole straight through the vinyl."
Eddie let out a huffed laugh, "Copy that, Bedford."
He started to shift, bracing himself, but he stopped mid-motion. He hovered over her, his arms framing her head against the mismatched pillows. In the silver-blue wash of the moonlight, she looked softer than he’d ever seen her. "You know," he murmured, "you look so beautiful right now it’s actually kind of terrifying. Like, 'legendary siren pulling a sailor to his doom' terrifying."
He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss right between her brows, his lips soft against her skin. When he pulled back, he didn't move away immediately. He worried his bottom lip for a second, the bravado finally failing him as he asked the question that had been thrumming in the back of his mind since the van. "So... just for the record," he started, trying and failing to sound off-hand, "does this, uh... does this officially make us a couple? Or is there a specific ritual or a signed contract I’m missing? Because I’m pretty new to the 'not-a-loner' scene."
She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with tenderness. "Eddie Munson," she said, a playful but firm glint in her eyes, "you are not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me now."
A slow, genuine grin spread across his face. "Stuck, huh? Yeah, I think I can live with that."
He slid out of bed just long enough to cross the room, as he finally clicked the turntable off. The silence that followed was profound, filled only by the soft creak of the floorboards as he practically dove back under the covers. He pulled her close, her back against his chest and his chin tucked into the crook of her neck, his long limbs tangling with hers until they were a single, messy knot of warmth. As the edges of sleep began to blur his thoughts, he thought of the charred, skeletal remains of the Starcourt Mall. A place that had felt like the center of his frustration only a week ago. He thought of the long, aimless drive across the county line, his fingers drumming irritably on the steering wheel of the van, cursing the luck that had forced him to travel a town over just to find a shop with a decent set of guitar strings. He had been so angry at the inconvenience. He had spent the whole drive thinking about how much gas he was losing.
Now, with the scent of her skin filling his senses and the steady, solid reality of her heart beating against his arm, the memory of that frustration felt like a different lifetime. It was a strange realization. That a fire in a town he hated had been the exact pieces of luck required to lead him to this room. If the world hadn't inconvenienced him just a little bit, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't know the sound she made when she lost her breath, or the way the moonlight made her look like something he didn't deserve but was allowed to hold anyway.
He tightened his grip on her, a small, sleepy smile touching his lips as the darkness finally pulled him under. He decided right then that he’d never complain about a detour again.
Tag List? Just ask babes
(Tagging those who used to be on my Eddie story tag list)
