mechanic and himbo noah appreciating curvy/plus size girls 🤝 they’re besties for a reason
i’d love to know how mechanic!noah would approach a plus size!reader, mostly if they’re brushing off his interest because too many times it’s felt like a humiliating prank when a guy has shown interest, so they’re quick to do the same to him 💕
OF COURSE!! you know it 🙂↕️💗 he’d be so confused at first wondering why the pretty girl isn’t interested, but one thing about our boy is that he doesn’t back down!!
writing this made me realise i don’t write nearly enough for plus size!reader, even though i try to make my fics as inclusive as possible so everyone can see themselves as reader (because isn’t that the point lmao) but as a plus size girlie myself i just feel like it heals a part of me <3
One thing about Noah is that he’s always gotten his own way. Every time he’s flirted with a girl with the intention of taking her home, it’s worked. Every time he’s talked to a girl with the intention of getting her number, he’s succeeded.
He assumed you would be no different. The moment he saw you, a pretty girl sitting all alone at the bar, he knew immediately where he wanted to spend the rest of his night.
“Dude, you’re staring.” Davis said, and Noah suddenly turned his attention back to the group of friends he had walked in with twenty minutes ago.
“She’s pretty.” Noah nodded.
“Go over and talk to her then.” Ruffilo encouraged, taking a sip of his beer.
“I will.” Noah smirked as he finished what was left of his drink, then left his friends with no hesitation.
You saw him coming. You saw him talking to his friends, you saw them all glance over at you. So you knew exactly what to expect.
You sighed, staring back down at your drink and stirred it with your straw as he approached.
The problem was, he was pretty. He was the type that knew he was hot, you could tell by the cocky grin on his face. If he had been less attractive then maybe you’d assume it wasn’t a prank. But to you, he felt so out of your league, leaving you feeling suspicious.
“Hey.” Noah said, resting one arm against the bar.
“No.”
He blinked, his brows already furrowing.
“…No?”
For a moment he was confused, perhaps wondering if you weren’t even into men.
“How much are they paying you?” You asked before finally turning your head to look at him, “Or what bet did you lose?”
Noah had never been more confused. But now he could see you up close, he realised you were even more beautiful than you looked across the room. The colour of your eyes, your glossy lips- he just didn’t like the tired look on your face.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Noah said genuinely, and it only made you sigh.
“You can go tell your friends you did it.” You said before taking a sip of your drink.
“Did what?”
“Talked to the fat girl.”
Oh.
So that was it.
Noah just stared at you for a moment, almost in shock at how casually you said it. How certain you were about it. Like this conversation had happened before.
“You think that’s why I’m here?”
You shrugged.
“What else would it be?”
He looked at you in disbelief, before laughing. Not because it was funny, but because he was just so fucking confused.
“I walked over because I thought you were gorgeous and I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sure.” You laughed.
“I did.”
“Mhm.”
“No…” He shook his head. “I actually did.”
You gave him a polite, sympathetic smile, as if you were humouring a child.
“What’s your name?”
“Noah.”
“Well, Noah, I know how this ends.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“Either your friends, who have been staring at you this whole time- you should let them know they’re not subtle- come over here and start laughing. Or you get your way, win me over and take me home, just to say you’ve fucked a fat girl.”
The smile slowly disappeared from Noah’s face. He glanced back at his friends for a moment, and they weren’t laughing. They weren’t even watching to see if he’d succeeded. Davis was talking to Jolly, Ruffilo was on his phone, they’d already forgotten Noah had walked away.
Then he looked back at you.
“You really think that?”
You gave a small shrug.
“I know that.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You think that.”
“Well, yes. Because it’s happened before.”
Noah stared at you for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“…People have done that?”
You let out a humourless laugh.
“You’d be surprised what people find funny after a few drinks.”
He felt something unpleasant in his chest, not guilt, not pity, but anger. Not towards you, but to every guy who’d treated you this way before, everyone who used you for their entertainment.
It suddenly made perfect sense why you’d sighed the second he’d approached, why you didn’t even look at him, why you didn’t even entertain the possibility that he was being genuine.
“So…” You swirled the ice around in your glass. “How long do we have before the big reveal? Before they turn around and you laugh and go gotcha!”
“There isn’t one.”
“Mhm.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
This was new. Normally, by now, he’d have someone laughing at one of his stupid jokes. Normally, flirting came easily and women believed him when he complimented them and they would already be blushing and giggling.
You, on the other hand, didn’t believe a single word coming out of his mouth.
“So…” he said slowly, “…what, I’m just wasting my own time then?”
You looked at him.
“What?”
“If I wanted to play some stupid prank…” He gestured around the club. “…why would I still be standing here arguing with you?”
You frowned.
“Maybe you’re just committed?”
He let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“I’ve had practice.” You shrugged.
Noah looked at you for a second before pulling the empty stool beside him out a little further and sitting down.
He was making sure you realised he wasn’t leaving.
“You don’t have to commit this hard, you know.” You said.
“I know,” he said before looking at you with a smirk, “I’m just stubborn.”
That earned him the tiniest twitch at the corner of your mouth, and Noah’s face lit up when he caught it.
“I saw that.” He smiled.
“Saw what?”
“You nearly smiled.”
“No I didn’t.”
“C’mon. You can’t lie to me, baby.”
Oh.
That one simple word went straight to your tummy, making you feel warm and fluttery. You felt heat rush to your cheeks too, and god you hated that he saw it.
“Heh,” his smirk widened, “Made you blush.” He teased, and you couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your lips as you shook your head.
“Shut up.” You tried to hide your smile behind your straw as you took another sip of your drink.
“So… does the prettiest lady at the bar have a name?”
You rolled your eyes, not even trying to hide the smile now as you felt your walls you’ve built over the years slowly start to come down for him, and you told him.
[i was considering making this longer but i felt this was the perfect place to end it, although i’m thinking about a part two where he takes her home🤭]
Concept: cam model! noah fucking you on livestream, making you watch yourself through the laptop screen as your face is pressed into the mattress while he’s practically lying on top of you.
I see your vision, and what if I offer you a little va!noah? 🤲 he needed some material for real, lifelike sounds, and you’re more than happy to help him. The entire thing ends up being streamed behind a paywall, your faces obscured just enough to keep your identities hidden.
cw: 18 + 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. gn!reader, va!noah, voyeurism, mention of recording, men whimpering and moaning, dirty talk.
His weight pins you to the bed, the length of him easily shrouding you, along with his arms enveloping you. Against your back, you feel his muscles tense with each motion. The heat of his breath fans across the back of your neck and the shell of your ear, catching little hitches in it as he chases the pleasure that being buried so deeply inside you offers.
A pillow laid beneath your cushions your stomach, but you still feel the bulge of his cock each time he presses himself deeper. Holding his position, his hands grip your hips, the pressure of his fingers easily leaving behind bruises as he remains buried to the hilt and begins grinding his hips.
Noah doesn’t hold back, not even for a second. Desperate whimpers and pitiful grunts spill past his lips and against your ear before he’s burying his face against the side of your neck.
“God, do you feel that?”
It’s rhetorical, but you do. You feel everything in this position. The way his thighs keep yours pressed together makes everything squeeze around him tighter as he moves, your walls clenching with each delicious drag of his cock.
You acknowledge him with a hum, barely audible, mostly for the sake of the microphone that’s been strategically placed to catch all of his sounds.
“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” He rasps. “Oh, fuck—fuck, fuck.”
His breath catches, and he trembles against you, stilling himself as though trying to pull himself back from the edge of something he knows he won’t be able to come back from, but that’s why you’re here, why you offered to take the place of the usual toys he uses, to give him something more authentic.
Peering ahead of you, you catch the faint red light of the camera across the room, set up to provide a paid live feed. In the moment, it was easy to forget that there could be anyone watching, an idea that sends a swirl of heat through your stomach.
Clenching around him, he gasps, his voice breaking into a plea. “Oh, no… wait, please. You can’t do that to me…”
If there’s any way to make out your features on the livestream in the dim light of the room, you’re certain they’d catch your smirk in response—the devilish gleam of someone up to no good.
You do it again, because you can and you will.
You’ve heard these moans a hundred times, had them blaring in your ears on nights when you struggled to sleep or needed something to help take the edge off. You’ve came to them more times than you’d ever admit, but there’s something even more thrilling about being the cause of them.
The feeling crawls up your spine, tickling at the base of your skull and spreading through you as you rock your hips the best you can beneath him, attempting to draw another reaction from him.
“Oh, fuck… just like that… God, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna—” He breaks off into another moan.
This time, you can feel the effect it has on him, the way his body trembles against yours, his fingers gripping you tightly as he attempts to hold on to the last ounce of composure. Eventually, the final thread snaps, and he comes undone completely.
Even then, he doesn’t stop. He continues grinding his hips down against you, eyes rolled back, heavy, breathless sounds spilling from his lips, his voice barely audible.
“I can’t… I can’t stop…” He pants the words, chasing the same sensation he had been moments before, burying his face against the back of your neck as he whines.
Your own sounds are muffled against your hand or the bedsheets as you bury your face in them, basking in the overwhelming sensation while he continues working his way through the aftermath of his own climax, until nothing but nonsensical pleas are murmured against your neck.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
Tw: nightmares
Series mastelist
Noah stayed with you for the next two and a half weeks.
At first, things moved slowly. He still limped, still needed to sit often, still winced when he shifted the wrong way or stood up too fast. But he was healing, and you saw he was starting to feel better now.
You changed the bandage less and less, and you noticed that the wound wasn't as deep as you had initially thought, when you were trying not to panic and make sure he didn't die of a blood infection on your couch. And slowly, he started to walk without holding onto things.
He started eating more. And God, he ate like he hadn’t had a proper meal in months, which, you remembered, might actually be the case. Every day you made something simple: pasta, grilled cheese, rice and chicken, frozen dumplings, vegetables, baked potatoes. And every time, Noah would clean the plate.
“This is so good,” he’d say.
You blinked. “It’s literally just eggs and toast.”
“Yeah, but it’s warm. And it’s yours.”
You stopped arguing with him after a while. Let him compliment your ramen and frozen vegetables like they were gourmet.
Sometimes he offered to help. Tried to chop onions with one hand while holding onto the counter for balance. Tried to stir things. You let him. He liked being useful, even if it ended with you both covered in flour or laughing over something you burnt by accident.
You had work during the day, and the first morning you were about to leave, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. You gave him the Wi-Fi password, showed him how to work the coffee maker, and told him, genuinely, that he could use anything in the apartment. Anything at all. You meant it.
He didn’t use much. But you noticed, after a couple of days, that your books had been moved, your old DVD player plugged in again, a few dishes in the sink that you hadn’t used. He was finding ways to exist in the space, without taking up too much of it.
The first few days, you told him, gently, that he could take a shower if he wanted. He paused, still leaning against the wall, hands braced on the doorframe.
“Can I use the hot water?”
You blinked. It took a second to understand the question.
“Of course,” you said, quickly. “God, yes. Use as much as you want.”
He nodded. Didn’t say anything more. But later, you noticed he stayed in there longer than you’d expected, and the bathroom smelled faintly of your shampoo and steam.
You remembered that was his first hot shower in years. You didn’t comment. Just left a fresh towel for him on the counter the next morning, folded neatly. It was gone by the time you got home.
Over the past few days, Kole had sent you several messages, apologies, texts at three in the morning saying he missed you and he’d even called a couple of times. You hadn’t answered. You didn't care.
Alpine had her little corner now, an old box with a blanket, a couple of toys you picked up from the store, a small dish for food and another for water. But she never used it.
She was always on the couch. Or, more often, on Noah.
It didn’t matter where he sat, or how he shifted. She found her way onto his lap or chest, curled up against his side.
You loved how sweet he always was with Alpine. There was something so disarming about seeing someone like Noah, tall and covered in tattoos, lower his voice and smile softly just because a cat rubbed up against his leg.
He always spoke to her in this sweet, soft voice that made you love him even more. “Hey, sweet girl,” he’d murmur as she stretched up to nuzzle his hand, and you’d just sit there watching, heart melting, wondering how anyone could still think he wasn’t made for softness.
Or how he could have ever thought that himself.
He didn’t talk about Tyler again, and you didn’t push.
But something had changed after that night. Like letting the story out had made space for something else to come in. Maybe a bit of peace.
One night, you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder.
You were both on the couch, a movie playing quietly in the background. You were sitting close, not quite touching, until he shifted and you leaned in just slightly, your arm brushing against his. Neither of you moved away.
The next thing you knew, your head had drifted down, resting against the curve of his shoulder. You didn’t even realize it until you woke up later, hazy and warm, to find the screen dark and the apartment silent. Noah was still there. He hadn’t moved.
His arm was curled protectively around the back of the couch, and you could feel the quiet rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. His head was tilted slightly toward yours, his eyes closed, but you could tell he wasn’t asleep. He was just still. Careful. As if even breathing too loudly might wake you.
You lifted your head slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “Sorry,” you murmured, “Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”
You didn’t. But you also didn’t move very far. You spent the next hour chatting on the couch until you noticed he was getting sleepy too, and you went to your bedroom saying goodnight.
And some mornings, when you woke up, the apartment already smelled like coffee.
You’d stumble into the kitchen still rubbing your eyes, to fing him there: sitting at the little table, his legs stretched out under the chair, a mug in one hand, Alpine curled up on his lap.
“Morning,” he’d say with a little smile, brushing away the locks of hair that were starting to grow and fall over his eyes, and which you hoped he wouldn’t say he wanted to cut anytime soon, and he’d offer you a mug already poured.
It took you a few days to realize he always waited until you were awake to start drinking his.
Other times, you found him cleaning: your kitchen counters, the windowsills, the inside of the microwave, never because you asked him to. Just because.
He didn’t say it, but you could tell he was trying to be useful. To not feel like a random homeless man you were keeping in your house for free. You never once made him feel that way. But you let him help. Let him take care of the small things. Let him figure out what peace could look like.
One late evening, when you noticed how much better he was finally walking, with no more leaning against the walls, no more limping quite as badly, you knew it was time.
You remembered what he’d said, a week ago. That he missed hitting the punching bag. Not fighting. Not the ring. Just the bag.
You still weren't sure if he was going to come back to fight someday. For now, you hoped he was comfortable enough with you to stay. And never go back to that shithole again.
So you’d called in a favor.
Matt, the guy who ran the local gym, not far from your house, had always liked you. He’d been your trainer for a while, years back. When you explained things, without giving too much away, he didn’t even hesitate, just handed you the keys and told you to lock up when you were done.
“Tell your friend to take it easy,” he’d said.
So you told Noah to get his shoes on.
He raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He gave you a look, a suspicious little half-smile, and he followed you out.
The street was quiet by the time you reached the gym. You let him unlock the door himself.
“You said you missed the bag,” you said, shrugging. “Thought maybe you wanted to say hi.”
He chuckleda and thanked you.
Then he pulled on a pair of gloves and started throwing slow, measured punches at the bag, just enough to get a rhythm going. You wandered the gym while he worked, trailing your fingers over machines you didn’t know how to use, pretending to study diagrams on the walls while sneaking glances at him every few minutes.
After a while, he tugged off his hoodie and tossed it onto a nearby bench, leaving him in a tank top that clung to the lines of his shoulders and arms.
You must’ve been staring, because he paused and turned to you with a crooked grin.
“You planning to just stand there and watch the whole time?”
“No, actually. I want you to teach me.”
That earned a little laugh from him.
“I’m serious,” you added. “C’mon fighter boy. I wanna learn.”
So he did.
The gym was all yours, just the two of you and you had all the time. It started simple, he showed you how to stand. How to breathe.
“Hands up,” he said, circling you.
“Like this?”
“No. God, no,” he laughed. “That’s how you get your jaw broken.”
“Well you just did it like this,” you argued, adjusting your posture.
“Yeah, but when you do it, it’s a disaster.”
"What? Why?”
“Because if you do that,” he said, stepping close, “then I can do this—”
And suddenly his hands were around your waist, and before you could react, he lifted you like you weighed nothing and slung you over his shoulder.
“Noah!”
“What?” he said, grinning. “This is a classic maneuver.”
“Put me down!”
“I’m demonstrating tactical dominance.”
“This is not fighting technique!”
“Sure it is. It’s called the ‘distract your opponent and then tackle her while she's laughing’ combo."
You couldn’t help laughing, half-struggling and half just hanging there, your fists lightly thudding against his back.
Then, he finally set you down, carefully, you landed on your feet, dizzy but laughing. He was smiling, wide and real, cheeks flushed from the movement. You hadn't seen him smile like that. Not like this.
He looked so beautiful in his tank top, tattoos all on display, a light sheen of sweat on his skin, hair falling messily into his eyes.
You started hitting him, light punches to his chest and stomach, not meant to hurt, just playful, kind of teasing. He laughed, arms loose at his sides, letting you take your tiny, harmless swings.
“You think you’re tough now?” he said between chuckles.
“Shut up,” you muttered, grinning despite yourself, landing another soft hit just under his ribs. “You’re the worst trainer I’ve ever had.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, stepping closer.
You kept swinging, lightly, and he kept dodging, laughing.
“Stop laughing,” you said.
“Make me.”
You went to throw another jab, but this time, he caught your wrist mid-air, quick, with almost no effort. You barely had time to react before he used that grip to pull you suddenly toward him. Not too hard, just enough to make you lose your balance and crash softly into him, your body landing against his chest.
He was warm and solid beneath your hands, his heart beating fast under your touch. You could feel it.
His hand was still around your wrist, his other resting lightly at your waist now. You looked up, and he was already looking at you.
Not smiling anymore.
“Noah…” you whispered.
There was a pause.
Then, softly, he asked, “Can I—?”
You didn’t even let him finish. You leaned in, closed the space between you, and kissed him, letting the gloves slide off your hands to bring your palms to his cheeks.
It started slow. Careful. His lips brushed against yours with hesitation.
But you kissed him like you’d been waiting for it for months, probably since the moment you first saw him. Since you looked into his eyes and saw a man carrying too much pain, and already knew that you could love him the way he deserved.
And that’s when he really kissed you back.
Everything changed in a second, his hand at your waist pulling you in tighter, his other slipping behind your neck, cradling you close as his mouth moved against yours.
He kissed you like he was starving. Like he didn’t want to come up for air.
You pressed into him, arms winding around his shoulders, fingers curling into his hair.
When you pulled back just enough to breathe, his hands were still holding you, gently.
“Is kissing the opponent into submission a new technique?” he asked, voice low, a smile tugging at his lips again.
You let out a breathless laugh. “God, you’re really a terrible teacher.”
Noah tilted his head, smirking. “You don’t look like you’re complaining.”
And you weren’t.
Not even close, because you let him kiss you again. And again. And again.
And that night, after the teasing, the laughter and the kisses, Noah didn’t sleep on the couch for the first time.
You led him down the hallway with a quiet hand tugging his fingers and when the door to your room creaked open, he stood in the doorway for a moment, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to stay.
You turned to look at him and gave a soft smile, one he mirrored without even thinking. Then he stepped forward, and that was it. Just two people who had been orbiting each other for days finally coming to rest in the same place.
When he slipped into bed beside you, it felt so natural. Like your body had already been waiting for his warmth.
You rolled onto your side, and he followed, pressing in behind you with an arm wrapping carefully around your waist. You took his hand and guided it over your ribs, holding it close. His nose brushed against your skin, then his lips.
His breath was warm, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. You felt the way he hesitated, just for a moment, and then, with a gentleness that nearly broke you open, he dipped his head and pressed the softest kiss to the curve where your neck met your shoulder.
It was so tender, so careful.
Then another, just a little higher. And another.
Eventually, you turned to face him again. He was already looking at you. Hair messy and falling into his eyes, mouth slightly parted, eyes sleepy but bright in the dark. You reached out and brushed your fingers over his jaw, down the line of his throat. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, his lips soft against your skin.
You didn’t say anything when he leaned in closer, because there was no need to. His eyes were asking a question, and yours were already answering it: you wanted him.
You kept kissing him even when your clothes found the floor, when the room filled with the sound of your breathless voice repeating his name at every touch, every thrust.
And after, when you collapsed next to him, he pulled you into his arms. You buried your face against his collarbone, and he rested his chin on your head, his fingers trailing lazy circles along your back. His other hand found yours beneath the blanket and laced your fingers together without even looking.
The next morning, Noah was still asleep beside you.
His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close against his chest like his body hadn’t even considered letting you go during the night. His breathing was deep and steady, lips slightly parted, hair even messier than before. There was a tiny crease between his brows, like he was still halfway between dreams and reality. But not bad dreams.
You stayed there for a while, just watching him.
Then, you shifted a little, enough to press a soft kiss to his collarbone. He stirred then, his grip tightening slightly around you as he mumbled your name, barely above a whisper.
“Morning,” you said softly.
His eyes blinked open slowly, squinting a little against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, he just stared at you, his brows drawing in like he was trying to be sure you were real.
Then a quiet breath left his chest, and a faint, incredulous smile tugged at his lips.
“God, I don’t think I’ve ever woken up this happy,” he whispered.
"Good," You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Get used to it.”
One late afternoon, you came home from work and noticed something different right away: the apartment was too quiet. No TV, no music playing. Just the sound of Alpine’s soft paws padding toward you as you stepped inside. You dropped your bag by the door and bent down to scratch behind her ears, then glanced up.
There was Noah, sitting on the couch, your sketchbook open on his lap.
Your sketchbook, the one you’d never meant for anyone to see. The pages filled with sketches of him: studies of his hands resting on his knees, the way his jaw tightened when he was thinking, his hair falling messily over his eyes. There was a drawing you’d made the night he fell asleep on the couch, Alpine curled against his chest. And the quick sketch from memory of his back and shoulders, damp from a shower. And the drawing you did after the second time you saw him, one eye still dark because of a bruise.
Your heart started beating faster.
Noah looked up when he heard the door close, meeting your gaze with a teasing grin that made your cheeks warm.
“So,” he said, holding the book up, “I didn’t realize I was such a good subject.”
You moved to snatch the sketchbook away, but he pulled it just out of reach, chuckling. “Hey, don’t be so defensive. I found it on the table and just wondered if it was a book or something you were filling yourself. The drawings are amazing.”
You crossed your arms, trying to hide how flustered you were. “I wasn’t exactly planning on showing you.”
His smile softened. “I’m glad I saw them. They’re... beautiful. Really. It's nice to see how you see me. If I had a home, I would hang all of them on the wall of my bedroom.”
You blinked, heart suddenly squeezing a little, almost forgetting about the fact that he saw your drawings. “But you have one,” you said softly, “you know I want you here. I love having you here.”
“I know.”
“Then stop saying you don't have a home”
He hesitated for a moment. “Okay.”
He kissed your forehead and walked to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the sketches. You looked through them again.
Yeah, they really were beautiful.
Mostly because he was.
One night, you woke up suddenly to the sound of rustling beside you. Noah had jolted awake, his breath uneven and eyes wide, though this time the nightmare wasn’t as intense as the first one you’d seen him have.
You blinked awake, without saying a word, you scooted closer, wrapping your arms gently around him, giving him the time to move away if he wanted to. He leaned into you immediately, resting his forehead against your collarbone.
You kissed the top of his head softly, murmuring soothing words until his breathing slowed and the tension in his shoulders eased. After a few minutes, you whispered, “Do you want some tea? It might help.”
He nodded quietly after a moment. “Sounds good.”
You slipped out of bed and made your way to the kitchen, turning on the kettle and gathering tea supplies.
He followed you, barefoot and quiet, and he gave a small nod. Like a silent reassurance: I’m okay. I just need a minute.
He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down slowly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. You moved without thinking, drawn to him like always. You stepped between his legs and stayed there, standing, your body pressed close. He didn’t hesitate.
His arms slipped around your waist, and he rested his head gently against your stomach.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and held him. Your fingers found their way into his hair, soft and messy from sleep, and you let your other hand rub slow circles into his back. He sank into you.
And you noticed, again, how he never flinched from your touch. Or, at least, not anymore. How he never pulled away. How it didn’t matter how quiet he was or how few words he used, his body always answered yours. Always leaned in. Always took what you offered like it was something he desperately needed.
You could feel it in the way he exhaled against you, in the way his grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, holding you close.
And it reminded how much he needed it.
After years of being alone. After everything he had been through, he was letting you in, he wanted you there, your hands on him, your warmth, your kisses.
You drank your tea together in the quiet of the kitchen, your knees brushing under the table. You didn’t ask about the nightmare, and he didn’t bring it up.
When your mugs were empty, he took your hand, and the two of you went back to bed. He curled into your side again, and this time, he fell asleep without trouble.
It was a quiet Sunday morning when Amber came over for a visit.
Noah looked up when he heard a knock. “Expecting someone?”
“No…” you said slowly. “But I'm pretty sure I know who it is.”
You heard another knock, louder this time, followed by a very familiar, energetic voice.
“Open up! I come bearing pastries and my desire to talk to your new, now alive, boyfriend!”
You shook your head as went to the door and opened the dor to find Amber standing there with a paper bag and a triumphant smile.
“Good morning,” she said, waltzing inside.
She kicked off her shoes and made a beeline for the kitchen. And then she saw him.
Amber froze mid-step. “Oh, you! Finally!”
Noah looked up from his coffee. “Hi.”
Amber blinked once, twice. “You're upright.”
“I try to be,” Noah said, offering a small, amused smile, “glad to finally meet you while I’m not bleeding or unconscious.”
“Coffee?” You asked her.
“Yes, please,” Amber said, plopping into the chair across from Noah. “So. How’s the recovery arc going?”
“Surprisingly fast,” he said. “Still a bit stiff in the mornings. But I can make it down the stairs without swearing now.”
Amber raised her mug. “We love a low bar.”
You poured her a cup of coffee and sat down at the table beside Noah. She pulled a croissant from the paper bag, unwrapped it, and tore off a piece.
“Help yourselves,” she said. “They’re from that place by the tram stop.”
You and Noah each took something, and for a few minutes, the three of you just ate in silence, until Amber glanced between the two of you, then smiled softly. “You know… you look good together.”
You looked up. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “I don’t know. There’s just… something that fits. And you seem happier.”
Noah gave a small smile, glancing your way.
Amber leaned her elbows on the table, her tone gentle. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, after everything. But… You two make sense. I'm happy for you guys.”
Noah slowly reached for your hand under the table and gave it a light squeeze.
Amber caught the gesture and smiled again. “I’m glad,” she said simply. “Really.”
You chatted for a while until she said something like: “We should hang out one day, the four of us.”
You blinked. “Four?”
Amber gave you a look that was way too casual to be innocent. “...Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes at her, the corners of your mouth already turning up. “Amber. Come on. Spill.”
She grinned. “Okay, okay! So... last time I went to the record store Vivienne might have asked for my Instagram.”
You nodded, already starting to smile.
“Well,” Amber said, practically glowing now, “we’ve been chatting on and off since then. Just like, music stuff at first. Then memes and fashion. A little art talk. A little 'I like girls' talk. And last night she said, and I quote, ‘I’d actually love to go out with you sometime, if you’d be into that.’”
You gasped. “Amber!”
She let out a happy, slightly breathless laugh. “I know! I mean, I wasn’t really sure she was actually flirting with me. Apparently she was. We're hanging out next weekend.”
“That’s amazing! I'm so happy for you!”
Amber shrugged, but she couldn’t stop smiling.
"Does this mean I get to tease you two now, the way you always do with me and Noah?" You asked.
"Don't push it."
You all kept talking for a while, until she stood up and stretched. “Okay, I’ve fulfilled my best friend duties. Fed you, approved the boy, mildly harassed you both. My work here is done.”
“Already?” you said.
“I have to go sew tiny sleeves onto a doll-sized mannequin before my professor has a meltdown. Fashion school waits for no one.” She grabbed her bag and pointed at you. “But text me if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
Amber gave you a quick hug on her way out, then pointed at Noah as she opened the door. “Just so we’re clear, if you hurt her, I will find a way to ruin your life.”
“Fair enough. But I promise I won't.” he said.
“Good,” she said, blowing a kiss at Alpine and vanishing into the hallway.
You and Noah stood by the door for a second after she left.
“She’s great,” he said.
“She is,” you agreed. “And now she’s officially on your side.”
“Good,” he said. “I think I’ll need all the allies I can get.”
You laughed and kissed him. Just because you could. Just because it was Sunday morning, Amber had croissants, and Noah was alive.
One late evening, when you got home from work, you were grinning from ear to ear. You found Noah in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, drying a plate, and the moment he looked up and saw your face, he paused.
“What’s got you smiling like that?” he asked.
You dropped your bag by the door and practically bounced over to him. “Okay, listen. This is kind of a big deal.”
He set the plate down. “I’m listening.”
You took a breath, barely able to contain the excitement. “Today at the shop, this girl came in, walk-in, didn’t have an appointment. She was just browsing through the flash designs, and she stopped in front of mine.”
Noah tilted his head, catching on. “One of yours?”
You nodded. “Yeah. She asked who drew it, because it looked into a different style and when Nick said it was me, she said, ‘That’s the one I want.’ And then she got it. Because Nick had a few hours free. Just like that. My design. On her skin. Forever.”
Noah broke into a slow smile, "No way."
“Yes!” you laughed, still in disbelief. “It wasn’t even a little one either. She got it on her forearm. It looks amazing.”
Noah crossed the kitchen and pulled you into a hug, warm and proud. “That’s huge. That’s more than huge. That’s incredible.”
You buried your face in his shoulder, still smiling. “I know it might sound silly, but… I don’t know. I'm so happy.”
Noah leaned back just enough to look you in the eye. “That’s not silly. That’s beautiful. It means your work said something to her.”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, “That’s not even the best part.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
You nodded, “Nick pulled me aside after, and he said… if I’m serious about learning, he’d be willing to actually start teaching me. Like, properly. One-on-one. He said we can count it as an informal apprenticeship and start logging hours.”
Noah blinked. “Wait, like… for real? So you’d be allowed to actually tattoo?”
You nodded again, this time a little slower, more hesitant. “Yeah. I mean, not on clients right away. But he said we could work on practice skins, maybe do some small stuff under his supervision. If I commit to it, I could start building a portfolio. It’d be a real start.”
“That’s amazing,” Noah said, grinning.
“I’d love to,” you said, quieter now. “But I’m scared.”
Noah’s expression softened. “Why?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to mess up. It’s someone’s skin. It’s permanent. It feels… scary.”
He cupped your face with both hands. “You would be an amazing tattoo artist. I would love to have you do my next one.”
You stared at him, searching his face. “Would you really let me tattoo you?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “I would let you tattoo every square inch of skin I’ve got left.”
You laughed, a bit flustered. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’m all yours.”
You looked up at him, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “You’d really trust me with something permanent?”
Noah didn’t even blink. “I’d trust you with anything.”
“Even your skin?”
“Especially my skin,” he said, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It’s just skin. You already have all the parts of me that actually matter.”
You stared at him for a second, unsure if you were about to laugh or cry. “You’re not allowed to say things like that without warning.”
He just chuckled. Then kissed you.
And again. And again.
That night, you and Noah were out in the garden, lying on an old blanket spread over the grass, the sky above you clear and full of stars.
The porch light was off, leaving only the moon and the stars to cast their silvery glow over everything. The bushes rustled gently in the breeze, and the tall grass swayed with the wind. You could just make out the outline of the old fence, half-covered in ivy, and the faint scent of jasmine hung in the air from the corner where it grew wild.
Alpine wandered nearby, sniffing at plants and chasing some invisible bug in the dark.
You turned your head toward him, voice quiet. “Do you believe in fate?”
The moonlight caught the angles of his face, the curve of his nose, the soft line of his mouth. His eyes reflected just a hint of the night sky, and for a moment, you were sure you’d never seen anything, or anyone, more quietly beautiful.
Noah kept his eyes on the sky. “Don’t know. Why?”
“They say it’s written in the stars."
He glanced at you, thoughtful. “Maybe fate wanted me to walk into that fight club that exact night. Maybe it wanted me to get thrown out into that exact alley where you were standing.”
You looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot coming from someone who’s not sure they believe in it.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m just saying… if that’s how fate works, then I owe it a thank you.”
You were quiet for a moment, then said softly, “That night changed everything.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t see it coming. But I'm so infinitely grateful for it. For you.”
You reached for his hand, fingers finding his in the dark. “So… thanks, stars?”
He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Thanks, stars.”
You were quiet for a moment, then, gently, you asked, “Noah?”
“Yeah?”
You turned slightly on the blanket, “What are we?”
“Anything you want us to be,” he said.
“Because you don’t sleep in my bed every night because I don’t want you to be my boyfriend and... do stuff couples do.”
Noah let out a low, quiet laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said.
"Like?"
“Like going to that weird diner with the alien murals and the supposedly world’s best grilled cheese, and walking through the farmers market on Sundays just to buy strawberries and tiny plants we’ll try not to kill, and sneaking snacks into midnight movies and pretending we’re smooth about it, and going on road trips where we stop every ten minutes for cow pictures or no reason at all, and getting lost on purpose, and singing along to terrible pop songs at full volume, and arguing about which fast food place has the best fries. And you staying here with me forever.”
He leaned in, leaving a couple of kisses on your jaw and on your neck, soft. “I like this. I like boyfriend.” He whispered against your skin.
You smiled. “Good.”
You stayed out there until sleep started to pull at you and your body completely relaxed against his.
Noah noticed first. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go in.”
Inside, you slipped into bed, and a moment later, he joined you, curling around you from behind. His arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck.
You let out a quiet sigh. “This is nice.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Yeah. It really is.”
And with him holding you like that, you fell asleep.
One early morning, after you went to work, Noah was sitting on the steps of your garden with a mug of coffee cupped in his hands, elbows on his knees, watching nothing in particular.
He was just starting to relax into the silence when a voice cut through it.
“Finally found you.”
He didn’t raise his head right away, but he didn’t have to. He recognized that voice. Dean.
Noah turned his head slowly. Dean stood near the edge of the yard, arms folded, casual.
“What do you want?” Noah asked.
Dean shrugged once. “Got a match lined up. Three nights from now. Thought I’d ask if you were in.”
Noah said nothing. His fingers tightened around the ceramic mug, tension creeping into his shoulders, his spine. Dean didn’t push, just waited with that same infuriating patience, like he already knew what was going on behind Noah’s silence.
And Noah was silent because part of him wanted to say no. To stand up and tell Dean that he had a life now, that he was done, that he had you. That he spent his nights tracing soft patterns on your back, not guarding his ribs. That he wanted to be someone else. Someone better.
But then there was Tyler.
Tyler, who still haunted his nightmares with his limbs twisted unnaturally on the ground, eyes wide open and empty. Tyler, whose blood had soaked the floor while Noah watched. Who had stepped in for him at the last second, still smiling, not knowing he’d never step out again.
Tyler, who died instead of Noah. Because Noah had hesitated. Because he’d been a coward. And no matter how much softness Noah had now, your touch, your warmth, the quiet safety of your shared nights, it couldn’t undo what he’d let happen.
And nevertheless, guilt was eating him alive.
So maybe he didn’t deserve to quit. Maybe people like him didn’t get to walk away clean.
Noah stared into the grass.
Dean gave a small nod toward him. “You’ve got time. Let me know.”
And then he was gone.
What he was starting to have with you, it was something beautiful. It was the closest this to peace and happiness he had ever known. And he loved you. He loved you so much, even if he had never said it out loud.
But sometimes that love felt like something he wasn’t allowed to hold.
And even though he’d thanked fate that night in the garden, there were some moments when he thought maybe it would’ve been better if you’d never stepped into that alley.
If he’d never met you.
Never tangled up your calm, steady life with the mess of his.
Sometimes he thought someone better should’ve had the chance to earn your beautiful heart.
And him?
He should’ve died alone in that abandoned building, bleeding out on the floor where he’d crawled after getting stabbed.
He was no longer sure of what he wanted to do now.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
Tw: death of family members and a friend, grief, trauma, blood, car crash, violence, poverty
Series mastelist
Noah still remembered the first time he met Tyler.
He was six years old. He was sitting alone on the grass of a park that felt much too big for him, legs crossed, sleeves too long, carefully dragging a stick through the dirt like he was drawing battle lines.
He was holding one of his plastic soldiers in his other hand, his favorite one, the one with the missing foot and the chipped helmet. The park was noisy around him, full of kids yelling and laughing and running in groups. Noah, as usual, wasn’t part of any of it.
He didn’t have many friends back then. He wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t like he didn’t want them. He just... didn’t know how to be the kind of kid other kids seemed to like. Too quiet. Too weird. So he played on his own. He was used to it, it was not that bad.
Then a shadow crossed the battle field in front of him.
Noah looked up.
An older boy stood in front of him, maybe seven or eight, with a mop of messy light brown hair, freckles across his nose, and scraped knees. He was grinning with a plastic bin full of toy soldiers tucked under one arm.
“Hey,” the boy said.
Noah blinked at him. “...Hi.”
“You wanna play?” the boy asked, glancing down at the soldier in Noah’s hand. “My guys need allies.”
Noah stared at him for a second. He hadn’t expected that.
He looked down at his soldier and the few others scattered around him. Then back at the kid. “Okay,” he said quietly.
The boy grinned even wider, “I’m Tyler,” he said, plopping down beside him without waiting for permission. “You can be in charge of the second unit. But I get the tank. You cool with that?”
Noah nodded.
From that moment on, they were inseparable. They often met to play together at the park, and then to do their homework at one of their houses, even if they always ended up talking about something else.
Over the years, Tyler became something more than just the kid who'd asked to play that day. He became Noah’s brother. The one who stuck up for him when he didn’t know how to speak up for himself. The one who showed up at his door with comic books and busted knees, dragging him out into the world whether he liked it or not. Tyler was loud where Noah was quiet, reckless where Noah was cautious. And somehow, it balanced.
By the time they hit their teens, “best friends” didn’t even feel like the right word anymore. Tyler was family.
He had been the first person Noah called after his mom died.
He was twelve and he was an orphan, given that he had never even seen his father. His grandparents had taken the lead, gently trying to handle the arrangements, the paperwork, the airless details no twelve-year-old should have to hear. But nothing felt real until Noah picked up the phone, his hands trembling, and called the only number he knew by heart.
Tyler picked up on the third ring. He didn’t say anything for the first few seconds, just listened to Noah breathe. Then, softly, “You okay?”
Noah didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Tyler said, “I’m coming over.”
And he did. He sat with him in silence on the back steps for what felt like hours until Noah started crying.
Later, when Noah had to move out of the only home he’d ever known and in with his grandparents across town, Tyler showed up with two rolls of duct tape and a couple of boxes.
“You’re in charge of books,” he said, tossing Noah one of them. “I’ll handle dangerous objects. And by dangerous I mean ceramics and glasses.”
Noah had smiled for the first time in weeks.
They stayed close through everything. Tyler was there the first time Noah got drunk, he was fifteen years old, at someone’s older brother’s party, drinking something yellow and terrible. Noah had ended up sick for two straight days, groaning on Tyler’s bedroom floor and swearing he would never drink again.
Tyler just raised an eyebrow. “You say that now.”
Noah didn't really kept that promise. It wasn’t until much later that he finally stopped for real and he got sober. For his own sake, for his health. But also because he remembered that version of himself, fifteen and miserable, with Tyler holding a trash can near his head and saying, man, you’re not built for this.
Noah remembered his driving test like a scene from a dumb teen movie. He’d begged Tyler to help him “set the stage.” Tyler, of course, had agreed. On the day of the test, he stood right near the crosswalk by the school, wearing a hoodie and holding a grocery bag to look more civilian. As Noah approached behind the wheel with the instructor beside him, Tyler strolled up to the curb, casual as anything.
Noah slowed perfectly. Stopped right on cue. Tyler gave him a thumbs up as he crossed. The instructor marked a little check on his clipboard.
Later, Tyler declared it their most successful “joint operation” since the second unit saved the tank battalion in the sandbox.
And when Noah’s grandparents passed, within a year of each other, Tyler was right there at both funerals.
He just stood next to Noah, who was starting to grow taller than him.
They had lived together for a while, back then, because Tyler ended up with no family too.
It wasn’t anything fancy, just a cramped, drafty apartment above a closed-down convenience store with a perpetually flickering hallway light and radiators that sounded like they were haunted. But it was theirs. A little place carved out of the world, held together with mismatched furniture and old posters taped to the walls. They called it home, and they meant it.
Noah worked nights at a cheap diner two blocks down. Tyler did bike deliveries all over the city, always coming back smelling like rain and takeout.
They made just enough to scrape by: bills paid late, dinners made of instant noodles, Friday nights spent on their stained couch watching bootleg DVDs they found at a garage sale. But they were happy. Tired, always broke, but happy. Together. And that had been enough.
Until the accident, years later.
It happened on a night like any other. Tyler was driving, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming to the beat of a song humming from the stereo. Noah sat in the passenger seat, long legs pulled up, talking about something pointless and stupid, like what animal he’d want to be if he wasn’t human.
Then the lights appeared.
Fast. Blinding. A sleek car came out of nowhere, too fast for a street like that. Maybe Tyler had looked away for a second. Maybe he was laughing at something Noah said. Maybe it didn’t matter.
He heard tires screaming. Metal crashing. Noah’s shoulder slammed against the door, the seatbelt jerking tight across his chest. The world tilted and spun, the car veering hard, so hard it felt like it might flip. There was the sickening crunch of metal against metal, then a final lurch as their car skidded to a stop inches from the edge of a deep ditch.
Everything went still.
For a moment, Noah thought they were both dead.
Everything was too montioless, too silent, like time had been sucked out of the world. His ears rang. His vision swam. He could barely breathe. Then pain flared through his shoulder, sharp where it had slammed against the door, and he realized he was still alive.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he didn’t want to turn his head. He was terrified of what he’d see. What if Tyler wasn’t moving? What if—?
Then, finally, a voice broke through the silence.
“Holy shit!”
Noah turned, and there he was, Tyler, one hand still gripping the wheel, the other shakily running through his hair, but eyes wide open. Alive.
Relief hit Noah so hard it left him dizzy.
“You okay?” Tyler asked.
Noah nodded, stunned, heart hammering against his ribs. “Yeah. I think so.”
He turned his head and saw through the cracked windshield the other car, sleek, black, expensive, its front end crumpled in a twisted mess of chrome and smoke.
Then the door of that car opened.
A man stepped out, slow and unsteady, clearly dazed but walking. Dressed in a dark suit, blood trickling from a cut on his temple. He looked... wrong in this neighborhood, like he’d fallen out of a different world entirely.
“I think we hit someone rich.” Tyler whispered, before they both got out their car.
They tried to explain.
Tried to tell the man that they didn’t have that kind of money, that they couldn’t possibly afford the damage. Not to that car. Not to anything remotely close. Tyler had his delivery bike. Noah had half a paycheck waiting for him in tips. That was it.
But the man didn’t look surprised.
He already knew.
He stepped closer, wiping blood from his brow with the edge of his sleeve, explaining that he knew a place where they could make some money.
“I know people. They run something... private. You fight. They pay. I'll keep your winnings to fix this mess.”
They should have said no. They both knew it. But the reality was, there was no other option. The man handed them a card. No name on it. Just an address.
“Show up tomorrow night,” he said. “Or I file a report. Say you hit and ran. Say you assaulted me after. Say whatever I need to say. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
And then he walked away.
So they went.
The first night was like stepping into another world, but slowly they both got used to it.
And the man took the winnings, all of them.
“That’s one,” he said the first time. “Keep going, now.”
And they did.
Tyler had tried to say it should be only him. He’d been driving that night. It was his fault. He’d made the choice to take the car out, he’d missed the turn.
But Noah had interrupted him. “I was talking to you. I was distracting you. You were laughing at something I said when the lights came. If I’d shut up...”
“Don’t,” Tyler snapped. “That’s not—”
“I don’t care. We’re in this together.”
And that was that.
They kept fighting together until the debt was almost paid, until the night Noah would never forget for as long as he lived.
It was supposed to be his fight that night.
Noah had shown up like he always did, knuckles wrapped, long hair up. Just another fight. One more mark toward their freedom.
Then he saw the man.
Tall. Massive. Built like he belonged in a different sport entirely, Noah had height, but this guy had also bulk, huge arms, a neck that looked too thick for his head.
Noah knew he couldn't win.
He glanced at Tyler, who had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, pretending to look bored but clearly watching the guy just as closely. Their eyes met, and it only took that look for Noah to know: Tyler felt it too.
“Noah,” he said, pushing off the wall. “Let me do it.”
“No,” Noah answered immediately. “It’s my turn.”
“You saw him. That guy’s a tank.”
“Exactly. You can't beat him.”
“I’ve trained more the past few weeks. I’ve got a better shot.”
Noah shook his head. “We both know that’s bullshit.”
Dean, one of the guys who ran the place, was checking his clipboard by the ring. “We don’t care which one of you goes up. We just need a fighter for the night.”
Tyler turned to him. “It’s me.”
“No,” Noah snapped. He turned to Dean. “I’m fighting.”
But Tyler was already climbing through the ropes.
He didn’t look back.
Noah stood at the edge of the ring, fists still wrapped, useless at his sides, heart in his throat.
Someone shouted the usual "go!".
It started fast. Tyler dodged the first swing, landed a clean jab to the guy’s ribs, quick and smart. For a second, Noah dared to believe he could actually do it.
But then the guy caught him with a left hook that sent Tyler reeling. Another blow to the stomach folded him over. A third punch, Noah didn't even see where it came from, cracked against his jaw with a sound that silenced the crowd for half a second.
Tyler went down hard.
Noah's scream caught in his throat. He pushed toward the ring, but someone grabbed his shoulder, holding him back.
“Let them finish,” Dean said flatly.
Tyler struggled back to his feet, spitting blood. He was smiling. A weak, defiant thing, but still a smile.
“Is that all you got?” he muttered.
The crowd laughed.
The next hit on his face sent him to the ground like a lifeless toy and didn’t let him get back up. His face was covered in blood. When he fell, he hit his head on the concrete.
Noah broke free and climbed into the ring, dropping to his knees beside Tyler.
Blood was smeared the side of his face, bright against the pale skin, soaking slowly into his shirt.
His eyes were open.
Staring.
But not at Noah. Not at anything.
“Tyler,” Noah breathed, voice cracking. He reached out, hands trembling, fingers brushing Tyler’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey...come on. You’re okay, just...just get up. Please.”
No response.
No flicker of recognition. No movement. Not even a twitch.
Noah’s voice rose. “Tyler,” he said again, louder this time. “Come on, man. Don’t—don’t do this to me.”
He shook him gently, then harder. “Please. Please Ty, say something.”
Nothing.
Panic swelled inside of him. He pressed his hands to Tyler’s chest, to his neck, searching blindly for something, anything. A pulse. A breath. A sign.
There was nothing.
“No,” Noah whispered. “No, no, no, no. Don’t...come on. Wake up. Please, Ty, please—”
His voice broke entirely. A sob ripped from his throat.
He bent over him, tears streaming down his face, landing on Tyler’s motionless chest.
“I need help!” he yelled. “Somebody, please, he’s not breathing! He’s not—!”
But no one moved.
A few people had already started to back away from the edge of the ring. Some were leaving altogether, heads down, eyes averted. Others stared, silent and stunned.
Dean muttered something under his breath and turned, walking away without looking back.
The crowd thinned.
Noah stayed there, shaking, sobbing, hands still tangled in the fabric of Tyler’s shirt, trying to will him back with every breath in his lungs.
But Tyler was gone. And all Noah could do was cry over his dead best friend.
It was his fault. He was the one who had to fight.
He was the one who was supposed to die, that night.
Noah stayed there for what felt like hours.
Kneeling in the ring, cradling Tyler’s broken body, arms wrapped tight around him like he could somehow hold him together if he just held on hard enough. His voice was gone from shouting.
He had to close his eyes with trembling fingers.
No one came to help. No medics. No police.
Eventually, someone from behing him, probably one the organizers of the matches, said, “You can’t stay here.”
Noah didn’t move.
“We can’t call anyone. You know that. No ambulance. No cops.”
When he finally stood, the world felt unreal. Like he was watching himself from somewhere far away.
They gave him black plastic bags.
He couldn’t even remember how he did it. Just that his hands were cold and shaking, as he gently, carefully placed Tyler inside them. Whispering apologies with every movement. Crying so hard he couldn’t see.
They gave him keys to take the only car still parked outside.
And a fucking shovel.
He laid the body in the trunk, cushioned it with blankets and towels from the locker room. Not that it mattered anymore.
And he drove.
For hours.
Out of the city, past the suburbs, onto empty roads that turned into nothing but wild fields and old fences leaning in the dark.
There was no one else. Just Noah.
And Tyler, technically.
He stopped when he couldn’t drive any farther. In the middle of an overgrown clearing, half-wild and full of weeds. There were no lights. No houses for miles.
He opened the trunk.
He whispered, “I’m sorry,” again. Then again. And again.
He carried him out alone.
And he started digging.
The ground was hard. Uneven. It took hours. His hands blistered. His arms burned. He couldn’t stop crying.
And when the hole was deep enough, he climbed out, then he lowered the body down.
Then he covered him. Shovel after shovel of cold earth. Until he was gone.
When it was done, Noah collapsed beside the grave, showel still in his hands, cold against his skin.
He had buried his best friend.
He had buried his brother.
And it was all his fault.
Noah cried at home for an entire week, and eventually, he lost his job.
He couldn’t afford the apartment anymore, so he packed up what little he had and moved out. He kept fighting and he eventually finished paying the debt from the car crash. There was no real relief in it.
And Noah kept fighting.
Because the guilt tore him apart, and because, in some twisted way, he almost hoped that one day, he would end like Tyler, and someone would bring him to that same field and bury him, not knowing that just a few steps away, another body was already there.
Now
Noah was pretty sure he was going to die.
That was the one clear thought that managed to wedge itself into the mess of confusion and heat inside his head. Not really in a dramatic way, not panicked or terrified, just a simple, exhausted conclusion: this is it. His body was shutting down.
He remembered leaving the fight club. He was barely out the door when that guy started yelling at him, furious over the money he’d lost. Noah had ignored him just because he knew that with a single punch, he could’ve dropped him. But then the guy lunged. And before Noah could react, there was a knife buried in his thigh and the bastard was already running away.
He’d made it home, somehow, limping, bleeding, but still on his feet. It was in the hours after that things got worse. The pain sharpened, his leg swelled, and some hours, the fever had set in. That’s when he knew it was infected. And that’s also when he realized, if this was how he was going to die, there was only one place he wanted to be. He just wanted to see you one last time.
He just felt sorry that the chances of you ending up with a dead man in your home were pretty high, and you’d be the one left to deal with it. He knew it was awful, that you didn’t deserve to go through anything even remotely close to what he had.
But just this once, the need to see you one last time won out.
Now, his leg felt like it had been torn apart from the inside, his thoughts kept drifting and scattering, and his body burned with fever even if he kept shivering. At some point, he stopped fighting it. Everything was too much.
It was hard to remember what was real and what wasn’t. But he was pretty sure he was still alive.
There were moments where sound reached him through the fog. The soft rustle of blankets, the clink of glass. A voice. Not just any voice. Yours. Sometimes whispering. Sometimes begging him to stay alive.
Other times, he swore he felt something cool press against his skin. A damp cloth. A hand on his forehead. The sound of water being poured. Once, he thought he heard someone crying, very quietly, and that thought pierced through the haze harder than anything else had. It made him want to move, to say something, but his body refused to cooperate. Even his lips barely worked.
He remembered the pills. Sort of. You said his name, soft and close, and he managed to open his eyes, just barely. Everything was blurry and strange. He couldn’t focus on what you were saying, but he trusted you. So he opened his mouth and swallowed whatever it was you gave him.
The next time his thoughts surfaced, it felt… lighter.
His skin wasn’t crawling anymore. The burning feeling had dimmed just a little. His leg still hurt like hell, but the stabbing, bone-deep kind of pain had faded to something duller. And he realized that he was still breathing. Still alive.
And he knew it was thanks to you.
Noah had been alone before. Really alone. In places where no one gave a shit whether you lived or died. He’d always told himself that didn’t matter. That he didn’t need anyone anymore.
But now, lying there in the warmth of fading fever, your scent still clinging faintly to the pillow near him, and the vague echo of your touch on his arm, he wasn’t sure how to name the feeling. Only that he’d never been more grateful for someone staying, and even if he had died, it would have still happened in a place where, for the first time in years, he felt truly safe.
He woke up without a fever nearly two full days after stepping into your apartment for the first time, though he wouldn’t know just how much time had passed until later.
With some effort, he pushed himself upright on the couch. The world swayed briefly, and then settled. His gaze drifted across the room and found you, standing by the window, your back to him, one hand resting on the windowsill. The window was open now, letting in the soft breeze of a changing season. The cold days were giving way to something milder and warmer.
He watched you in silence for a few seconds, your hair gently stirred by the breeze as you kept staring outside.
Then you turned, probably sensing the movement, and your eyes landed on him.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.
You stared at him in disbelief for a moment. “Hi,” you breathed. “Oh my God. Hi. How do you feel?”
He leaned his head back against the cushion, giving a tired, crooked smile. “Worse than that time a guy punched me in the stomach so hard I threw up for a whole week.”
He waited for your laugh, one of his favorite sounds. It was the kind of thing you usually laughed at. But this time, when he looked at you again, your expression had shifted. Your eyes were glossy, and a single tear slipped down your cheek.
His smile faltered. “Hey,” he said softly. “No. Don’t cry.”
“You scared me,” you whispered.
“Oh no.” He opened one arm, beckoning you gently. “C’mere.”
You didn’t hesitate. You crossed the room in a few quick steps and sank down beside him. You leaned into his side and wrapped your arms around him, your head resting against the curve of his neck.
He closed his arm around you and held you close, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair.
“It’s okay, I'm okay,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
He held you for a long, quiet moment, his breath slow and steady against your hair, his hand gently rubbing your back.
You sniffed once, still pressed against him. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
Noah huffed a breath of tired amusement. “Which part?”
“All of it,” you said without lifting your head. “You’re banned from all near-death experiences while under my roof.”
“Harsh policy,” he murmured.
There was a long silence between you after that.
Eventually, you spoke. “You’re staying here now.”
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to glance down at you. “What?”
“You’re not leaving now.” You leaned back a little, just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re going to stay. At least until you’re actually okay.”
He blinked, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right, or maybe just wasn’t used to anyone telling him that, asking him to stay.
“Is that a request or an order?” he asked, one corner of his mouth twitching.
“Order,” you said without hesitation.
That time, he actually laughed.
“Okay,” he said simply, eyes still on yours.
You exhaled, then you settled against him again, gently, your arm looped loosely around his waist.
He didn’t say anything else. He just let his head fall back against the cushion, his eyes slipping closed, his body finally beginning to relax. And you stayed right there, curled into him, for a while.
That afternoon, Noah finally ate something for the first time in almost two days.
He hadn’t wanted to. You’d tried a few times, gently suggesting, then nudging a little harder, but every time he’d just shaken his head, murmuring that he wasn’t hungry, that his stomach still felt weird, that maybe later. You didn’t push, he was still recovering, after all, but you worried. He needed strength.
So this time, you didn’t ask. You just made it, even if you had no idea what someone who had been stabbed and nearly died from infection could eat.
A simple soup, warm and light, simmered slowly on the stove with vegetables and some shredded chicken. The scent drifted into the living room, and eventually you noticed his eyes following you as you moved between the kitchen and the couch. When you returned with a bowl, you saw the way his gaze lingered on the steam curling upward.
“I’m not hungry,” he said out of habit, not even sounding convinced himself.
You didn’t argue. You just handed him the bowl and sat down beside him. “You don’t have to eat all of it,” you said. “Just try.”
For a second, he hesitated. Then he sighed, defeated. He took the bowl carefully and dipped the spoon in.
He didn’t finish the bowl, but he ate more than you expected, and he accepted a piece of bread from you too, tearing off small bits and dipping them into the broth without comment.
When he was done, he leaned back with a quiet sigh and set the empty bowl on the coffee table.
“That was good,” he admitted, “You make good hospital meals.”
You chuckled. “When you’re better, I’ll make you something actually good.”
He gave a slow, tired grin. “Don’t worry. That soup was better than anything I’ve eaten in the past few years.”
There was a small pause, and then he glanced around the room like something had just occurred to him.
“Wait...where’s your boyfriend?”
You hesitated only a beat. “We broke up. He cheated.”
Noah’s expression shifted. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said. And you meant it.
He let the silence settle for a few moments, then looked around again, this time with a softer expression.
“You’ve got a nice place.”
You shrugged a little. “It’s just a house.”
He gave a slow nod. “Yeah. I know.”
You wondered when was the last time someone had taken care of him. The last time he’d sat in a real house, with warm light and the smell of food in the air, and someone nearby who gave a damn if he was breathing or not.
You didn’t say anything else.
Some hours later, after tending to Noah’s wound once more, carefully cleaning it, relieved to see that it was already starting to look a little better, you told him you wanted to go back to the building where he’d been staying, to take his things, just a quick run.
He didn’t have much. But there was one gym bag, half-zipped, with most of his clothes inside and other personal belongings he needed.
And you thought it might be useful for him to have a change of clothes in addition to the hoodie and two t-shirts you'd decided to keep after you'd filled a suitcase with Kole's things and left it outside the door.
When you stepped into the old building, you were relieved to find the front entrance still ajar, so at least you didn't have to climb on a trash bin again. The door creaked as you pushed it open, the rusted hinges groaning softly, and you slipped inside with cautious steps.
Noah’s things were still where he’d left them, you crossed over and crouched down, gathering up the worn shirts, a couple pairs of old jeans, some socks and boxers on the mattress. You found a hoodie tucked behind a broken crate and added it to the pile, then stuffed everything into his gym bag. You zipped it closed and stood, brushing your hands on your jeans.
You were just turning to leave when you heard it: a small, soft meow behind you.
You froze for a second, then looked down. At your feet, a tiny white kitten rubbed against your ankle, tail flicking in the dust, bright eyes blinking up at you. Her fur was messy, but she looked healthy enough.
“Hi Alpine,” you said.
She meowed again, louder this time, and leaned into your leg like she remembered you too. You crouched slowly and held out your hand, letting her sniff your fingers before you gently stroked her head.
“Hey, baby,” you said softly, your voice lifting into a coo without thinking. “You miss Noah?”
Meow.
She followed you as you walked toward the door, her little paws patting quietly behind you. You glanced back, and she paused, looking up at you expectantly.
“You wanna come with me? Wanna say hi to Noah again?” you asked. “Come on, then.”
You held the door open and Alpine trotted through without hesitation, tail high. You slung Noah’s bag over your shoulder, gave one last glance at the empty room, then stepped out into the fading afternoon light with the kitten.
You were halfway to your car, when the sound of a creaky door swinging open made you pause and glance back.
From the door of one of the houses there, two small figures stepped outside, running and laughing. You recognized them instantly.
"We know you!" Miles said, when they reached you, fixing the red baseball hat he was wearing one his head.
“You’re Noah’s.... friend!” Theo added. For a moment you thought he was about to say something else.
You smiled. “Yeah. Hi guys.”
“Where is he?” Theo asked.
“He’s at my place,” you said gently. “He wasn’t feeling very good, so I’m helping take care of him.”
Miles frowned a little, his gaze dropping to the gym bag. “He’s not coming back?”
You knelt down a little, adjusting the strap on your shoulder and meeting them at eye level. “For now, he’s gonna stay with me. He needs rest.”
Theo shuffled his foot in the dust. “He didn’t say bye.”
“Oh, I know,” you said softly. “It wasn’t because he didn’t want to. He just… wasn’t doing good. Leaving was a last minute decision. I promise he'll be back. That we'll come back to see you guys, okay?”
Miles nodded.
There was a small pause before Theo tilted his head and asked, “You think he’ll be okay?”
“I think he’s going to be more than okay,” you said. “He'll just need a little help getting there.”
The boys nodded again and Theo reached down and scratched Alpine’s head when she returned to circle your ankles.
“Tell him we said hi?” Miles asked.
“I will,” you promised.
You noticed there was a hole near the elbow of Theo’s sleeve, frayed and soft like it had been there a while. His hoodie was too big on him, probably a hand-me-down from his brother. Miles’s shoes were scuffed, one lace knotted where it had snapped and been tied back together.
You already knew this wasn’t the wealthiest part of town, everything there made that obvious, but noticing their worn clothes made you think.
Noah had told you a little about them once. He’d said their mom worked long hours doing cleaning jobs, that she didn’t earn much, and their dad had been gone for years. Said she was always tired but kind, and sometimes she’d knock on Noah’s door with a Tupperware container, using the excuse that she’d made too much dinner. “Too much pasta,” she’d said, or “too many cookies.” But it was never too much, she just didn’t want him going to bed hungry.
You wondered if they had everything two kids might need, like school notebooks, markers that still worked, warm jackets for winter, socks without holes, enough lunch for school days, backpacks that didn’t fall apart, bandaids with cartoons on them.
You wondered if their mom could afford medicine when they got sick, if she had money set aside for emergencies, if she could keep up with rent and utilities and taxes without skipping meals, if she ever had to choose between buying school supplies or paying the heating bill.
You promised yourself you would come back for them. For those kids, and for their mother. You’d bring something warm and check on them. A tray of lasagna, maybe. A cake. Cookies, if you could get the recipe right. Something that smelled like someone out there saw them, thought they deserved good things and wanted to help.
You reached out and touched Miles’s shoulder gently, “Take care of each other, okay?”
He nodded, a little smile on his lips.
You said bye and they watched as you opened the car door, Alpine hopping in like she knew you were bringing her where Noah was. You slid the gym bag onto the passenger seat and gave the boys one last wave and a smile before starting the engine.
When it was just the two of them left, Theo looked up at his brother.
“You think they’re not together yet?”
“I don’t know. They live together. Isn’t that what couples do?”
“I don’t know. Adults are weird.”
“Yeah.”
Back at home, you barely had time to set the gym bag down before Alpine darted inside, her tiny paws making soft pattering sounds against the floor as she bounded through the hallway like she knew exactly where to go.
“Noah, we have a guest!” you called lightly, already smiling.
From the living room, you heard the rustle of blankets, then a surprised huff. “What the—”
Alpine launched herself onto the couch with surprising agility, landing directly on Noah’s chest.
“Oh, look who we have here!” he said, half-laughing as she climbed up toward his shoulder, purring loudly. “Did you miss me this much?”
Alpine answered with another meow, then rubbed her face under his chin.
You stood in the doorway, watching them with a warm little laugh. “She followed me out of that place like she’d been waiting for an Uber to leave.”
Noah chuckled, scratching her behind the ears.
“She definitely missed you.” You added.
“Yeah. I missed her too.”
You didn’t say anything else, you just started taking his clothes from his bag, ready to throw all of them in the washing machine.
As you started pulling them out, something crinkled beneath a balled-up hoodie. You frowned and reached in again, fingers brushing over what felt like paper. When you drew it out, it was a worn, crumpled photograph, creased at the corners.
You smoothed it open gently.
It was Noah. Younger, with longer hair falling way past his shoulders. He was standing beside another guy, someone you didn’t recognize. He had sandy, almost golden hair, a face full of freckles, and a grin that stretched across the whole picture. He had one arm slung around Noah’s shoulders, casual and close. They both looked happy.
You stared at it for a moment, then walked quietly back into the living room, photo in hand.
“Hey,” you said, “you told me you didn’t have any photos from when you had long hair.”
Alpine was off exploring now, pawing curiously at the edge of a blanket on the floor. Noah looked up at the sound of your voice, then he saw what you were holding. His expression froze.
“I forgot I had that,” he said after a moment he spent staring at it. But it didn’t sound right. Not even a little.
You sat down next to him on the couch, the photo still in your hand. “Who is he?”
Noah exhaled slowly and dragged a hand over his face. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes didn’t meet yours.
“Noah?”
“That’s Tyler,” he said quietly. “He's… he was my best friend."
He still wouldn’t look at you.
“We grew up together. He was the first person who ever wanted to be my friend.”
He paused. His next words were quieter.
“Until I let him die.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Noah, you dont have to–”
“No, you deserve to know.”
You reached out, gently, but he didn’t react. His jaw was tight, his voice trembling now.
“There was this accident. We hit a car. Nothing fatal, not then. But the guy who hit us, he threatened to report us, ruin us unless we did what he said. He knew people who ran these underground fights. Paid cash. We were broke. We were stupid. So we went, to pay our debt.”
Noah’s voice broke. A shallow, shaking breath left him as he finally blinked, and tears slid silently down his cheeks.
“It was supposed to be me that night,” he whispered. “The guy I was supposed to fight… he was.....I knew I couldn’t win. Tyler knew it too. He said he’d take the match. Said he had a better shot. We argued. I told him no. But he didn’t listen.”
He wiped at his face roughly with the back of his hand, but the tears kept coming.
“I let him go in anyway. I could’ve stopped him. I should have stopped him. And then he went in and… he never got back up.”
He paused again. Then: “He died right there. In front of me. I couldn’t do anything. I didn't do anything—”
The words hitched. A ragged sob escaped before he caught it in the back of his throat. His hands came up to his face, covering his eyes like if he just pressed hard enough, maybe the memories would disappear.
“I had to bury him,” he said, voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Out in the middle of the fucking nowhere. No funeral. No anything. I dug a hole and… I put my best friend in the ground. I had to bury him.”
Noah finally looked at you. His eyes were red, his face streaked with tears.
“I should’ve died that night."
His voice cracked, and another tear fell.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it. For not telling you you're keeping a monster in your house. For still breathing when he’s not.”
His shoulders began to shake as he buried his face in his hands, his hair falling forward to hide him completely. He sat beside you on the couch, crying silently.
You wondered if it had happened many times before, in the building where he lived, if he had spent nights sobbing into a mattress, convinced it was all his fault, or if he had held everything in for so long that this was the first time he was finally letting it out.
And in that moment, you finally understood why he kept fighting.
Why he pushed himself so hard. Why he never let himself stop, never let himself breathe. Why he believed he deserved that life and didn't want any way out.
Because his best friend had died. Because he thought it was his fault.
Because he had watched the person he loved most in the world die in front of him, and there was no one there to help him survive that kind of grief.
So he turned it inward. Let it rot inside him and blamed himself.
He was just a boy when it happened. That was the thought echoing in your head.
From the bits and pieces of his life you knew, his friend's death must have happened about five years earlier, so Noah must have been around twenty-four at the time.
So, just a boy.
A boy who hadn’t deserved any of it.
Not the accident. Not the guilt. Not the years of punishing himself over and over again.
He needed someone. He had needed someone back then, and he still did now.
You didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned in and wrapped your arms around him, holding him as tightly as you could.
He didn’t fight it. He didn’t even flinch when you touched him.
You held him through it. Through every choked sob, through every tremor in his shoulders, through every whispered apology he tried to make to a ghost that would never answer.
It broke your heart seeing his pretty brown eyes all red and swollen from crying, rimmed with tears he wasn't even tried to hide anymore.
“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, again and again, your voice soft against his hair as he kept his head on your chest. “Noah, it’s not your fault.”
He shook his head. He didn’t believe you.
But you kept saying it anyway.
You told him he wasn’t a monster.
That he wasn’t broken beyond repair.
That he didn’t have to keep punishing himself for something he couldn’t have stopped.
That he had a kind of heart that could still break for someone he lost, even after all this time, and that meant he had so much good in him.
You stayed like that for a long time, neither of you saying much else.
You kept tracing imaginary drawings with your fingertips on his arm, where his sleeve was rolled up, and you didn’t move until the sky outside turned dark, and the house fell quiet around you.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
Tw: cheating, very gross descriptions of infected wounds, nightmares
Series mastelist
You weren’t supposed to be home this early.
Jolly had called that morning to cancel last minute, saying something about an emergency. He was okay, but he just couldn't come to the tattoo shop that afternoon.
So with no clients left for the day, you and Nick had closed up the shop early. It felt almost weird, leaving with daylight still spilling over the sidewalks. You even stopped for a coffee on the way home, thinking you might actually have a rare evening to yourself.
You had been talking with Amber for a few days about what to do with Kole. You had made up your mind: it was time to break up with him, to tell him that things weren’t like they used to be. You both had different interests now, different paths to follow, and it was clear your relationship wasn’t what it was back when you first got together, when everything felt easy.
Amber seemed genuinely happy about your decision, and she reminded you with a smirk that, sooner or later, she wanted to meet Noah.
You unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, kicking off your boots. The place was quiet, mostly. You could hear Kole’s voice coming from your shared bedroom.
At first you thought he was on the phone. He had that voice he used when he was trying to be charming and funny.
Then you heard her.
A woman’s laugh. Light, casual. Close.
You froze in the hallway.
There was no way.
You walked farther in, slowly. Your brain kept offering rational explanations, maybe it was the TV, maybe it was a friend, maybe...
But then you turned the corner and saw them.
Your bedroom door was half open, and Kole was inside, sitting on the bed. Shirtless. A girl was with him, long curly hair falling down her back, one of your oversized t-shirts hanging loosely off her shoulder. She was laughing at something he’d just said.
And for a second, you didn’t move.
Then, you pushed the door open all the way.
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
She jumped, scrambling to grab her bag from the floor.
You didn’t even look at her. Your eyes were on Kole, and something about your tone must’ve finally registered, because he stood up fast.
“Wait. Baby, it’s not...” he started.
“This goes for you too,” you snapped, cutting him off. “Get the fuck out.”
The girl brushed past you, not saying anything, not meeting your eyes. She was gone within seconds, the sound of the front door shutting hard behind her.
Great, she also left wearing your t-shirt.
Kole ran a hand through his hair. “Can we just...can we talk about this for a second?”
You laughed. “Talk about what, Kole? The part where you brought some girl into my bed? Or the part where I was literally on my way home to try and break up with you in the nicest way possible and you did... this?”
He winced. “I made a mistake, okay? She just—”
“She just what?” you cut in, stepping forward. “Fell into your lap? Accidentally unzipped your pants and sucked your dick? You’re such a piece of shit.”
He looked hurt, like you were the one being unfair. “I
fucked up, okay? I know I did. But I love you.”
You stared at him.
“I spent the past week trying to figure out how to let you down gently,” you said. “I was trying to be kind. Because after all, I still cared about you.”
You shook your head. “You don’t deserve it.”
“Baby, come on—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snapped. “You can go fuck yourself. Or better yet, go call curly-hair and fuck her. Just not in my bed.”
Kole didn’t move.
You pointed to the door. “Now.”
He stared at you, looking like he was about to say something else. But whatever comeback he had died in his throat.
Finally, he took his shirt from the floor and shoved it over his head.
And then he walked out, quickly grabbing his jacket and phone before slamming the door behind him.
You looked at your bed, at the dent his weight had left on the covers, and for a second, you almost cried.
But you didn’t. You just sat down on the edge of the mattress, elbows on your knees, and breathed.
Let him be someone else’s problem now.
You were done.
You stayed in bed for what felt like hours.
Not sleeping. Not crying.
Just lying there, still dressed, staring at the ceiling.
Eventually, you reached for your phone.
You opened your messages and typed without really thinking:
You: Kole brought a girl into my bed. I kicked him out.
It only took her a few seconds to reply.
Amber: Holy shit
Amber: Are you okay??
You hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the screen, trying to decide how honest to be.
Then you answered:
You: Honestly… I thought I’d feel worse.
There was a pause. Then the screen lit up again.
Amber: At least that’s one less problem to deal with.
Amber: Want me to come over? We can eat ice cream and watch cartoons.
You smiled faintly. It was the first real smile you’d had since you walked through the door.
You: I’m okay. Really. I feel… free, actually.
Another pause. You could almost feel her side-eye through the phone.
Amber: Free to be with Noah?
You let out a soft snort and typed back.
You: Slow down.
Amber: What?
Amber: You love him.
Amber: And you’re single now.
You rolled onto your back
You: AMBER
Amber: I’m just saying. Tell him before he smashes his head in a match and forgets you exist.
You chuckled.
You: I’ll think about what to do, okay?
Amber: Mhmm.
Amber: Just don’t wait too long.
You: Goodnight, dumbass.
Amber: night night :)
You set the phone down on your chest and stared at the ceiling again, but this time it felt lighter.
After a while, you got up.
You peeled off your clothes and changed into something more comfortable, a faded band tee that had been washed so many times the print was barely visible, and a pair of old sweatpants.
You padded back through the apartment, the floor cool under your feet, and you crawled back into bed, tugging the blanket up over your legs.
And when you closed your eyes, you weren’t thinking about Kole.
Not even a little.
Because Kole had promised you love, and yet he’d left you alone. Noah had promised you nothing, and still, he was always on your mind.
Maybe that was the paradox: the one who had never said “I love you” made you feel happier than the one who said it a thousand times.
You woke to darkness.
You blinked at the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock.
2:25 a.m.
A small, selfish relief bloomed in your chest, because that meant you could sleep for a few hours more.
Then you heard it.
A sound.
Something shifting outside your front door.
At first, you thought it was one of the strays. There were a few cats in the area that you sometimes fed when they passed by. One of them had knocked over a planter last week. Probably the same thing now.
You closed your eyes again.
But then came the footsteps. Slow. Uneven.
Then came the knock. Not loud, but definitely a knock.
Your stomach dropped.
Kole.
It had to be Kole. He'd done this before, knocking at your door in the middle of the night with drunk apologies, dramatic speeches and promises he’d forget the next morning. You pushed the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, your throat ready to fire off a “go to hell” before he could say a word.
You opened the door.
And froze.
“Noah?”
He looked like he might collapse right there in your doorway.
He was wearing one of his usual black hoodies and black pants, and he was gripping the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
His skin was pale, a sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing was too fast, his shoulders rising and falling like he’d run a mile. His brown eyes were glassy and unfocused.
“Hi,” he mumbled. “I... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I didn't... I didn't know what to do, I just—”
“Oh my god. Noah. What the hell happened to you?” You stepped forward without thinking, your arm already sliding around his waist. He flinched slightly when you touched him, but didn’t pull away. His body was too warm. Burning up.
He didn’t answer, just let you guide him, stumbling inside.
You half-carried him to the couch, his weight sagging against you. Every step made him groan. You could barely get him onto the cushions before he dropped with a sound that made your stomach twist.
He hissed through his teeth, trying to shift, but even that seemed to take more strength than he had.
You knelt beside him.
Your voice cracked as you spoke. “Noah, what happened to you?”
He didn’t answer. He just let out a shaky breath, eyes half-closed, then dropped his hand heavily to his leg, clutching at his thigh. His fingers curled tight, his jaw clenched.
Your gaze followed the movement, your fingers already brushing his leg. “I’m gonna look, okay?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.
He didn’t protest.
With delicate hands, you reached for the cuff of his pants and slowly rolled the fabric up, inch by inch, trying not to jostle him too much. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, his hand gripping the armrest until his knuckles turned white.
Then you saw it.
A thick bandage wrapped hastily around his upper thigh, already stained through with something dark and sick.
You imagined Noah, in the abandoned building where he had taken refuge long ago, sitting on the floor, his back against the cold concrete, hands trembling as he tried to bandage his leg as best he could, no medical kit, no one to offer their help.
You bit your lip and carefully began to unwind it. It peeled away slowly, sticking in places.
And then the wound came into view.
You froze.
A deep gash ran along the muscle of his thigh. The skin around it was red, swollen and inflamed. From the wound oozed thick yellow-green pus. It smelled sharp and rotten, the kind of smell that made your stomach turn.
His skin around it was stretched tight, shiny, too warm to the touch.
Your chest felt like it was caving in.
“Noah…” you breathed.
“They... they kind of stabbed me,” he muttered, his voice low.
'Kind of', really?
“Last night. After a match. Said I cost them money. Because I won. They didn't think I would.”
“Jesus Christ. Noah. It's been more than a full day. It wasn't cleaned well. Or the knife was dirty. It’s infected.”
“I know.” He leaned his head back against the couch. “Can’t go to the hospital. You know I can’t.”
A wave of helplessness washed over you. You stared at the mess on his leg, at the pain painted on his face. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. Instead, you whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”
He looked at you then, eyelids heavy, pupils a little too dilated. “You always know what to do.”
Then his eyes fluttered shut.
“No, no, no,” you said quickly, placing your hand on his cheek, warm and burning under your palm. “Stay with me. Open your eyes, Noah.”
“Mmh. Yeah,” he mumbled, breath shallow. “Still here.”
“Okay,” you said, nodding, though your heart was hammering. “We need to clean it. You need... you need real help. Antibiotics. Something. And I don't have...”
You blinked, and suddenly something clicked.
Kole.
Kole had been sick two months ago, a pretty bad bronchitis. The doctor had prescribed him antibiotics, but he’d quit after two days because they made him too nauseous. He’d switched to something else.
Which meant he hadn’t finished the first course.
He’d left them.
You shot to your feet.
“Noah. Look at me.” You leaned close, gripping his shoulder gently. “I think I have something that can help. I think...yeah. I’ve got Augmentin. It’s for infections. I think... I'm sure it can help.”
He barely nodded, lips dry, blinking slowly. “Okay.”
You ran to the bathroom.
The cabinet was chaos within seconds. You dumped every bottle, every box, every crumpled blister pack onto the floor. Your fingers tore through everything, heart pounding like a drum in your ears, until you found it. A small orange pill bottle. White label, Kole’s name on it.
Augmentin. 875mg.
You popped the cap and stared inside. At least a dozen pills. Maybe more. Still good.
You grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and rushed back into the living room.
He was half-conscious on the couch, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.
“Noah,” you said gently, dropping to your knees. “You have to take this. Just one now, then another in eight hours.”
He blinked again. Nodded faintly.
You helped him taking the pill and brought the glass to his lips. He swallowed it, the motion making him wince. He coughed once after, then leaned his head back with a groan, shivering.
You looked down at his leg.
At what you’d have to do next.
And you weren’t ready.
You grabbed all the things you needed after doing some google research, hoping it was right, along with a bowl of water you’d boiled and then cooled.
Noah lay limp, sunk into the cushions, his breaths shallow and labored. His eyes were mostly closed, lips pale, damp hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. One arm hung loosely at his side, the other resting on the couch like it was too heavy to lift.
You dropped to your knees beside him again. “Noah,” you said softly, but firmly, “I need to clean the wound now, okay? It’s going to hurt.”
His eyes flickered open, barely, and he gave a small nod, then turned his face into the couch like he didn’t want you to see whatever would come next.
You pulled on the gloves with a snap, wincing at the sound in the otherwise silent apartment.
You started by touching gently around the swollen, angry flesh. Noah tensed instantly. His whole leg jerked.
“Fuck.” He said in a broken voice that physically hurt you.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry. We have to clean it, Noah. It’s full of pus. It’s going to get worse if I don’t.”
He didn’t answer, just clenched his jaw so tight you could see the muscle jumping under his skin.
You kept going, more as gentle as you could, and thick, hot pus began to ooze from the gash. The smell hit you like a punch in the face, and you turned your head, fighting nausea.
Noah let out a low groan and tried to twist away from you. You reached out quickly and pressed your hand to his knee to keep him steady.
“I know, I know,” you whispered again. “You’re okay. I'm so sorry.”
He wasn’t. He was burning up. He was panting now.
When the pus stopped flowing, you grabbed a clean gauze pad, dipped it into the saline, and began rinsing the area. The water ran down his leg, pink and cloudy.
He hissed. “Shit.” He arched his back off the couch as you worked, a cry escaping his throat before he could stop it.
Tears pricked your eyes. You weren’t even the one feeling the pain, but watching him like this hurt more than anything.
“I’m sorry, Noah. Please hold on.”
“Hurts,” he gasped out.
“I know,” you said again. “I know. You’re doing so good.”
He flinched violently with every touch as you kept cleaning it, dabbing it with another clean cloth, even the lightest one. His breath came in sharp, short gasps.
“I’m done. Almost done,” you said, not sure if it was for him or for you.
You dried the area carefully, barely brushing it with sterile gauze, then laid a clean pad over the wound, loose, breathable, enough to protect without suffocating it. You taped it down gently.
When you looked at him again, his face was slick with sweat. He was shaking from head to toe, teeth clenched so tight his jaw was trembling.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, pulling the gloves off and tossing them aside. “Noah, I’m so sorry.”
His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but he managed to find your face.
“It’s done,” you murmured softly, brushing your fingers down his shin in a motion that wasn’t quite medical anymore. “I finished. It’s over. I promise you're not gonna die in my house. I'm not gonna let you die.”
And you were not. You were hoping the antibiotics and cleaning the wound every few hours would be enough. But deep down, you knew that if by tomorrow there weren’t any signs of improvement, if the swelling didn’t go down, if the color stayed that awful red, you would take him to the hospital. Even if it meant going against his will. You were already rehearsing what you’d say: that someone had attacked him, that he was homeless, that he needed help. That no, he didn’t have insurance, he didn’t have money, but you would cover the costs.
You’d do it without hesitation.
What you weren’t sure of was how you’d get him there. There was no way you could carry him to the car, not with how weak he was, and with the fact that he might try to fight you, and not on your own. You considered asking your neighbor, just for a second. He was a quiet man, mostly kept to himself, but maybe he’d help. Or maybe he’d call the cops the moment he saw Noah. You had no idea.
God, anything but losing him. You couldn’t bear the thought.
If the infection reached his bloodstream, if it turned to sepsis...
You stopped yourself. You didn’t want to go there.
At your words, his whole body seemed to deflate. The tension drained from his muscles, a small, broken sound catching in his throat, half-sigh, half-whimper.
His eyelids fluttered. “Thank you.” he whispered, so quiet you barely heard him.
You took his arm and helped him lay down on the couch, he let out a low, exhausted groan and turned his face further into the cushion.
You sat there for a moment, on your knees beside him.
Then, carefully, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his temple.
A soft kiss, barely there. His skin was burning, feverish, damp with sweat. You lingered for a second longer, your mouth resting against his hairline, breathing him in.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered into his skin. “You’re safe.”
Your hand moved gently to his face, brushing damp strands of hair back from his forehead. They clung to your fingers as you smoothed them away.
Your palm rested lightly against his cheek. His skin was warm and a little clammy, but it felt like it was not as hot as before. Maybe the pill was already starting to do something, or maybe that was just blind hope talking.
You stayed like that for a while, kneeling there beside him, your hand in his hair, gently stroking it back in slow, comforting motions. He didn’t speak again.
And then, after a few minutes, you noticed his breathing had evened out.
Slow. Deep. Rhythmic.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, his lips slightly parted, brow relaxed for the first time since he walked in. His lashes lay soft against his cheeks and his chest rose and fell in steady waves.
He’d fallen asleep.
He was still shivering, so you reached down and tugged the blanket from the back of the couch and pulled it over him, careful not to disturb the leg.
You stayed there, sitting quietly at the foot of the couch, your legs folded beneath you, too scared to move or leave, as you watched him sleep.
The fever hadn't broken yet, but at least he was resting. That had to mean something.
While you stayed there beside him, your eyes drifted toward the window, in the dark. There were no cars parked out front except your own. Not a single one. You knew Noah didn’t own a car, and his neighbor’s car wasn’t there, and even if he had tried to drive in that condition, he probably would have crashed anyway.
He must have taken the bus.
That realization hurt. He had boarded public transportation, traveled across the city with a raging fever and an infected wound slowly eating away at his leg. He had done it all alone.
It would have taken him at least an hour and a half to get there, maybe more, and almost certainly required him to switch lines somewhere along the way. Navigating transfers and unfamiliar stops, surrounded by strangers, all while his body was barely holding itself together.
The thought of him, sitting hunched over on a cold plastic bus seat, shivering, sweating, as his vision blurred almost made you cry.
And all you could think, all you could feel, was an overwhelming, aching need to hold him into your arms and never let him go. To hold him until the fever broke, until the fear faded. To run your fingers through his hair and promise him, over and over, that he wasn’t alone anymore. That he never had to do something like that again. That he could stay, there, with you, for as long as he needed. Days, months, years… forever, if he wanted.
Because you loved him.
And in that moment, more than anything, you just wanted him to know that.
Minutes passed, maybe ten, maybe twenty, you weren’t sure. You barely blinked, afraid to take your eyes off him for more than a second. And then he moved.
A small shift at first, barely more than a stir. Then his hand twitched, arm sliding forward across the couch in a slow, searching motion. His eyes didn’t open. His brow pinched faintly like something in his dream was bothering him, his body restless under the blanket.
You straightened instinctively, leaning toward him. “Noah?” you asked softly, your heart jumping. “I’m here. What is it? Are you okay?”
No answer. Just his hand, moving again, this time more insistently, palm dragging across the edge of the cushion, reaching… for something.
For you.
You blinked, unsure, until his fingers found yours where they rested on your knee.
And then, gently, he curled them around your hand.
He brought it to his chest, slow and shaky, until your palm was resting against the warm fabric of his shirt, over the beat of his heart.
“Oh, Noah,” you breathed.
Your heart broke a little.
But soon, the floor started digging nto your knees, your back stiff from being hunched over for so long. You shifted slightly, and Noah made a small, distressed sound in his sleep, a faint whimper, like something inside him registered the change, the slight withdrawal.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered quickly, brushing your thumb across his knuckles. “I just...let’s get a little more comfortable, okay?”
You tried to ease your hand from his grip, but his fingers clung tighter with a faint, unconscious noise of protest.
“Just a second,” you soothed, leaning in. “I promise.”
You moved with care, slow, climbing gently onto the couch beside him.
Then you reached for the pillow beneath his head, lifting it with one hand as you slid yourself into its place. You settled back, and lowered his head carefully into your lap. He murmured something incoherent, the sound low and contented, and let himself sink into the new position without protest.
Only then did you reach for his hand again, pressing it gently back against his chest.
He made another small noise, softer this time, almost like a sigh. A sound of comfort.
You smiled faintly. “There,” you murmured. “Better?”
He didn’t answer, but the way his body relaxed against yours said enough.
With your free hand, you reached up and brushed his damp hair from his forehead again, fingers threading slowly through the strands.
You let your hand trail from his temple down the curve of his brow, across the bridge of his nose. Your fingertips skimmed the soft skin beneath his eyes, then traced the faint stubble along his jaw, the line of his throat.
Your touch slowed at his neck, right where the ink began.
You followed the sweep of the tattoo, outlining the familiar shapes you’d seen many times but never touched like this.
And you stayed like that, his head in your lap, your fingers drawing quiet paths along his skin. Holding him as gently as you could.
You woke to the sound of his voice, just a low murmur, when the first rays of the rising sun began to filter through the living room window. Your neck ached from the awkward angle, but your hand was still in his, your other arm curled protectively near his chest. You blinked, disoriented.
“Noah?” you whispered, voice rough.
Then you heard it clearly.
“I should’ve died."
Your whole body went still.
"It should’ve been me.”
His forehead burned under your touch, hotter than before. It was too soon for another pill. Barely three hours since the first dose. Not long enough.
“Noah,” you said gently, brushing his hair back, “hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”
But he wasn’t hearing you. His eyes weren’t open. His lips were parted, breathing fast, mumbling between gasps.
Suddenly, he twitched, his body, and his leg, jerked, just slightly, but the movement dragged a strangled sound of pain from his throat.
You immediately pressed your hand down gently on his thigh, steadying him.
“Don’t move,” you whispered. “You’ll hurt yourself more."
“I killed him,” he whispered, pained, without giving any sign of understanding what you had said. “I—he’s dead. It’s my fault.”
You sat up straighter, a chill running down your spine.
“What?” you asked softly. “Noah, what are you talking about?”
But he kept going, more frantic now. “Should’ve been me. I was supposed to... I killed him."
You cupped his face carefully. His skin was clammy and flushed, trembling under your palm.
“Noah, who? Who are you talking about?”
He shuddered. “I killed him,” he choked out.
A knot twisted in your stomach.
“Noah,” you tried again, “You didn’t kill anyone. You’re just... it's a nightmare. It’s the fever. You’re okay.”
"I... killed him." He kept repeating.
“Shh,” you said gently, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “It’s okay."
Eventually, he stilled. His breathing began to slow. His hand, still holding yours, loosened just slightly. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His brow unknotted.
He slipped back into unconsciousness.
You sat there, staring down at him, heart still hammering.
The room was quiet again. But nothing inside you was.
Because now you were left with a thousand unspoken questions.
You brushed your fingers over his temple again, wondering if it was true, if he had really killed someone. If it was a nightmare or a memory.
You sat there long after he’d gone quiet, the words still echoing in your head.
“I killed him.”
It could’ve been the fever. A nightmare. Just fragments of pain and memory colliding in a mind too exhausted to tell the difference. But the way he said it, it didn’t feel like just a dream.
You didn’t know the full story of his past, but you knew enough to know it hadn’t been easy.
Maybe it had been self-defense. Maybe an accident. Maybe something worse. Or maybe it never happened at all.
You didn’t know the truth. Not yet. But you knew one thing: if he had done something, he had lived with it alone for too long. And whether it was guilt or fear or a twisted memory, you wouldn’t let him carry it by himself anymore.
Hours later, when the clock on the wall told you it had been nearly eight hours since you’d given him the first dose of Augmentin, you were still next to him. His breathing was still slow, steady, but his body remained limp. He hadn’t stirred much, drifting in and out of deep, fevered sleep.
You reached for the pill bottle again. Carefully, you picked one out, holding it up to the light, then brought it to his lips.
“Noah,” you whispered softly, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open just a little, glazed and unfocused, but he understood. His lips parted, barely audible as he murmured something you couldn’t quite catch, but he swallowed the pill without resistance when you brought a glass of water to his mouth.
You settled back beside him, your fingers tracing gentle, comforting circles on his arm. Hours passed slowly, and you stayed close, watching for any sign of change.
Then, as the afternoon light grew warmer, you started noticing it: the fever was breaking. His forehead, once burning hot to your touch, was now a bit cooler. You have never felt so relieved as you did in that moment.
You carefully cleaned the wound on his leg again, this time with less pus escaping, but still pretty swollen. Noah let out a few low, pained groans, but nothing like the first time. You whispered soothing words as you worked with the sterile gauze and saline.
As evening approached, there was a soft knock at the door, and this time you were sure it was Amber.
You had talked with her on the phone in the morning and she had promised to come by, bringing some groceries, medicine, anything else you might need to help take care of Noah. And she also just wanted to see you and make sure you were okay.
You opened the door to find her standing there with a warm smile and two bags filled with food, vitamins, and a small box of wound care supplies.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “How’s he doing?”
“Better,” you replied, stepping aside to let her in. “The fever’s starting to go down.”
Amber set the bags on the bigger table in the livingroom, then sat down beside you.
You smiled faintly to your friend. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“We can’t let your new boyfriend die before I even get a chance to talk to him, right?”
You let out a small laugh, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Amber raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. “Whatever he is...mysterious underground fighter, patient zero, random handsome man almost dying on your couch...I wasn’t going to let you deal with it all alone.”
“Thank you, Amber. Really.”
Amber leaned back in her chair, looking at Noah. “I just... I kind of hoped the first time I met him in person would’ve been under different circumstances.”
"Yeah, me too."
Amber nudged your knee gently with hers. “He’s totally your type, by the way.”
You groaned softly and gave her a look. “Don’t start.”
She held up her hands, laughing quietly. “I’m just saying, he’s pretty. And I can see it too. The two of you. Together. You would look cute.”
You shook your head, but couldn’t suppress the smile that crept onto your face. “Thanks for the blessing, I guess.”
After a moment of silence, she spoke again. “Anytime. But seriously, you look exhausted. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve been running on instinct and adrenaline for like... twenty-four hours. Every time he breathes a little more clearly, I feel like I can exhale again. But it’s all still too close. Too recent.”
She nodded, serious now. “That’s a lot. With Kole, and then Noah... I'm sure it was not super easy.”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “But I think... if he keeps improving, maybe I’ll be able to sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time.”
“I brought chamomile tea,” Amber said, nudging one of the bags. “And those little granola bars you like. Oh, and cold packs. In case he spikes again.”
You nodded. "Thank you."
“Tell your hot coma boyfriend,” she said, smirking. “That your amazing, funny and extremely kind bestie, helped keeping him alive, when he’s awake.”
You chuckled, "I'll try to remember that."
You and Amber kept talking for a while, your voices low and careful so as not to disturb Noah's sleep, and you made tea for both of you.
“So,” you asked casually at some point, “what are you doing later this afternoon?”
Amber tilted her head like she had to think about it, though you could tell she already had an answer. “Might stop by the record shop.”
“Didn’t you go last week?”
“Yeah,” she said, nonchalant. “But I want to go again.”
You sipped your tea slowly. “Something new come out?”
“No,” she said, “I just… felt like going.”
You narrowed your eyes, watching her carefully for a beat.
“You’re hiding something,” you said, setting your cup down. “I know that face. That’s your ‘I’m hiding something’ face.”
Amber scoffed, but there was already a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I'm not.”
You tilted your head. “You definitely are.”
She gave a little laugh, tucking a loose lock of blonde hair behind her ear.
“Oh my God,” you said, starting to realize.
“What?” she asked.
“You like someone,” you said, grinning now. “Someone at the record store.”
Amber tried to play it cool, but you saw the way her cheeks colored just slightly.
“Maybe.”
You gasped, hand over your mouth. “Who?”
She didn’t answer.
“Wait. Is it Jolly?”
“God, no.”
"What's wrong with Jolly?"
"Nothing. Just not my type."
You laughed. “Okay, okay. So, who else works there? It’s just Jolly and that girl with the long black locks.”
Amber didn’t say anything, but the way her lips twitched and her eyes flicked toward you again told you everything you needed.
“Oh my God. It’s her. It’s her, isn’t it? Bingo! It’s the dreadlocks girl!”
Amber gave you a look that was both resigned and a little giddy. “Maybe.”
“Don’t maybe me! What’s her name?”
She exhaled, then said it like a secret. “Vivienne.”
You smiled. “That’s such a cool name.”
“I know, right?” Amber said, her voice rising just a little in excitement. “And she's, like, one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I swear. The first time I walked in and saw her behind the counter, I think I blacked out for a second. I literally spent the next week praying to every god, spirit, and cosmic force that she might be lesbian.”
You burst out laughing. “Did it work?”
“I don’t know yet,” Amber said, grinning now. “But I’ve been... casually browsing vinyl I don’t need every few days in hopes of finding out.”
“That is the gayest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said affectionately.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I work very hard.”
You both laughed.
It felt good, almost normal, despite the man asleep and recovering in front of you, despite everything that had happened.
Amber looked over at him again. “This is really just… kind of wild,” she said.
You glanced at her. “What is?”
She gestured vaguely toward Noah. “You’re literally harboring a dying guy in your living room.”
“He’s not dying.”
Amber laughed. “You know what I mean.”
You sighed. “Amber… I promise you, he’s not a killer, not a psycho, not dangerous, not crazy.”
Amber gave you a look. “Babe, no one’s saying he’s the crazy one.”
You blinked. “What?”
She pointed at you with a teasing grin. “You’re the crazy one here.”
You opened your mouth, but she cut you off, smirking. “But hey… what can I say? You do wild things when you’re in love.”
You laughed under your breath, cheeks warming.
And you didn’t deny it.
“I promise… he’s sweet. Once you get to know him.”
Amber looked at you for a moment, then nodded with a little smile. “And I trust you, don't worry. I just like messing with you.”
After a while, your laughter faded into a comfortable silence. You reached for your tea again, feeling just a little lighter than before.
You were deeply grateful that Amber had come, not just for the groceries or the tea or the cold packs, but for the way she’d made you laugh and talk about something else, even for just a little while.
Before she left, you made sure to wrap your arms around her in a tight hug, holding on a little longer than usual, reminding her that you loved her.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
Tw: fighting, blood, cheating
Series mastelist
It was still early morning. You were in the kitchen, sat at the small table, cupping your hands around your mug.
Kole stood leaning against the counter, thumbs moving rapidly across his phone screen, barely looking up. His hair was still messy from sleep, and he hadn’t said much yet, just grunted a “morning” when you walked in and he was already in the room.
He smirked at something on his screen. "I’m going to a match tonight."
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Don’t wait up.”
“Alright.”
A moment passed. You took a sip of your coffee, trying to seem casual. Then he added, glancing up from his phone, “Word is your friend Sebastian has a decent shot at winning tonight.”
You froze with your mug halfway to your lips. Your eyes flicked to his, trying not to look startled. He was teasing you, sure, but that sounded like it was actually true.
Noah.
Noah was fighting tonight.
You hadn’t known. You hadn’t planned for this.
And then, before you could stop yourself, the words were out of your mouth, trying to sound casual and not like you had been thinking about him every single minute since you last saw him. “What if I came too?”
Kole looked up for real this time. “You? You hate that place.”
“I know,” you said quickly, “I do. But... I don’t know. Lately, we haven’t really had time together. Between our work schedules and you being out most nights... I thought maybe we could just do something together, even if it’s just this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
A pause. Then he shrugged, going back to his phone. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll pick you up after work.”
“Perfect.” You smiled.
You sipped your coffee again, and stared down into the dark swirl inside your mug. Your stomach was twisting.
Because you’d just lied to your boyfriend.
Because you knew it wasn’t about spending time with him. Not really.
It was about Noah. And about the fact you were really dying to see him again and wanted to make sure he was okay after the fight.
After a couple of hours, you were at the tattoo shop.
Amber sat on the other side of the counter, perched on a stool, sipping from a to-go cup she’d brought in from the café down the street. She was wearing a bright red leather jacket and had her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, twirling a sugar packet between her fingers, focused on what you were saying.
It seemed like Nick kind of liked Amber, he never said anything when she came by the shop, even if she wasn’t there for a tattoo, but just because she wanted to chat with you inbetween calls. And after she posted those stories of her new tattoo on Instagram, the shop’s account gained over a hundred new followers overnight. So really, no one could complain about her being around.
“…and then he just showed up here. Said he wanted to say hi and see the place.” You continued.
"That man is in love with you."
"Amber, what the fuck?"
"He borrowed his neighbor’s car, drove for an hour, and tracked down where you worked, armed with nothing but the name, just to see you."
You looked at her like she was delirious. "We are just friends."
"How can I believe you when you have that face when you talk about him?"
"What face?"
"A face of someone who is madly in love." She said before adding, "with someone that is not Kole. You’ve got that dumb little twisty look on your face. Like when you lied to your mom in high school and told her you didn’t like that guy from the gas station who wore leather bracelets.”
You gave her a deadpan stare. “That was one time.”
“It’s the same look,” she said.
You covered your face with your hands. “God. I’m such a mess.”
Amber laughed, moving her blonde hair behind her shoulders. “And also a bad liar.”
“He’s fighting tonight.”
She straightened. “And let me guess… you’re going?”
“Yeah,” you said, avoiding her gaze.
“With Kole?”
You hesitated. “I told him I wanted to go. To spend time together. But…”
Amber’s mouth twisted. “But really, you’re going for Noah.”
You didn’t say anything.
She sighed, soft but not judging. “You gonna tell Kole that?”
“I can’t. And I won’t. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. I just want to be there.”
Amber’s voice gentled. “You mean you wanted to be wherever Noah was.”
“I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “It’s not like I planned this. I didn’t go looking for it. It’s just... God, when I’m with him, it’s like my brain shuts up. Everything goes quiet and he is so fucking kind and funny and sweet and he deserves way better that all of this. And I'm just—”
"In love with him." Amber finished your sentence.
You looked at her, said nothing.
And that silence spoke for you. Because Amber knew. You both knew.
"I don't know what to do," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You should break up with Kole.”
You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your hands, fingers twisting the edge of a random piece of paper on the counter, until it tore. “I don’t even know if Noah likes me like that.”
Amber tilted her head, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Please stop.”
You didn’t look up.
“I’m serious,” she went on. “You’re telling me the man used the sidewalk rule, and you’re still wondering if he likes you?”
You gave a small, helpless shrug. “Maybe he’s just… like that.”
“Sweetheart, open your eyes.”
You covered your face again. “I can’t just walk away from Kole. I still... care about him, okay? When we got together we were just teenagers... basically kids. I basically grew up with him by my side.”
Amber’s voice softened. “I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m just saying staying with someone you don’t love anymore is a slow way to kill both of you.”
That stung, mostly because it was true. You felt it in your chest, that ache you kept trying to ignore every time Kole kissed you and you were starting to feel nothing. And every time Noah looked at you and you felt everything.
“I just need time,” you said quietly.
Amber looked at you for a second. “Okay,” she said. “Just… don’t let it be too much.”
You nodded. “No. I’ll figure it out soon. I promise.”
“Good,” she said, reaching out to squeeze your wrist gently. “You know I’m here for you, right?”
“I know. Thank you.”
There was a pause then, she didn’t say anything else for a moment, just sipped her coffee and looked around the shop like she was giving you the space to breathe. Then, with a small smile, she said:
“You know I’m gonna want to meet him, right?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Noah.”
You groaned. “Oh my God, Amber—”
“No, I’m serious,” she grinned. “You bring him to breakfast one day. I’ll be nice. I just wanna know what the hell kind of man makes you turn into this.”
You narrowed your eyes. “This?”
She gestured to your whole body, dramatically. “This. All blushy and dreamy and heart-eyed and trying to act like you’re not.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Yeah, cause that wouldn’t be weird at all. ‘Hi Noah, this is my best friend Amber, she thinks we’re in love and would like to interrogate you over pancakes.’”
Amber shrugged. “I mean, you are in love.”
You rolled your eyes. Just then, Nick, tattooing a woman’s leg a little ways off, called out, "Hey, can you come here for a second?"
You stood up and started to walk over.
Amber’s voice followed you. "Don’t do anything stupid tonight."
You sighed. "I’m not the one stepping into a ring to fight."
Miles and Theo stood in the building's biggest room, as Noah had promised them. The heavy punching bag hung low from the ceiling, swinging slightly every time it was nudged.
Noah watched them with an amused smile as they took turns throwing punches, with more enthusiasm than technique, their little hands wrapped in tape.
“Easy, easy!” he called out, stepping forward to show them how to keep their wrists straight. “You don’t want to hurt your hands. Punch with your whole body, not just your arms.”
Theo swung a bit too hard and staggered backward, both boys breaking into laughter.
“See?” Noah grinned. “This isn’t just about hitting hard. It’s about control. Balance. Timing.”
The kids exchanged mischievous looks, then started a mock boxing match with each other, giggling and dodging. Noah shook his head, trying to keep a straight face as Theo pretended to throw a knockout punch that sent Miles sprawling onto the ground.
“You guys are gonna be pros in no time.” he joked.
Then, his tone shifted slightly, becoming more serious as he crouched down a bit, to their level. “But hey, you need to promise me one thing.”
The boys nodded.
“No fighting in that place. Not in that ring. Not anywhere like it.”
Theo frowned. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not a good place. People get hurt there. Really hurt. What they do, what we do... is not nice. Or funny. ”
“Okay,” Miles simply said.
“Promise me?” Noah pressed.
“Promise,” they said together.
Noah smiled softly, ruffling their hair. “Good. That’s all I ask.”
They kept punching the bag and pretending to fight for almost an hour. Then, they finally slowed down and sat on the ground to take a break.
Miles looked at Noah, his eyes curious. “Hey, have you seen that girl again?”
Noah chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead as he sat cross-legged between them. “Yeah, I’ve seen her.”
Theo’s eyebrows shot up. “She’s not your girlfriend yet, is she?”
Noah let out a long, amused sigh. “Still with that question, huh? No, she’s not.”
Miles exchanged a look with Theo, clearly unconvinced. “So, she’s gonna be at the match tonight? Mom said you’re fighting.”
Noah slowly nodded, “Yeah, I’m fighting tonight. But I don’t think she’s coming.”
“Maybe she’ll surprise you. Maybe she’ll come just to see you.”
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t count on it.”
“You’re gonna win, right?” Miles asked.
“I guess you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning to find out.”
The fight club was already full of people by the time you arrived with Kole.
He slung an arm around your shoulders as you stepped inside, grinning as he spotted familiar faces. “Hey!” he called out, weaving through the bodies to reach a group of his friends. You followed close, but your eyes were already scanning the room.
He had to be here already.
Your gaze swept across the dimly lit corners, the fluorescent lights above the ring, the benches along the walls, and then you saw him.
Noah was seated on a chair in the far corner, elbows resting on his knees, his head lowered like he was mentally someplace else. He wore a white tank top and black shorts, his hands already wrapped. When he lifted his head, as if he felt your eyes on him, your gazes locked.
And just like that, the rest of the noise faded.
Kole was still talking, laughing with his friends beside you but you almost didn't hear any of that.
“How much did you bet?” someone asked.
“Wait, on who?” another said.
“Nah, man, I’m telling you, Sebastian’s got it in the bag tonight.”
"I'm not sure about that."
You tore your eyes away from Noah and smiled weakly at Kole. “I’ll be right back,” you said, already stepping away before he could ask where you were going.
Noah stood as you approached. “Hey,” he said, voice warm.
“Hi,” you replied, your heart suddenly loud in your chest.
He tilted his head a little. “Let me guess, your boyfriend dragged you here again?”
You shook your head. “No. I wanted to come. I knew you were fighting tonight.”
“So you came to watch me lose again.”
You smiled faintly, stepping a little closer. “I came to make sure you’re okay after the match. No matter how tonight goes.”
For a moment, he just looked at you. Like maybe he didn’t know what to do with that kind of answer.
He gave a quiet laugh under his breath and shook his head. “I don’t know if I should thank you for coming, tell you I’m glad to see you… or tell you that maybe you shouldn’t have.”
You shrugged, your voice gentle. “Say whatever you want. I’m already here either way.”
There was a pause. Then he nodded once. “Okay. Then… thank you for coming. And yeah...” his voice softened, “I’m glad to see you.”
He started to lift a hand, slow and hesitant, like he meant to touch your arm, but he stopped just short, curling his fingers into a loose fist instead.
Before either of you could say anything else, someone shouted across the room.
“Sebastian! Let’s go, man! You're about to start!”
Noah turned his head at the sound, then glanced back at you. “I have to go.”
You nodded. “Sure.”
“I’ll see you after the match?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
He had started to turn when your voice stopped him. “Wait,” you said, reaching out and catching his hand gently. The tape was rough under your fingers, and he looked at you with a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
Then you stood up on your toes and wrapped your arms around his neck.
It was fast, spontaneous, maybe a bit reckless, but you didn’t care.
He froze for a moment, startled, and then his arms came around you. One hand rested carefully on your back, fingers pressing lightly, like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
His skin was warm against yours. He didn’t smell like any particular cologne, not like the ones Kole always wore, just of sweat and cheat soap.
And when you caught yourself thinking that you could happily spend the rest of your life waking up to the scent of him, your head tucked against his neck, in bed, with him, you realized you were doomed.
Because Noah wasn’t Kole.
Noah was Noah.
And you loved Noah more with every passing day.
Because it didn’t matter what he smelled like, what he wore, or where he lived.
What mattered was the way his eyes had found you instantly the moment you looked at him across the room, the way he kept trying to tell you that you shouldn’t be there, not to push you away, not really, not anymore, but to protect you. (Not like your boyfriend, who would’ve dragged you there every night without a second thought.)
It mattered how the corners of his eyes crinkled into soft lines whenever you said something stupid that made him laugh. It was all the little things.
He didn’t say anything.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Good luck,” you whispered.
And then, just like that, it was over.
He gave you a little smile and a nod. And then he was gone, weaving through the crowd toward the ring.
You turned back toward Kole, who was still laughing with his friends, his back to you. You slipped quietly back to his side just as movement in the ring caught your eye.
Noah climbed in, followed by his oppenent. The other fighter was a bit shorter, leaner, with tousled strawberry blond hair that curled slightly at the edges, and he looked at least few years younger, though in a place like this, age meant very little. What mattered was how fast you could hit and how long you could stay standing.
You barely had time to brace yourself. There was no bell, no formal start, like the first time you've been there. Just a voice somewhere in the crowd yelling “go!”
And they did.
The blond struck first with a fast jab. Noah dodged, slipped just left of the hit and came back with a jab of his own that landed clean on the side of the boy’s jaw. The crowd started screaming. Your hands clenched unconsciously at your sides.
The next few blows were quick, rapid exchanges of fists and footwork, Noah always adjusting, always circling. He took a punch to the shoulder that made him grunt, but he didn’t back off. Another clipped his ribs, sharp enough to twist his torso, and you flinched hard enough for Kole to glance sideways at you. You barely noticed.
Then came a hit to his face, right to his cheekbone. You saw his head jerk to the side. A tiny spray of sweat flew off his temple, and blood bloomed along the edge of his cheekbone.
Your breath caught in your throat.
But Noah didn’t stumble.
He pressed forward, reading his opponent’s patterns now, finding the space between jabs. His fists landed, one to the ribs, another to the side of the guy's face. The blond staggered, tried to swing wildly, but Noah ducked low, stepped into his blind spot, and landed a punch to the gut that echoed through the room.
More hits came, the opponent's nose started bleeding a bit. Noah hit his jaw a couple of times. Then an uppercut, hard enough that the other boy lost balance. He stumbled sideways. People shouted, some for Noah, some not.
The blond lunged out of desperation. Noah caught the motion, sidestepped, and swept a leg, sending the boy down to his knees. He could’ve ended it right there, one final hit to the face and the boy would have gone out cold.
But Noah didn’t.
Instead, he stepped forward, caught the boy by the shoulders, and dragged him flat to the ground. He didn’t punch. He didn’t strike. He mounted, held the opponent down, his weight strategic and firm.
You felt a weird feeling in your heart.
He wasn’t brutal. He didn’t want to hurt him more, not like the man that kept hitting him when Noah was already on the ground, bleeding and basically passed out.
The guy tried to get up, to hit Noah, but it was all in vain.
A moment later, a voice rang out, “Winner by ground pin, Sebastian!”
People yelled, others started to give the money they bet to others. But all you saw was Noah, still straddling his opponent, arms hanging heavy as he lifted his head and scanned the crowd.
He was bleeding.
He was breathless.
And he was so fucking beautiful.
“Sebastian just made me win eighty bucks. Not bad, huh?” Kole said beside you, dragging your attention back to where you were, beside him, not where your mind kept slipping.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Not bad.”
Your eyes drifted back to the ring.
Noah was still inside, though he had shifted off his opponent, now sitting against the ropes, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. The other boy was still flat on his back, his chest rising erratically, his face streaked with blood, but it was nothing compared to how Noah had looked that night, a month ago, when you’d found him outside, barely able to stand.
Two men entered the ring, ones you recognized instantly. They were the same ones who had dragged Noah out that night.
They moved in now without ceremony, grabbing the blond boy by the arms and pulling him up.
You didn’t need to ask where they were taking him, you already knew: the same alley where they had left Noah that night.
You flinched as they passed close to the edge of the ring. The boy’s feet dragged limply, one shoe half-off, blood dripping down his chin. His eyes were open but dazed.
Kole let out a satisfied chuckle and turned away, already pulling money from someone’s hand, some guy you didn’t know, smiling wide with cash fanned out in his grip.
You looked at Kole, then away.
When you glanced back toward the ring, Noah was gone.
You blinked, scanning quickly left and right, standing up on your toes for a better view through the crowd.
He wasn’t by the ropes.
Not by the benches.
Not near the back wall.
Had he really just left? Without saying anything to you?
Then an idea hit you.
Your eyes darted toward the far side of the room, to the chair where you’d seen him sitting before the match. There, a black hoodie, simple, with a random drawing on it, slung carelessly over the backrest. You didn’t hesitate.
Kole was still talking with Dean, and you didn’t even say anything to him, you just turned and slipped away through the crowd, your hand closing around the hoodie as you passed.
It was still warm in places. You pulled it tight to your chest.
Then you walked towards the back door and pushed it open.
The alley behind the fight club was dark. The stars above were barely visible through the creeping gray clouds, and the rain was beginning to fall and hammer against the concrete around you.
You stepped out, letting the door swing closed behind you.
There, down at the end of the alley, was Noah.
And he wasn’t alone.
The blond guy was sitting on the ground, slumped back against the wall, his legs half-stretched in front of him, his chest still quickly rising and falling, damp strands of hair sticking to his bloody forehead. And Noah was walking toward him with slow and quiet steps.
The younger guy lifted his head, catching sight of him, and flinched. He tried to jerk upright, a sharp reflex of fear, but his body didn’t cooperate, and he collapsed back down with a wince.
"Fuck", he whispered to himself.
“No, no,” Noah said gently. “It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you.”
He crouched in front of him, lowering himself to his level.
“You alright?” he asked. “Anything broken?”
The blond hesitated, blinking at him through the thin drizzle. “I’m fine,” he muttered.
“You sure? Your head okay?”
“It’s pounding,” He admitted after a second, “but I’ll live.”
A beat passed. Then a weak laugh. He rubbed a hand over his face. “You hit hard, man.”
Noah let out a soft huff of breath. The rain had started to soak through his hair, flattening them against his forehead. He pushed them back absently with one hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Elijah.”
“Well, Elijah…” Noah straightened a little, rising to his feet and extending a hand. “Can you stand?”
Elijah looked at the hand like it was something strange. Then, slowly, he reached up and took it.
Noah pulled him up with careful steadiness.
Elijah wobbled once on his feet but managed to stay upright. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I think I’m good."
"Sure?"
"Yeah, sure."
“Good,” Noah said, giving his shoulder a little pat.
Elijah gave him a little smile. “Thank you, man.”
Noah glanced toward the sky, squinting as the rain began to fall harder, now cold and persistent. He looked back at Elijah, then tilted his head toward the end of the alley.
“You should go,” he said quietly. “Before you catch a cold too.”
Elijah nodded once, then started to walk away with a quick, last wave.
You hadn’t moved, still frozen near the door with Noah’s hoodie clutched to your chest. The rain had found you now too, cold drops threading through your hair, dampening your clothes.
And then Noah turned, finally seeing you.
You took a slow step forward, then another, the sound of your shoes soft against the wet ground. The hoodie was still clutched to your chest, damp now where the rain had kissed it.
“Hey,” you said gently. “Thought you might want this.”
He looked at it for a second, then reached out and took it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours.
“Thanks.”
You gave a faint smile in return.
“What you just did…” you said, “that was really kind of you, making sure he was okay.”
Noah looked away for a moment, “He was just a kid,” he said after a second. “Like I was. Like a lot of them are.”
He shook his head once. “I don’t want to be the kind of fighter that forgets there’s a real person on the other side.”
You stayed silent for a moment.
“You’re a good man, Noah.”
Your voice was soft, almost lost in the sound of rain hitting the pavement and the distant hum of traffic, but he heard you. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed just slightly.
He started to shake his head, already gearing up for protest. “You—”
“No.” You cut him off gently, “Before you say ‘you don’t know me’… I don’t care. Because that’s not true. Not anymore.”
You took another step closer, and his eyes met yours.
“I do know you, Noah,” you said. “And every moment I spend with you… I think you are a good person a little more. I don't care about anything else.”
His mouth parted, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the right words.
“Don’t,” he said eventually.
You frowned. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me feel like I deserve to be with someone like you.”
“But you do.” you said, and the words came without hesitation.
He didn’t answer.
The rain kept falling, more gently now, soft and rhythmic against the concrete and metal.
You moved even closer, your body almost brushing his, and your eyes dropped to the bruising along his cheekbone. Even in the dim alley light, the purplish-black stood out stark against his skin.
You lifted your hand, slowly, so he could stop you if he wanted, and let your fingertips touch his cheek. Just beneath the bruise. Light. Careful.
“Look at this,” you whispered. “It’s almost black.”
He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “In a week it’ll be gone.”
“Maybe,” you murmured, your thumb brushing ever so gently across the curve of his cheek. “But I still see it now.”
His hand, still wrapped, came up slowly, almost hesitantly, and covered yours, pressing your palm more firmly to his face. His fingers curled slightly, holding your hand like there. His brown, almond shaped, eyes searched yours in the dark, the rain tracing paths through his hair, across his skin.
Your gaze dropped to his lips without meaning to. They were parted slightly, his breath shallow, warm against your skin in the close air between you. He leaned in just a little, and you didn’t move, couldn’t have if you wanted to.
His forehead almost touched yours, the space between you thinning to nothing.
“You’re with someone,” he murmured, the words brushing your lips.
“I know,” you whispered.
He didn’t pull away. His eyes searched yours, like you didn’t make any sense but somehow he still could understand.
“And you’re not happy.”
“I know.”
You felt his breath again, so close, just a hair away from a kiss.
But then, slowly, he pulled back.
Just barely. Just enough.
His warmth slipped away.
Your hand slipped from his cheek, falling to your side. Cold rushed in to replace the heat of his skin against your palm.
Noah took a step back.
“We should go back inside.” he said.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Right.”
He looked at you for a moment longer, like there was still something he wanted to say. But instead, he just nodded toward the door behind you.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you something to dry off.”
“Alright.” Was all you could say.
So you followed him.
The hallway he lead you through was narrow and dark, the sound of the crowd still faintly audible from the other side of the walls. Noah pushed open another door, revealing a locker-room-type space, small and a bit cluttered.
The walls were painted a dull, industrial gray, parts of the paint chipped from years of wear. Lockers lined one side, dented and scuffed, names and stickers and scratches covering most of them. A bench ran the length of the room, bolted into the concrete floor, with a couple old folding chairs pushed to the corners.
“This is where we change before the matches if we need to,” Noah said, giving a small shrug as he crossed to one of the lockers and opened it. “Glamorous, I know.”
He turned, holding a towel, large, old, but clean , and before you could take it, he tossed it directly over your head. The thick fabric landed with a soft thud, and you burst out laughing.
“Hey!” you said, your voice muffled under the towel.
You couldn’t see anything, but you heard his quiet laugh, warm and unguarded, and it made your chest squeeze.
“You’re welcome.” he said, still chuckling.
You pulled the towel down so you could glare at him, or try to, but you were still smiling.
“Very mature of you,” you said.
“Extremely,” he replied, and sat down on the bench with his towel in hands, patting the spot beside him. “Come on, sit before you drown in that thing.”
You joined him, your clothes damp, your hair already soaking the towel draped over your shoulders.
You stole a glance at him. He rubbed the towel roughly through his hair, drying it in uneven swipes. Drops of water still clung to the ends, dripping occasionally onto his shoulders.
He let out a low grumble as he grabbed the hem of his tank top, the fabric soaked and clinging to him like a second skin. “This thing’s glued to me,” he muttered, half to himself.
You watched as he peeled it off with a grunt of effort, tossing it in a heap near the locker. Now shirtless, he stood for a second, drying his arms and chest with the towel, then sat back down.
And you looked.
You couldn’t not look.
His torso was a map of ink, you could see roses, a sketon, a lantern, the word "desolate". You wondered if some of the colors you saw were part of the tattoos or bruises.
You knew you should look away. You told yourself to. But you didn’t.
Because a part of you was still stuck on the way his face had moved closer to yours earlier. On the way you were about to kiss.
And now you were in this room. Just the two of you. Both soaked. And he was sitting beside you, shirtless, dripping, beautiful.
“You kinda look like one of those long-haired dogs when they take a bath,” you said instead, chuckling, because sometimes saying something so stupid helped push your thoughts away.
He let out a laugh. “Wow. Okay.”
“I mean it in a good way.”
“Uh-huh. You should’ve seen me when I had long hair.”
You sat up. “You had long hair?”
“Yep.”
“Like… shoulder-length?”
“Try mid-back. Maybe even longer.”
Your jaw dropped. “No way. You’re lying. I need to see this. Do you have pictures?”
“Pfft. No. I haven’t even had a working phone in over a year.”
You groaned. “So the only way I’ll ever see it is if you grow it back.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“They were always in my face. I cut them off with a pair of scissors I found in a supermarket. Kitchen aisle.”
You laughed. “Are you serious?”
“I swear. It was the most satisfying haircut I’ve ever had.”
“Do you still have the scissors?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“I’m gonna steal them.”
“Alright. Note to self...keep my utensils locked. You already broke into my building once, now you’re coming for my knives?”
“Nothing is safe from me.”
He smiled, looking down at his hands. The wraps were still there, soaked and clinging to his knuckles. He tugged at one with his teeth, but the knot resisted. You reached over.
“Let me.”
He hesitated for half a second. Then he let go and let you take his hand.
The bandages were damp and clinging, and your fingers brushed warm against his skin as you started to unwind them. Neither of you said anything for a moment.
“You ever did braids?” you asked then.
He groaned. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Nope. I know you did.” You said as you kept unwinding the damp wrap, careful not to tug too hard where the skin looked red underneath.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered, half-laughing.
You smiled, eyes on his hand. “You totally did pigtails at least once.”
He just sighed.
Then he looked down at your hands again.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
You glanced up. “Unwrapping hands?”
“Yeah but, I mean” he nodded toward his hands. “You're good at being gentle.”
Your thumbs lightly brushed the back of his knuckles.
“Only with some people,” you said.
You’d found this weird rhythm with Noah, some uneven mix of insults and sarcastic remarks, quiet moments that felt too vulnerable, and small touches that said more than most words ever could.
And you liked it.
So you stayed there a little longer.
While somewhere else in the same building, Kole was laughing with his friends, a bottle in one hand and a pretty girl with dark curls perched on his lap. His arms wrapped around her waist as he told her yes, of course they’d see each other again, his girlfriend would never find out.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
Tw: relationship doubt, nightmares
Series mastelist
Noah turned the corner with a grocery bag slung over one shoulder, thumb hooked through the strap. The bag wasn’t full, just a few essentials: a loaf of bread, a carton of oat milk, a couple of apples and a couple of those meals already cooked and ready to be eaten.
As he passed the intersection near the old mural wall, a half-deflated basketball bounced out into the street in front of him.
“Hey, Noah!” a voice called.
He looked up to see Miles come skidding after the ball, sneakers slapping pavement. Right behind him was Theo, younger by a couple of years, skinnier, always wearing a t-shirt too big for him.
Noah bent down, caught the basketball before it rolled too far, and turned it in his hands once before tossing it gently back.
“Hey, kids,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“Thanks!” Miles caught it clumsily, grinning.
Theo squinted up at Noah, suddenly curious. “Was that your girlfriend?”
Noah blinked. “What?”
“That girl,” Miles said, coming closer, “The one who came by last week, asking for you. Looking like she was on a secret mission.”
Noah chuckled softly. “No, she’s not my girlfriend. We… just kinda know each other.” He shrugged.
Miles exchanged a quick glance with Theo, then grinned. “She was pretty, though. You know.”
Noah laughed again, shaking his head. “That doesn’t change anything.”
“Would you want her to be your girlfriend?” Theo insisted.
“Why don't you two go back to playing ball?” He said in a way that let them know he wasn't actually mad.
Theo stuck out his tongue but didn’t move. “Because you’re our friend, Noah. We like talking to our friends.”
Noah’s smile softened as he looked at them, and he took a small step closer to Theo, he reached out and ruffled the younger boy’s hair, messing it up.
“You guys are my friends too,” he said, “But she’s still not my girlfriend.”
Theo grinned, shaking his head as he fixed his hair, like a little dog.
“Does she live around here?” The kid asked.
Noah shook his head. “Nope. She lives in the city.”
“Oh, that’s cool!” Miles said.
“And she came all the way out here for you. Maybe she likes you!” his brother added.
Noah rolled his eyes. “She lives in the city. With her boyfriend.”
Miles let out a groan of disappointment. “Aw, no!”
Just as the boys were turning to run back toward their game, a sharp voice rang out across the street.
“Miles! Theo!”
They all turned their heads in unison. Standing in the doorway of a small brick rowhouse just a few doors down was their mother, one hand braced on the frame, the other resting on her hip. Her apron was dusted with flour, and she had that specific tone that meant playtime was over.
“That’s enough, boys! Homework time. I don’t want to come out there again!”
Theo let out a groan. Miles dragged his feet a little, bouncing the basketball one more time, reluctantly.
“She always catches us at the best part,” Miles muttered under his breath.
Noah grinned. “You heard her. Better listen to your mom.”
Miles sighed, then called over his shoulder, “Okay, we’re coming!”
Their mother spotted Noah then and lifted a hand in greeting, as she gave him a small smile. He lifted his hand back in return, a little wave of acknowledgment.
As the boys started trudging back toward the house, Theo paused and looked over his shoulder.
“Hey, Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, can we come over and punch the big bag again?”
“Maybe,” he said, shifting the grocery bag on his shoulder. “But only if you actually do your homework today. Like, really do it.”
Theo squinted. “Even the math?”
“Especially the math.”
Miles groaned again. “Ugh, you sound just like our mom.”
Noah laughed. “That means I’m getting wiser. Now go, before she really comes out here with a slipper.”
The boys took off in a run, jostling each other as they scrambled up the front steps of their house. Their mom gave them both a light smack on the shoulder as they passed, more affectionate than stern.
Noah lingered for a second, watching them go in, the door swinging shut behind them. The street quieted again, he just smiled to himself, and kept walking.
You were wiping down the last of the counters and fixing some artwork that was not in the right place, closing time approaching.
Nick stepped out from the back room, where he kept some tools, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash.
“Hey,” he said, “did your friend like the butterfly?”
You looked up from where you were stacking ink bottles. “Oh yeah. She loved it. I think she posted, like, five hundred pictures on her stories.”
Nick laughed, grabbing his hoodie from the hook near the door. “I know. She tagged the shop in every single one of them.”
"Well, that girl has a lot of followers. Maybe she gave you free advertising."
"In that case, I'm glad she posted so much about it." He said with a smile, then looked at the clock on the wall. “Listen. Think it’s cool if I head out a bit early? We’re done for the day, and you’ve pretty much got the place spotless already.”
You gave him a nod. “Yeah, of course, no worries. I’ll finish up and close.”
“Seriously, thanks. I owe you one.”
You waved him off. “Just go before you fall asleep while driving.”
Nick laughed again, zipping up his hoodie. “You're the best! Have a nice evening!”
The door jingled as he stepped out, letting in a quick gust of cooler air, and then it clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone.
You went back to wiping down the last chair, checking the needle disposal bin, straightening a few art prints on the wall that had been slightly knocked down by the day’s traffic.
Your eyes landed on a specific corner of the wall.
A few days ago, after Nick had caught a glimpse of one of your sketches when your notebook hit the floor, he had asked you to see more.
You didn’t expect what came next. He told you they were beautiful, different in a way that would stand out, and that someone, probably more than someone, would want them on their skin. Then he offered to clear a spot on the wall and hang a few.
You hadn’t known what to say at first. You weren’t even sure your work belonged up there. But you’d said yes.
Now that section of the wall held your designs: a crescent moon tangled in lavender, a dagger wrapped in ivy and thread, a black cat mid-stretch, its tail curling like a question mark, a skeletal hand holding a blooming peony, a moth with eyes on its wings, a pair of koi fish circling in opposite directions.
You still thought they weren't that special. But they were yours. And now they lived here, in this space where people came to choose what they wanted to carry forever.
Seeing them on the wall still felt a little unreal. But it also felt good.
Outside, the sky was burning into that deep orange-violet that always made the city look absolutely beautiful. The front windows glowed softly with it, throwing reflections of the hanging flash art onto the tiled floor.
You were reaching for your jacket, keys already in hand, when you heard the soft jingle of the front door swinging open. You didn’t even look up at first.
“Sorry, we’re closed. If you want to book a consultation you can—”
You turned as you spoke, and stopped mid-sentence.
It was Noah.
The words evaporated off your tongue, replaced by an involuntary smile. He stood just inside the doorway, the hood of his sweatshirt still up. He pulled it back as the door closed behind him, brushing a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down.
“Damn,” he said, brow arched. “I gotta have an appointment just to have a conversation with you now?”
You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “Noah, what are you doing here?”
“Can’t I just drop by because I wanted to say hi to you?” he asked. “The place you work at sounded pretty cool when you told me about it. I wanted to check it out.”
You smiled, folding your arms as you leaned back against the counter. He wanted to say hi to you. “So, verdict?”
He glanced around. “Yeah, it’s very cool. Way better than some of the places where I got my tattos. I got one of them in the back of an Indian restaurant, once. The artist was great, but I smelled like curry for a week.”
You laughed, shaking your head.
He sat down on the stool across from you, resting his elbows on the counter. That’s when you noticed his knuckles, scraped and a little swollen.
You nodded toward his hands. “Did you at least win this time?”
He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Covered my groceries for the week. A lot of pre-cooked chicken and sad pasta salad.”
“Definitely better than the stuff Kole tries to cook sometimes.”
Noah snorted. “Is he still alive? Or did he finally drink himself into a coma?”
You shot him a look, even though you were already trying not to laugh. “Noah.”
“What?” he said, raising his hands like he was innocent. “Last time I saw him, he looked two beers from it.”
You rolled your eyes. “He’s fine. Nothing an aspirin and a day at home couldn't fix.”
“Impressive,” Noah said, leaning forward a bit.
Noah glanced past you, his eyes landing on the display wall behind the counter. His expression shifted, brows lifting slightly, mouth tilting with something like surprise.
“Those are cool,” he said, nodding toward the framed flash art. “Really cool.”
“Thanks,” you replied, almost on instinct.
But then he looked at you more closely, like something had clicked. “Wait...did you make those?”
You hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah.”
“No way!” He leaned back slightly, clearly impressed. “You didn't tell me you could draw.”
You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “It never came up, I guess.”
Noah stood, walking over to the wall to get a better look. He tilted his head, taking his time with each piece.
“These are sick.”
You smiled, warmth creeping up your neck. “I didn’t think they were anything special. Nick made me put some up.”
“Well, Nick was right,” he said, still facing the wall. “I’d get one of these tattooed. Easy.”
You laughed softly. “You’re just saying that.”
“No,” he said, turning back toward you. “I’m really not. You should draw more,” he added. “Seriously. I mean it.”
You wondered if he would’ve said the same thing if he’d seen the pages of your sketchbook, pages filled with his face, his bruised hands, all the details you couldn’t seem to stop drawing.
You thought you'd rather die than let him see them.
You didn’t say anything for a moment as watched him, standing in the fading orange light, surrounded by your own art. It felt so right. And you couldn’t help but think he was so beautiful.
You cleared your throat. “I was just about to close up, I—”
Noah turned to you quickly. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ll get out of your way. You probably wanna go home and crash or whatever, long day and all.”
You looked at him for a second, heart tapping a little faster than it should have. “No. You don’t have to leave.”
He looked at you, trying to understand.
“It’s still kinda early,” you added. “And Kole’s not gonna be home for a while anyway.”
Noah blinked. “You sure? I can go.”
Dumbass. I don't want you to.
“Yeah. Come with me. There’s something I’ve been meaning to try.”
That made him pause, uncertain. “Try?”
You smiled, locking the register and grabbing your bag. “You’ll see.”
He followed, curious now, his expression both amused and confused as you shut off the lights, twisted the key in the lock, and stepped out into the dusky orange haze that had settled over the city.
The parking lot was mostly empty. Sunset reflecting over the glass windows of the few cars there.
“This is how horror movies start,” Noah said, pretending to be suspicious, as he adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie. “Girl says ‘Come with me,’ guy follows without asking questions. Next thing you know...boom. Missing persons poster. Not that anyone would actually care if this really happened.”
You stopped walking for half a second, just enough to glance at him. The way he said it, lightly, like a joke, didn't change its meaning.
“Don’t say that.”
He looked at you, almost like you caught off guard. “What?”
“You know what,” you said, serious this time. “Don’t say stuff like that. I’d care.”
Noah blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to respond at all, let alone seriously.
“Not if you’re the one who murdered me in a tattoo shop parking lot,” he said, trying to keep the tone playful.
Eventually, you let out a little laugh, because it was easier. But the way he said it still hurt you.
Like he didn’t mean anything. Like he truly believed he was disposable.
He kept following you.
"You gonna tell me where we're going?" he asked.
You gave him a sideways glance, your expression just shy of smug. “Just wait. You’ll see.”
You crossed the street and reached the curb on the other side of the road, and then you felt it.
Noah’s hand, light but firm, curled around your forearm for just a second. He didn’t say a word. Just guided you gently to the inside of the sidewalk, placing himself between you and the quiet late evening traffic.
It happened so quickly, so naturally, you almost didn’t have time to register it. You glanced at him, but he didn’t meet your eyes, and he was already looking ahead.
But your heart was doing something it definitely wasn’t doing before.
And your mind was thinking that that little gesture was something that Kole never did.
You reached the edge of the sidewalk and came to a slow stop. You stood still for a second, and Noah slowed beside you, glancing around like he was trying to guess the next move.
You turned toward the small grocery store on the corner, one with a flickering neon in the window and hand-written signs taped to the door.
Noah looked at it, then looked back at you. “…This our destination?”
You smiled, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Not exactly. Can you wait here for a few minutes?”
He blinked. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
“I’ll be quick.”
He leaned back against the wall without question, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, and nodded once. “I’ll be right here.”
You pushed through. Inside, the air was cooler and it smelled like a mix of all the food they sold there.
You found the pickles first, then the jar of peanut butter. The bread took longer, Noah hadn’t said what kind, and you stood staring at a few options until you just picked the one that looked closest to what a grandmother might buy. Fresh and soft, but with a cruncher crust.
At the last second, you grabbed a small, cheap plastic knife from near the deli counter, because you needed something to cut the bread and pickles.
Unexpectedly, the cashier didn’t even look at you funny.
When you stepped outside again, Noah was exactly where you left him, leaned back against the brick, one foot braced against the wall, head tilted toward the darkening sky like he’d been watching the clouds shift.
He straightened when he saw you, eyes immediately dropping to the grocery bag in your hand. Then they landed on the knife, partially visible.
“Ah! I knew you were gonna kill—”
He stopped mid-sentence as the bag shifted in your hand and the rest of the contents became visible: a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of pickles.
His voice caught. The grin faded, just a fraction, and he blinked like something in him had gone soft all at once.
“…me.” he finished, barely above a whisper.
You held his gaze and smiled. “What?”
Noah’s eyes flicked from your face back to the bag, his posture subtly shifting like he didn’t quite know what to do with the warmth rising in his chest.
"Why’d you buy that?”
“Because you said it was your favorite,” you said simply. “You told me your grandma used to make it. And that you missed it.”
His lips parted slightly. You could tell he didn’t know what to do with that. Because he wasn't used to things like that.
You wondered how he could be so sure that he wasn't a good person, that he didn't deserve to stop fighting, to have a real job, a real house. How he could hate himself so much when his expression became so soft just by looking at the ingredients of a sandwich.
“I remember you said it sounded gross,” he said.
“It did,” you agreed, “but I still want to try it.”
“…Why?”
“Because…” You hesitated. Then shrugged. "Sometimes I want to try new things. Just because they look bad doesn’t mean they are."
Noah stared at you for a long second. There was something incredibly soft in his face now.
For a moment you just wanted to hug him. Tell him he wasn't alone, and if he had been, he wasn't anymore. That you cared. That you bought all that stupid things for him because you cared and hoped to make him happy with them.
He looked down, ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Jesus,” he muttered, not at you, more at himself.
You stayed in silence for a moment. Then bumped his arm with yours.
“C’mon,” you said, lifting the bag slightly. “Let’s find a place to test this culinary masterpiece.”
That earned you a breath of laughter.
“Lead the way.” he said.
You and Noah made your way back to the parking lot as the sky started growing darker.
There was a low concrete ledge near the edge of the lot, probably part of an old loading dock, just high enough to be a little hard to climb onto but perfect to sit, chat and eat for a while. Noah got there first and pulled himself up with a soft grunt, the soles of his shoes scraping against the cement. Once settled, he turned and offered you his hand without a word.
You looked at it for a second, then at him and you took it. It was warm, a little rough from old bruises and healing cuts, but his grip was careful as he helped pull you up beside him.
It was such a small thing, but you liked having his hand in yours, even if just for a moment.
You sat down next to him, and he leaned back on his hands, long legs stretched out in front of him. You pulled the brown paper bag into your lap and started unpacking everything.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of bread you meant,” you said.
“It's perfect.” he answered immediately.
You started slicing into it. “And important question: pickles. Slices or strips?”
Noah shrugged. “It’s not that deep.”
“No, come on. I want to make it the right way.”
He exhaled, giving in. “Slices.”
“Good,” you said, fishing a few out onto a napkin. “Because I don’t think I even know how to cut them into strips.”
He let out little laugh.
You kept working on the sandwiches, careful with the knife, placing each ingredient with quiet precision. You felt his gaze on you before you saw it. You glanced over, catching the way he was watching you.
“What?” you asked.
Noah blinked. “Nothing.”
You gave him a look. “Noah.”
“What?”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated, starting playing with the hem of his hoodie. Then he said, a little quieter, “It’s just… this is probably the sweetest thing someone’s done for me in a long time.”
Your fingers paused for a moment on the bread. That ache again, low in your ribs.
You didn’t know what to say, exactly. So you handed him a sandwich.
“Well,” you said, keeping your voice soft, “your grandma gets the credit. I’m just copying.”
He took the sandwich from your hands and looked at it for a second before glancing back at you. Then he took a bite.
You watched him chew. In your head, you could almost picture a younger version of him, swinging his legs under a kitchen table, grinning and waiting for his little sandwich. It was a strangely vivid image, and it made your chest feel weird.
While you waited for his verdict, you took a bite of yours.
“So?” You asked.
He gave a slow nod. “It’s perfect.”
“You already said that about the bread,” you pointed out.
“That’s because it is,” he replied. “It’s exactly how she used to make it.”
You took another bite and before you could say anything else, he was smirking at you.
“That’s your second bite,” he said, nodding at your sandwich.
You glanced down. “So?”
“So, that means you like it.”
“Actually, it’s kinda disgusting,” then added, “but I’m starving.”
He laughed again. And every time you managed to pull a laugh from him like that, it felt like a win.
It felt like the city went quiet around you. It was just the two of you on an old slab of concrete, eating weird childhood food under a sky that was slowly turning dark enough for you to see a couple of stars.
You took another bite. And maybe… it really didn’t taste so bad after all.
You stayed there a while longer. Long enough for Noah to eat not one, but two more sandwiches.
He just casually reached for the jar of pickles again while you were mid-sentence, and you didn’t stop him. You kept talking while you started spreading the peanut butter on a slice for him, and you let him cut the pickles after.
You found yourself talking more than you normally would, and he listened more than most people ever had. There was always something about the way he looked at you when you spoke, like nothing you said was boring, like he was hearing all of it and would remember every word.
At one point, you nodded toward the other side of the street.
“That record shop over there? The one with the neon sign half-burned out?”
Noah turned to follow your gaze.
“They’ve got a bunch of old vinyls and music gear. I’ve been a couple of times with my best friend. She left me in the metal section for like an hour and went off to search through Harry Styles stuff.”
Noah gave a short laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I swear, she could spend hours just flipping through vinyls with his face on them. Meanwhile, I made friends with this Jolly guy behind the counter. He's funny and I ended up talking to him for like two hours while she hunted down some limited edition single or something. We ended up talking about tattoos, and I told him I work at the tattoo shop across the street. From that day on, he got all his tattoos done by Nick. You would like him, I think."
He nodded and kept chewing on his sandwich, reminding you of a squirrel, in some way.
You pointed again, down the road this time. “Folio’s got a mechanic shop down there. Took my car in once when it stopped working. Turned out a cat peed on the engine or something. He also got some tattoos by Nick.”
Time passed, and you stayed there until the sky turned fully dark and the moon was hanging high above. You didn’t really want to leave. It felt good, just being there with him. Even though you knew Kole was probably already home by now.
You found yourself watching the way his Adam’s apple moved when he spoke, not too prominent, but there, shifting slightly with every word and making the tattoos on his neck seem to come alive.
“It’s kind of weird I’ve never lost a tooth,” he said at some point.
You raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, with all the punches I’ve taken over the years, you’d think at least one would’ve gone flying. A molar. Something. But nope. Still all intact.”
“Ouch.” you muttered under your breath, wincing at the mental image.
He smirked. “I always figured it was just a matter of time. Or that maybe I’d at least fix these bunny teeth or something.”
“Bunny teeth?” you echoed, laughing.
“Yeah,” he said, “These two front ones.” He reached up and ran the pad of his thumb lightly across them. “Thought for sure I’d take a hit bad enough to chip them a bit. Honestly, I even kind of hoped for it. These things are way too long.”
You smiled shaking your head, and for a second, you caught yourself watching the movement of his mouth more than you should’ve, how his teeth showed just slightly when he laughed.
They were kinda cute, actually. You didn’t say it.
Eventually, you both had to go.
He hopped down first and, like before, offered you his hand to help you down. You took it.
“Thanks.” You murmured.
He pointed toward a car parked not far from yours. “That’s mine for the night. Well, technically not mine. Borrowed it from the kids’ mom.”
You said goodbye.
"Thank you for... you know. Everything." He said.
"Anytime."
And you meant it.
You would have done it again as many times as he wanted.
He said "see you soon" and you hoped you were actually going to see him soon.
It was only once you got into your car, that you noticed your phone screen lighting up. One missed call. Three messages from Kole.
The house was quiet when you walked in. You dropped your keys onto the table by the door and hung your bag.
Kole was in the living room, standing halfway between the couch and the hallway, arms crossed. You didn’t even have time to take off your jacket before his voice cut through the silence.
“Where were you?” he asked. “It’s late. You never get off work this late. I thought something happened.”
You paused, blinked, let the door click shut behind you.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t see your texts.”
He didn’t respond, just stared, waiting for more.
You exhaled slowly. “Noah stopped by. You know, Noah? From the fight club?” You tried to keep your voice even and casual, like it really was nothing.
Because it was nothing.
Right?
“He just came by to say hi. We started talking, and I lost track of time. That’s all.”
His eyes narrowed. “Noah?” A beat. “Sebastian?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. Then just: “Hm.”
You were about to say something else when he finally looked up again.
“Are you cheating on me?”
“What?” you said. “No. Of course not.”
He stared at you, unmoving. “You sure?”
“Kole,” you said, taking a step forward, trying to catch his gaze, “please. I’m not cheating on you.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just ran a hand over his face. Finally, he muttered, “Okay.”
That was it. Just okay.
You stood there in the middle of the room, your jacket still on, your heart still racing, as he walked to the bedroom.
And it was true. You weren’t cheating on him. You hadn’t crossed any lines. You and Noah hadn’t even touched if not for your hands when he helped you up and down the concrete ledge.
But you had smiled more in one hour with Noah than you had in days at home. You had laughed. And you had felt a weird feeling in your stomach, a good weird feeling. Mostly when he smiled. When he thanked you. When he looked at you with his pretty brown eyes a moment longer.
You weren’t cheating. But still...
Is it cheating if your heart goes to someone else?
You stood in the dim light, alone now, and for the first time in a while, you weren’t entirely sure what the truth was anymore. Or what you were supposed to do now.
Noah hadn’t expected much when he drove over. Hell, he’d almost turned back twice.
He wasn’t even sure why he was doing it. He just really wanted to see you again.
He had told himself you’d tell him to leave, for sure. That it was late, that you had to close up and head home. That maybe he was being inappropriate, overstepping.
So he was almost surprised when you didn’t.
And he was definitely surprised when you ended up buying the ingredients for his stupid sandwich.
You had listened when he told you. And you had cared enough to give it to him.
It was such a small thing, eating weird sandwiches in a quiet parking lot in front of a tattoo shop and chatting, but to him, it had felt like the closest thing to peace he’d had in a long time.
You’d made him laugh. You were probably the only person on earth able to make him do that, right now.
So, it had been a good day. Better than he could ever imagine. He also had the chance to hold your hand a couple of times, even if he wasn't really holding it.
But that didn’t mean anything, not really. Not once the sun went down.
Because nights were different.
And when Noah closed his eyes, laying on his mattress, the dark didn’t stay empty.
Because there’s a field.
There's always a field.
Endless. Silent. He’s driven for hours to get there, through roads that twisted and disappeared behind him. He’s alone, and he made sure of it. No one knows he’s there. That’s the point.
The moon is high, but everything is dim, grainy like an old film.
He can't breathe.
He feels like he's drowning.
He is kneeling on the dry grass.
There’s a weight in his hand, metal, cold, pressing into his skin. His arms are shaking. Tears streak across his face.
It's all his fault. He will never forgive himself.
No one’s around. No one can hear.
A sob comes out, then another, until he’s bent forward and his shoulders are violently shaking.
He folds in on himself, curls down to the ground like his body is trying to disappear into the earth. The grass scratches at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it.
He cries. Loud.
He cries until his voice is hoarse, until his chest feels like it’s being crushed by some invisible hand.
He cries until the sky begins to change, shifting from black to bruised purple to soft, aching blue.
He can't stop.
The nausea comes next. His stomach turns. His head throbs. His eyes burn.
The sun is high now. It’s morning.
He forces himself to get up, to stand on legs that barely hold him.
He turns once, just once, to look back at the field. At what he’s leaving behind.
A part of himself, probably.
He stumbles to the car. The door creaks. The seat is cold.
He grips the steering wheel.
His hands are shaking.
His hands are covered in blood.
And he can’t stop crying.
Noah woke up drenched in sweat. He wasn’t crying, but he was shaking, and not just because the nights there were always cold.
He sat up on the mattress, his breathing shallow. Alpine, who’d been curled up on his chest, stirred with a soft meow, slipping off his legs and stumbling groggily to his side. The cat settled there again, pressing close like she knew.
Noah stayed still for a moment, elbows on his knees, head resting in his hands. His fingers curled against his temples. He focused on breathing in, out, in, out.
It was just a nightmare.
Except it wasn’t.
It never was.
It was a memory. It really happened. He let it happen.
Outside, it was still dark, but he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping again that night.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
Tw: mentions of deceased family members, drinking.
Series masterlist
The walls of the tattoo shop were full of framed flash art and faded photos of past clients, the front counter had stickers scattered across its glass surface.
Amber was sitting in the chair across from you, legs tucked under her, scrolling on her phone as you answered the phone: a woman booking a consultation.
Nick, as usual, was posted up near the back, focused. His gloves were ink-smeared, head down as he worked on the sleeve of some guy sitting stiffly in the chair.
You wrapped up the call, set the appointment, jotted a few notes, then hung up.
“So?” Amber prompted, “You were saying?”
You gave a small, tired huff of breath and leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your temple.
“I gave him the bracelet. He gave me back my shirt...clean, actually. And for a second it was almost… good. Like, normal-good. He even smiled. He was joking around.”
Amber blinked, skeptical already.
“But then I asked him why he still fights,” you continued. “He just...flipped. Said we weren’t friends. Basically yelled at me, so I left.”
You looked over at her. She didn’t look surprised. Not really, but still a bit disappointed.
“Yeah,” she said slowly, “sounds about right.”
You tilted your head. “What does that mean?”
“It means you should probably let it go, I'm sorry.”
"Yeah, I should." You said tapping your fingertips on your sketchbook.
The tattoo machine's sound faded as Nick powered it down. He carefully wrapped a layer of plastic around the fresh tattoo on his client’s arm and then peeled off his gloves.
The guy nodded his thanks, grabbed his coat and headed out the door, the bell above it jingling behind him.
“Really, stop thinking about him,” Amber said. “He's not worth it.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. The whole thing is pointless. We gave each other our stuff back, and that's it.”
Amber didn’t add anything else.
A few seconds later, Nick approached you, stretching his arms over his head. “Alright,” he said, raising a brow at the two of you. “What are you girls whispering about over here?”
You shrugged, giving him a faint smile. “Nothing important. Really.”
He tilted his head, unconvinced but not pushing. “Mmm. Okay. So. The butterfly, right?”
Amber smiled. “Exactly.”
Nick reached over the counter to grab his book of tattoo designs, but his forearm accidentally knocked your sketchbook off the table. It landed on the floor with a soft thud, pages flipping open.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, crouching automatically to pick it up. But then he paused, looking down at the open page. “Wait, these are yours?”
You leaned forward, a little flustered. “Yeah.”
“Damn. You’re good.”
You gave a modest shrug. “Thanks.”
Nick handed the book back to you, grinning as he did. “No, really. Now I'm scared you're gonna steal my job.”
You chuckled.
Nick turned his attention to Amber, flipping open his design book and gesturing to different butterfly styles.
“Okay, so...” Nick pointed to a geometric one in the book. “This one’s kind of sharp and very symmetrical. Good for forearm or ankle. Clean lines.”
“Too sterile,” Amber said, wrinkling her nose. “I want it to feel…alive.”
“Alive?” Nick chuckled. “Should it breathe too?”
As they began discussing placement and color, you sat back, flipping slowly through your own sketchbook.
If it had fallen open to the wrong drawing, Nick would have asked who the hell the guy on that page was. And Amber would have probably guessed it right.
Noah's face was drawn from memory, defined jawline, but not too sharp, dark hair falling just past his eyes. His expression was serious, but in his eyes there was something softer.
You’d shaded a darker halo around one of his eyes: one of the bruises that hadn’t yet faded. There was a small cut along his bottom lip, another along his cheekbone, and a bigger one on his nose, like the last time you saw him.
And then, almost invisible unless you knew to look for them: freckles. Just a light dusting across his nose and cheeks. You hadn’t even seen them until the morning in the abandoned building he called home, when the sun slipped through the broken windows and kissed his face in just the right way.
You flipped the page before anyone could glance over. Then again. And again. Until the drawing was buried deep in the middle of the book.
Amber laughed at something Nick said, and you looked up, forcing your attention back to the moment, tapping your pencil absently on the edge of the sketchbook and telling yourself not to think about him again.
The apartment door creaked open and slammed shut again in one fluid motion, the sound echoing through the quiet living room.
You glanced up from the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, your sketchbook balanced on your knees. The pencil you’d been idly chewing on stilled as Kole strode into the room, hoodie half-zipped, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside.
“Hey,” he said, already halfway to the kitchen. “Just grabbing something to eat real quick, then I’m out.”
You blinked. “Out? Where...”
And then it clicked.
You sat up straighter. “Again? Seriously?”
Kole opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic container, something leftover from the night before. He didn’t even bother microwaving it. Just popped the lid, grabbed a fork, and started eating cold pasta straight from the container.
“Dean told me,” he said between bites, “there’s this guy fighting tonight, maybe Leo? I don't remeber his name. Says he’s got about seventy-five percent odds to win. Can’t pass that up.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “Kole, this shit is not football. It's illegal.”
He snorted. “Come on, don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not. I just…” You trailed off, setting your sketchbook aside. “You’ve been going quite a lot lately.”
“It’s not like I’m fighting,” he said quickly. “I’m just watching. Betting a little. That’s it.”
“That’s still your whole night.”
He paused, chewing slower, eyes flicking toward you. “I’ll be back before midnight.”
“That’s not the point.”
There was a beat of silence.
Kole sighed and set the container down, fork still inside and walked towards you.
“I know you don’t like it,” he said. “But it’s not forever. It’s just... a thing for now.”
You exhaled, crossing your arms. “A ‘thing’ that ends with somebody in the ER.”
He gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Okay?”
You hesitated.
Then, finally, with a tired kind of resignation, you muttered, “Okay.”
“Okay-okay?” he asked, stepping closer. “Like... tranquility okay?”
You let out a reluctant huff of laughter. “I don’t even know what that means.”
Kole leaned down and gave you a light kiss, quick and familiar.
When he pulled back, his face was close, eyes scanning yours for a second like he wanted to say more. But he didn’t.
He just smirked. “I’ll text you if Leo gets knocked out in the first round, alright?”
You rolled your eyes. “Great. Can’t wait.”
He grabbed his keys from the dish near the door, then paused before stepping out.
“See you later, if you'll be still up.”
You didn’t answer. The door shut behind him with a dull click.
A moment passed. Then another.
Outside, the sound of his car engine hummed to life, then faded into the distance.
You sank back onto the couch, staring at the spot where he’d just been. The kiss still lingered faintly on your lips, but it didn’t bring much comfort.
You stayed on the couch for a while, wrapped in your blanket, the TV humming faintly in the background as some random movie played on Netflix. You weren’t really watching it. Every so often, you glanced at your phone, but there were no messages. Just the usual notifications: missed memes from Amber, TikTok updates, a promo email from a store you kept forgetting to unsubscribe from.
Eventually, you gave up on pretending to be invested in the movie and let your thumb wander over your phone screen, watching some tiktoks.
At some point, your eyelids started to droop. You barely noticed when your phone slipped from your hand and landed beside you on the couch. The last thing you remembered was a girl on your screen arguing with her cat.
And then—
bzzz... bzzz...
Your phone lit up, screen vibrating on the cushion.
You blinked awake, confused for a second, your neck stiff from the way you’d slouched into the side of the couch.You reached for your phone and squinted at the caller: Kole.
You answered on the second ring, voice scratchy. “Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice sounded… off.
You sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”
There was a pause.
“I, uh… I’ve got a flat. Like, completely flat. Back right tire’s toast.”
You rubbed your eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I came out for a smoke and it was just… gone. Totally flat. I didn’t even notice at first, until Dean started laughing and pointed it out.”
You frowned. “Did you run over something?”
Another pause. Then: “I don’t think so.”
You stayed silent, waiting.
Kole sighed. “Look, I can’t say for sure, but I think it was the guy who owed me money. From the bet. He didn’t take it well.”
“Are you serious?”
“I didn’t see him do it,” he added quickly. “But he was pissed and acting twitchy. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
You let your head fall back against the couch. “Jesus, Kole.”
“I know. I know. But now I need you to come get me.”
You exhaled slowly, already swinging your legs off the couch. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Late,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t ask if I had any other way back. I swear.”
“I’ll be there in like fifty minutes.”
“You’re the best,” he said, "I'll be inside drinking something with Dean and the others."
"Alright." You hung up and went to grab your keys.
When you arrived, you made sure to park not too close. You didn’t want your car anywhere near the place, not after what had happened to Kole’s.
When you stepped out, the air was cool but it had stopped raining.
Somewhere nearby, water dripped from a pipe in slow, rhythmic taps. As you walked, your sneakers scuffed lightly against the asphalt, each step echoing just enough to make you feel too exposed.
Outside the warehouse, three men lingered. Two were huddled in a corner, cigarettes glowing between their fingers as they murmured to each other in low tones. The third paced slowly while talking into his phone.
You approached the steel door and knocked twice, and the sound echoed, sharp.
You waited.
After a moment, the door cracked open. The same guy from the last time stood there, thick arms crossed. He gave you a once-over, clearly recognizing you. Then he stepped aside.
Inside, no one was fighting, not anymore. The ring sat empty in the center of the room, and around it, clusters of people lounged or leaned against the walls, drinking, laughing and chatting.
You scanned the room. And then you saw him.
Kole was sitting on a worn-out leather couch near the far end with Dean and two other guys you didn’t know. A bottle of something half-empty in his hand, head tipped back in laughter. He didn’t see you. Didn’t even glance toward the entrance.
No urgency in his posture. No guilt. No "I called my girlfriend out of bed at almost 2 a.m. and I'm sorry" energy.
You stayed where you were, trying to decide if you should storm over or just turn around and leave him there for the night.
Then something pulled your attention.
On the far wall, half-obscured behind an old speaker and a stack of folding chairs, was a makeshift gallery, dozens of photos taped up messily, some curling at the edges. All of them from the fights.
Close-ups of broken noses, fists frozen mid-swing, blood spraying in arcs. Some people screaming. Some smiling through bloody teeth.
You stepped closer. And then your eyes landed on one in particular.
Noah.
Frozen in motion. Shirtless, chest covered in tattoos, hands still wrapped, mouth parted like he’d just let out a loud scream for the crowd. He looked flushed, victorious, a cut above his eyebrow barely scabbed.
He almost looked like he belonged here.
Suddenly, a voice behind you made you flinch.
“Ugly, right?”
You turned.
Noah stood a few feet away. Black hoodie. Hood up. Hands deep in the front pocket. His posture relaxed. You hadn’t heard him come up.
He gave a small, crooked smile. “If you want, I can sign it for you."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“No thanks,” you said coolly, nodding once toward the photo. “I don’t need souvenirs.”
Noah’s smirk faded.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
You blinked. “Talk? Thought you didn't want to see me ever again.”
“Just… a minute. Please.”
You crossed your arms, keeping your voice low. “I didn’t come here for you.”
“I know.”
“I came to pick up Kole.”
And yeah, you were still kind of mad at Noah.
Noah’s eyes flicked over your shoulder toward the couch where Kole still sat, now leaning forward, animatedly telling a story to the guy on his right. His bottle swung loosely in his hand. Dean laughed too loudly at something, nearly knocking over a cup balanced on the floor.
Noah raised a brow. “Doesn’t look like he’s in any rush.”
You followed his gaze. And yeah, he wasn’t. Not even close.
Your jaw tightened. You looked back at Noah.
“…Okay,” you said, reluctantly.
He didn’t say anything, just turned toward the exit. As he walked, he paused at the door and pushed it open, then looked over his shoulder, waiting.
You realized he was holding it for you.
You slipped past him in silence, the night air greeting you again with its damp chill. The laughter and noise of the warehouse faded as the door closed behind you with a heavy thunk.
Noah walked a few steps ahead, then turned down the side of the building and toward a short stretch of pavement lined with a single skinny tree. Beneath it, half-hidden in the dark, sat an old wooden bench. It looked warped from weather, one leg slightly uneven, but still standing. Still enough for two.
He gestured to it wordlessly.
You followed. The sound of your footsteps on wet concrete filled the space between you.
And then you sat next to him. For a few moments, neither of you spoke.
“You’re wasting your minute, fighter boy.”
Noah huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh, then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For the other day. I shouldn’t’ve snapped like that.”
You didn’t answer, just kept your eyes forward, watching the way the leaves on the tree above you trembled faintly.
“It’s just…” he went on, “I don’t like certain questions. That’s all. But that’s on me."
You glanced at him, just briefly. His jaw was set, but not in that defensive, shut-everyone-out way he’d had before. It looked more like he was holding something in, like it actually cost him to say that out loud.
You shifted slightly on the bench, crossing one leg over the other.
“It’s your business,” you said, not unkindly. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. Since the first time you saw me, you’ve been… I don’t know. Just, so fucking kind. No one's kind to me around here, not unless they want something.”
He gave a crooked, almost embarrassed smile.
You cleared your throat. “Well, apology accepted,” you said finally. “But mostly because I hope I get to see Alpine again.”
That earned a short laugh from him. “Figured that might be the only way back into your good graces.”
You looked over at him fully now. The hood still shadowed most of his face, but the edge of his mouth was curled up. The tightness around his eyes was less than before, like he was relieved that you were joking again.
“I still think,” he added, “you should stay away. From me. From this place but your boyfriend seems to love it, so I'm not sure I can do something about it now.”
"Yeah. I hate him sometimes." You realized how this sounded just after you said it.
“You ever tell him that?”
You sighed through your nose. “He knows I don't like this. All he does is laugh, make a joke and kiss me like it could fix everything.”
Noah tilted his head, studying you. “So why are you here tonight?”
“Because I still care. And because a flat tire in this part of town at 2 a.m. is a pretty shit situation, even for someone acting like an idiot.”
“Fair.”
After a quiet moment, filled just by the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant voices from inside the warehouse, Noah shifted slightly beside you.
“You work?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked, turned your head halfway toward him. “What?”
He repeated, slower this time, almost like he wasn’t sure it was a weird question. “I asked if you work.”
You gave him a flat look. “Oh, look at that. Mr. ‘You should stay away’ playing Twenty Questions now?”
He laughed, and god, you loved that sound.
It burst out of him unguarded, loose and warm, with that almost high-pitched edge that didn’t suit his face or his body or anything about the way he usually carried himself. But it was real. The kind of laugh you only got out of someone when you caught them off guard in the best way. When they forgot to keep their walls up.
He ducked his head a little like he was embarrassed by it, which only made you smile.
“I’m just curious,” he said, still grinning. “I don’t actually know anything about you.”
“Exactly,” you said, “And I don't about you. That’s the point. You don't tell me shit, why should I?”
He looked at you for a moment.
"If you answer my questions, I'll tell you something about me too."
"This could work."
"Good." He chuckled.
“I work in a tattoo shop,” you said eventually. “Receptionist, mostly. Scheduling, phones, paperwork. I wipe down the floor too.”
He nodded, watching you. “Cool.”
He leaned back a little, shoulder grazing yours for just a second. “You got any pets?”
You let out a breath, half amused, half thoughtful. “No. I wish. But it’s hard, you know? Taking care of something… breathing, alive… in your house.”
He didn’t say anything right away, but you felt him look at you.
Then: “I think you’d do a good job.”
That surprised you. Your eyes slid over to him. “Why?”
He shrugged, barely lifting one shoulder. “Just would. I can tell.”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Come on. You’ve seen me, what? Three times? Don’t start getting poetic on me.”
He turned toward you more fully, eyebrows up. “I’m not being poetic. It’s just true.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean it, you have that.... something in you. Something good.”
You blinked at that. Your mouth opened slightly, like you might say something, but nothing came out at first.
Noah rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I know that came out weird.”
“No, it’s just…” you trailed off, then offered a small smile. “Unexpected.”
He smiled back, just a little.
You gave him a slow nod. “Okay, your turn. Tell me something.”
You expected him to dodge. To crack a joke or say something vague and slippery, keep playing the part of the guy who never lets anyone in. You didn’t expect what actually came next.
Noah looked down at his hands for a moment, thumbs rubbing together, his hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show the scabbed-over edge of a healing scrape.
Then he said, almost too quiet to catch, “I grew up without my dad, I never knew him.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
“My mom died when I was twelve.” He said. “I lived with my grandparents after that. They took me in. They were... good.”
He paused. The silence stretched.
“They’re gone now too.”
You swallowed, your heart heavy all of a sudden. “Noah…”
He shook his head once, not sharply, but like he was brushing something off his own shoulders. “It was a while ago. I was maybe seventeen when my granddad passed. Nana lasted a little longer. After her, I just… started doing this. The fighting. And I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so…”
He trailed off. You didn’t press. You didn’t need to.
There was a long, quiet moment.
Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, like that was enough.
You reached over, without really thinking, and let your fingers brush his sleeve lightly. A small touch. Not much. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch.
You didn't hold his hand, even if you wanted. Didn't even touch it. But that was the closest thing to it you could do right now.
You knew it wasn’t the whole story.
You didn’t know why he kept fighting. Or why he had started in the first place, and why he didn't even consider other job offers.
You didn’t know why he refused help, why if you offered him a way out, he shut the door harder.
But this was a beginning, because he’d opened up, even if just a little.
“No reason you would,” he said quietly. “I don’t talk about it. Not with people here. Not with anyone, really.”
“Why tell me?”
He looked over at you.
"I told you there was something in you, didn't I?"
And just like that, as if you’d both quietly forgotten you were sitting just a few steps from an illegal fight club, where your boyfriend was probably still downing cheap alcohol with his idiot friends, you and Noah ended up talking for almost an hour, in the middle of the night.
The conversation had shifted less heavy aspects of your lives.
You told him about that one guy who came into the shop to get a hyper-realistic portrait of his girlfriend’s face tattooed on his ass cheek.
“Dead serious. Full shading. Dimples and all,” you said, grinning as you mimed the size of it with your hands. “And the worst part? She broke up with him three days later.”
Noah had laughed, really laughed. “That’s tragic. But also, if you’re getting someone’s face permanently inked on your ass, you gotta be prepared for heartbreak.”
Then there was the time you and your best friend got completely lost in Italy, accidentally boarded the wrong train, and ended up two towns over, arguing with a bakery owner who didn’t speak English but kept handing you pastries.
Noah listened, smiling in that quiet way he had, like he wasn’t just hearing the story, but tucking it away somewhere, saving it.
At some point, he’d pulled the hood down from his head and now his hair was falling forward, a little messy, loose in the front.
A few strands framed his face, brushing past his eyes the same way they did in the drawing on your sketchbook.
It softened him somehow. He looked less like the guy who took punches for a living and more like someone who used to be a boy, who maybe still carried the ache of being one.
He told you about his grandma, how when he was a kid, she used to make him peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, just for him.
“She thought they were disgusting,” he said, the fondness in his voice so clear it caught you off guard, “but she made them anyway. Every single time I asked.”
You made a face. “That sounds awful.”
“No,” he said, pretending to be offended. “It’s one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. I swear. The sweet from the peanut butter, the salty and sour from the pickles... it’s... genius.”
“It still sounds kinda gross.”
“I promise it's good,” he countered, a hand over his heart.
You were both smiling now. The kind of easy, involuntary smile that just happens when you’re having a friendly conversation with someone you enjoy spending time with.
He let out a breath, leaning back against the bench with a quiet sound. “I haven’t had one of those in years. Kind of miss it, actually.”
There was something gentle about the way he said it. It was not just about the sandwich, but everything it stood for, like moments spent with someone who loved you and wasn't there anymore, moments of safety, of being looked after.
And you found yourself wanting, absurdly, to find him a jar of peanut butter and the weirdest pickles you could, just to give him that again. Even for five minutes. Even if it was dumb.
You didn’t say that. You just looked at him, watching the way the glow from the streetlight hit the edge of his profile, softening every part of him.
From this angle, side by side, you could see the curve of his nose clearly. Sharp but soft at the same time, the kind of nose that made you want to draw his face over and over again, trace it with your eyes just to memorize the shape. It suited his face in a way that felt unfair. You wondered if it had ever been broken, and if so, how it had healed back still looking like that.
“You’ve got weird taste,” you murmured eventually.
He grinned. “You’ve got no idea.”
You didn’t realize how much time had passed until a sudden breeze cut through the quiet and you reached for your phone out of habit. The screen lit up with the time.
3:12 a.m.
“I should… probably go check on Kole,” you said softly, eyes still on the phone. “It’s past three.”
Noah glanced over, the faint lines of a frown tugging at his brows. “Right,” he said after a second, pushing to his feet. “I’ll come with you.”
Inside, the space had thinned out since you'd left. Most of the crowd was gone, the ring dark and still in the center of the room. A few folding chairs were tipped over. Someone’s hoodie lay abandoned on the floor. Dean was across the room, stacking empty crates with the kind of slow, distracted movement that suggested he'd been drinking too.
Kole was slumped over at a folding table near the corner, head tipped back against the wall, mouth slack. His arms dangled limply at his sides. A scattering of empty bottles formed a loose semicircle around his chair. One had rolled to the floor and lay spinning slightly from the draft you’d let in.
You sighed, already exhausted.
“Kole,” you said, shaking his shoulder gently. “Hey.”
He stirred, barely. Mumbled something incoherent into the collar of his hoodie and turned his face to the side like you were the world’s most annoying alarm clock.
“Kole, come on,” you tried again, voice firmer this time. “We need to go. It’s late.”
He groaned, made a weak attempt at lifting his head, then gave up and slumped back down.
You straightened up slowly as you looked at him, not really knowing what to do.
Behind you, Noah shifted.
You turned and met his eyes.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at Kole, then at you. Then he let out a long breath through his nose. The kind of sigh that said he couldn't care less about your drunk boyfriend, but he still was going to help. For you.
“Take one of his arms,” he said simply, already stepping forward.
You bent down, looping one of Kole’s arms around your shoulder. Noah took the other. Between the two of you, you hauled him upright. His head lolled forward, chin to chest, as dead weight as a sack of wet sand.
Noah adjusted his grip. “I got him,” he murmured, as Kole started saying something like ‘babe… m’fine…’ into the crook of your neck.
You didn’t answer.
And like that, the two of you carried him out into the dark.
Noah’s arms ached faintly from holding Kole up, but he ignored it. The guy was deadweight, reeking of sweat, booze, and some awful cologne.
Still, Noah kept a steady grip, matching your pace as you both half-dragged, half-carried him toward the door.
It had been the first time in years that Noah had opened up to someone. Even just a little. He hadn’t meant to. But with you...he hadn’t felt the usual tightness in his throat when he spoke. You felt safe.
Every time you two talked, just a little longer than the time before, he felt lighter. Like something was slowly being unhooked from inside his chest and set down, piece by piece. He didn’t feel fixed, but he felt better. And that was rare.
He kept thinking about your hand.
About how, for a second out there in the dark, you’d almost taken his. You hadn’t. Your hand had just hovered there for a moment before you brushed his sleeve instead, just the edge of his hoodie, like you’d caught yourself at the last moment. Like you’d remembered who you were supposed to belong to.
But Noah had felt it. That almost.
And now, as he walked beside you in silence, Kole’s weight dragging against him, all he could think about was how it might feel to actually hold your hand.
To feel your fingers, smaller and softer than his, sliding between his. Feel the contrast, your clean skin against his, covered in bruises and tattoos.
Would your hand flinch? Or would it fit?
He tightened his jaw and swallowed the thought.
Because now he was here, helping carry your drunk boyfriend out of a half-empty warehouse at three in the damn morning.
No, he didn’t care about Kole. Not even a little.
He remembered that night in the alley. Kole had looked down at him, grinning like a dumbass, and said thanks for getting his ass kicked so he could win a couple hundred bucks.
The guy didn’t deserve you.
Not your kindness. Not your laugh. Not your touch.
But Kole was still your boyfriend.
And Noah was doing this for you.
Because every goddamn day that passed, it got harder to pretend he didn’t care.
About you.
About the way your eyes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. About how you smiled when he tried to say something funny. About the way you’d sat with him tonight, listened to him, chatted like two people who met under better circumstances and were slowly growing closer.
He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, repeating himself that you still belonged to someone else, and that just because you didn't deserve someone like Kole didn't mean you deserved someone like him.
Noah leaned back as you finally got Kole settled in the passenger seat, the door clicking shut behind his dead weight. The guy slumped immediately against the window, cheek smashed to the glass, mouth slightly open.
You turned back to Noah, exhaling. “Jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your hands over your face.
“I give him... maybe a 3 for effort.” He said.
You snorted, the sound pulling a tiny smile from him. “Generous.”
You glanced at Kole, who made some unintelligible noise and shifted in his seat.
Noah made a face. “I hope he doesn't throw up inside.”
"Trust me, I'm hoping harder than you."
He chuckled and watched you settle into the seat, but you didn’t start the engine right away.
“Night, Noah.”
Noah gave a small nod, stepping back from the car. “Goodnight,” he said. “Drive safe, alright?”
You nodded, then reached out and gently pulled the door shut with a dull thunk.
He stood there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, as your headlights swept across the cracked asphalt.
Noah stayed there until you drove away and he couldn't see your car anymore.
He exhaled, and finally, with one last glance down the empty road, Noah turned and made his way back toward his building.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
Series masterlist
Your best friend showed up twenty minutes late, obviously.
The coffee shop where you waited for her was one of those faux-rustic places with exposed brick, croissants that cost way too much, and an indie playlist always in the background.
She stepped inside with oversized sunglasses on her head even if it wasn't really sunny, blonde hair all messy. A plaid slip dress layered over a chunky cable-knit sweater, knee-high boots that looked like they’d survived a war, and a tiny black purse. For a girl studying fashion, she sometimes wore really unusual outfit combinations.
She spotted you instantly and made her way over.
“You ordered already?” she asked, sliding into the seat across from you with a sigh.
“Are you allergic to mornings, by any chance?” you asked, lifting your cup. “Or is ten a.m. sunrise in Amber World?”
She made a face. “I had to fight my own soul to get out of bed. Be grateful.”
You smirked, already halfway through your first coffee. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“Obviously,” she said, then leaned in a little. “Okay. So. This guy.”
You gave her a look. “I knew you were gonna open with that.”
“I’ve been waiting all night for this story, don’t play coy. You texted me ‘I stripped for a man I met less than an hour ago’ and then ghosted me. Who does that?”
You snorted into your coffee. “I didn’t strip strip.”
Amber raised an eyebrow. “Your shirt came off. That qualifies.”
You leaned back in your seat, shaking your head. “You make it sound so much worse than it was.”
She grinned. “Honey, you don’t need me to make it sound worse.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Fine. So, we go to this underground fight club, don’t even ask me how Kole knows about it. I didn’t even want to go. I thought it’d be stupid. And gross. I’ve seen weird shit before, like that one party where everyone was microdosing on mushrooms, but this?”
You paused. Amber leaned in further.
“This was next level.”
She let out a delighted gasp. “God, I love when your life becomes a movie. Keep going."
So you did, right after Amber order a honey lavender latte with oat milk, and a vegan lemon-blueberry muffin.
You told her about the crowd, the noise, the guy who raised his arms like he was in the damn UFC. You told her about the moment Noah got into the ring, how he looked like he already knew he was going to lose. How it wasn’t even a fair fight and everyone knew.
“How bad was it?” she asked softly.
You shrugged, remembering. “Bad. I left before it ended. I couldn’t watch. Kole was having the time of his life.”
Amber made a face. “Ew.”
“Yeah. So I went outside to get air. And guess who gets tossed out into the alley like trash?”
She blinked. “Noah.”
You nodded.
“He looked... I don’t know. Hurt. Not just physically. Like no one had ever given a shit about him, and he’d stopped giving a shit about himself too.”
Amber’s smirk faded a little. “That’s kinda sad.”
“Yeah, well. The whole thing felt kinda sad.” You paused, wrapping your hands around your coffee cup. “I couldn’t just leave him there like that. I tried to help, didn't really do much.”
Amber was quiet for a second, then said, “So you gave him your shirt.”
You gave her a sheepish look. “It was the only clean fabric I had. What was I supposed to do? Let him bleed all over the pavement?”
She covered her face with her hands, laughing. “You are literally the weirdest person I know. And I say that with love.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
She peeked at you through her fingers. “But also… kind of sweet. In a reckless, vaguely illegal way.”
You sighed. “I didn’t plan it. He was just... different. I don't know, he was... not like Kole.”
By the time you stopped talking, you'd already said it, and you'd made it sound wrong.
Amber was watching you now with that look she always gave when she saw through you a little too easily.
“You like him.”
You almost choked. “I don’t even know him.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
You stayed quiet for a momenti, then muttered, “He asked me not to come back.”
“Did you tell him you probably will anyway?”
You didn’t answer.
Amber raised her cup like a toast, joking. “Well. Say hello from me when you see him again.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m not going back.”
She smiled over the rim of her drink. “You totally are.”
"I told you I'm not."
Amber pulled a piece off her muffin and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “So,” she said, her voice casual but her blue eyes sharp, “What did you two talk about while he tried not to pass out in that alley?”
You sighed, tracing your finger along the rim of your cup. “He barely said anything. Just... thanked me. Asked my name. He said fighting is all he has.”
She whistled low. “So he’s got emotional damage and a probable concussion. Sexy.”
You rolled your eyes. “Amber.”
She held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. Be careful. I know you, don't go back and try to fix him.”
“I’m not trying to fix him,” you said, maybe a little too fast.
“You gave him your shirt.”
“It was a reflex!”
She grinned. “You have weird reflexes.”
“I just...he looked like he needed someone.”
Amber’s expression softened. “And you’ve got a hero complex.”
You shrugged. “Maybe I do.”
Amber nodded, satisfied. “Finally we agree on something. Now tell me one thing, was he at least hot?”
You couldn’t help the way your lips curled. “Amber. He had blood in his hair, one eye was swelling shut, and I’m ninety percent sure he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days.”
Amber leaned back in her chair. “So that’s a yes.”
You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “God, you’re the worst.”
Amber laughed. “And you have a crush on a stranger.”
“I don't.”
“Denial. First stage.”
“I don't!” you said louder, holding your cup up like it could shield you. “It was just one night. One really weird night. And I'm with Kole.”
Amber scoffed again, but let it drop, her boot tapping against the leg of the table in that absentminded way she did when her brain had already moved on to the next thing.
“So, are you free later or is your mysterious alley-boy getting another shirt from you?”
You glared at her. “I’ve got work.”
You'd been working at Nick's Urban Ink Studio for several months now and Amber never seemed to remember.
“Right,” she said. “I always forget you have an actual job.”
“Nick wants the place cleaned top to bottom before the walk-ins start, and I’m the lucky one who gets to mop the floors and wipe down the chairs.”
Amber grinned. “But you still love it.”
“I love being there,” you corrected. “The actual job? Meh. I’m just a tattoo shop receptionist. I answer the phone, book appointments, tell drunk dudes we don’t do dick tats, and clean up ink splatter when someone bleeds too hard.”
She perked up. “Still sounds cooler than anything I’ve ever done. You get to hang out with artists all day.”
“Yeah, well, Nick’s a decent boss. And he lets me play whatever music I want.”
“Did you show him your drawings?”
You let out a small laugh. “No. I have no reason to. He’s the artist, not me.”
“You do really good sketches. You should show him. Maybe he’ll like them and…”
“And what? Give me a promotion? Come on, be serious. All I do is doodle.”
Amber gave you a look like she didn’t believe a word. “You’re way too modest. If it were up to me, you’d already have a whole wall to yourself.”
You just rolled your eyes.
Amber rested her chin on her hand, watching you. “You think he’d let me book an appointment?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You trying to get inked?”
“I was thinking something small. Like... a butterfly.”
You tilted your head. “A butterfly?”
Amber shrugged. “Something on my arm. Tiny. Simple. I don’t know. Symbol of transformation and all that crap.”
“Well, Nick would definitely do a good job. I’ll check his schedule later. See when he’s free."
"Cool. Let me know."
You finished the last sip of your now-cold coffee and stood, grabbing your bag. “Alright, I better go if I don’t want Nick to threaten me with the steam cleaner again.”
Amber wasn’t done.
“You think I’ll get a discount because I know you?” she called after you.
You paused, glancing back with a smirk. “Nick doesn’t even give discounts to people he knows.”
Amber threw her hands up. “What kind of boss is that?”
“The serious kind,” you said, grinning as you pushed the door open.
She laughed, waving as you walked toward the door. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to charm him instead.”
You shook your head, waving back. “Good luck with that.”
You stepped into your house after work, just as the late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows in warm beams. You sighed, hanging your bag on the coat rack by the door.
Kole was still at work. His shift at the warehouse stretched late, and he was probably still stacking shelves and sorting shipments at the sprawling department store, the one that sold everything from clothes to kitchen goods, random trinkets, and sometimes those odd gadgets no one really needed.
You changed into more comfortable clothes and started picking up the ones Kole had left scattered around the living room: his hoodie tossed over the arm of the couch, a wrinkled shirt half-hanging off the edge of the chair, and then a pair of jeans balled up on the floor of your bedtogether.
As you grabbed the jeans to toss them in the laundry basket, something cold and metallic slipped out of the pocket and landed on the floor with a soft clink.
You paused, crouching down and picking it up. A silver bracelet.
For a moment, your brain froze.
You had completely forgotten Kole had taken it.
You rolled it between your fingers, the metal cool and heavy against your skin.
You remembered promising Amber you wouldn’t go back to find him, that morning. You kind of tried to promise yourself that, too.
But here it was. His bracelet.
In your hands.
You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it. It didn't look really expensive. You weren't an expert, but it looked more like silver than white gold, probably wouldn't get more than fifteen dollars if someone tried to sell it.
You leaned back against the bedframe and stared up at the ceiling, the last of the golden light slipping across the room. You could already hear Amber in your head again, saying “I told you so”.
And yeah, maybe this wasn’t the smartest idea. Maybe it was reckless, unnecessary, and you were asking for trouble just by thinking about finding him.
But honestly? You were almost relieved to have a reason to go looking for him.
Even if, technically, you had no idea where to start.
Unfortunately, your next completely free day was six days away, so you had no choice but to wait.
Kole started his shift early every day, 7 a.m, and he wouldn’t be home until late.
You already knew what you were going to do, you just had to be patient now.
Noah didn’t have a home.
Not really.
What he had was a place to crash. A half-dead building on the outskirts of the city, not far from where the underground fights usually happened. It had been abandoned for years, and whatever it once was, a factory, gym, or school, had been swallowed by time.
The outside was overgrown with weeds and tagged in layers of graffiti. Half the windows were shattered, and inside, the air smelled like concrete and rust.
Still, it was quiet. Empty. And no one bothered him there.
He lived in the biggest room, the one with high ceilings and beams that creaked when the wind pushed too hard. He’d swept it clean the day he claimed it, years ago, shoved the trash and broken glass into a corner and pretended it didn't exist anymore.
A mattress sat in the far end of the room, thin and lopsided but enough to sleep on. A few crates acted as makeshift furniture. He’d dragged in a desk lamp, found one working outlet in the wall, and sometimes it even turned on.
At night, it got cold in the building. The wind cut through the broken windows and the walls didn’t hold heat. He’d sleep under layers of old blankets, wearing half his clothes, listening to the sound of water dripping through the pipes. The showers ran cold no matter what.
In the center of the room, hanging from a chain that once held god knows what, was a punching bag. Old and worn. But it did the job.
That was where he was now, throwing punches with all the strength he had. The bag swung gently under each hit. His hands were wrapped, his breath uneven.
It had been almost a week since his last match; his ribs still ached, but nothing like that first day, and the swelling on his face had gone down a lot.
It had also been nearly a week since he’d seen you.
Because of course, his mind kept circling back to you.
He gritted his teeth and threw another jab.
He’d expected disgust. Pity, maybe. But you hadn’t looked at him like that. You’d looked... concerned. Maybe even scared, but not of him.
And then, the softness. The way you touched him, carefully, like you thought you might hurt him more if you weren’t gentle enough. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him without anger behind it.
He kept remembering the feeling of your hand against his skin, the way your fingertips brushed his cheek when you moved his hair away from his face when he was still on the ground.
Even with blood dripping from his nose, his vision blurred, his ears ringing, he’d felt it. Clearly.
Even when you didn’t know what to do, you tried. He hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t deserved it, and still, you were there.
His hands dropped from the bag, arms burning slightly from the repetition. He leaned forward, resting his weight against it, forehead pressed into the worn leather.
That moment stuck with him more than he wanted to admit.
He shouldn’t have cared. He didn’t know you, and you probably were just a good person trying to do the right thing.
The problem was you weren’t supposed to care either. But you did.
And now you were stuck in his head. Not the way the fights got stuck, not like bruises or pain, not like the bad memories that kept him up at night, leaving him staring at the ceiling of that shitty place. You were a different kind of ache.
Either way, it didn’t really matter what you’d done. He wasn’t going to see you again, for both your sakes.
He sighed and let the bag sway gently under his weight.
Breathless and sore, Noah let himself fall back onto the mattress he slept on every night. It was still early morning, but he just needed a moment to rest.
He lay there, one arm draped over his stomach, the other flung out beside him, trying not to think too hard about anything.
And then he felt it, something soft brushing against his leg.
At first, he didn’t move. Just blinked up at the ceiling, letting a tired, amused smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey, Alpine.”
A quiet meow answered him.
A small white kitten climbed onto the mattress, and then up Noah’s chest, finally curling into a perfect little circle right against his chest. She purred immediately.
Noah lifted one hand, still wrapped from the bag work, and gently scratched behind Alpine’s ear. The kitten leaned into the touch, eyes already fluttering closed.
It had been about three months since Alpine first showed up. Just a scrawny, half-feral thing lurking near the building, bones too visible under patchy fur. Noah didn’t know where she’d come from, maybe abandoned by a family when they moved, maybe tossed away by a stray mother who couldn’t feed her.
He just saw her, so small and shaking, and left out a crust of bread that first day. The next day, it was half a can of tuna. Then a towel in the corner of the room. Then a name.
Now Alpine was basically his roommate.
Noah didn’t have much. Not by a long shot.
People tended to think that when he won a fight, he walked away with some huge pile of cash. That wasn’t true. The organizers took most of the money, the crowd bet against each other, and what Noah ended up with was just enough to keep from starving in that abandoned building, and maybe afford the occasional new piece of clothing.
But what little he did have, he shared. A corner of the mattress, old blankets, and sometimes the last dollar in his pocket, traded for cheap cat food at the bodega two blocks away. It was worth it.
Because Alpine was soft, and warm, and didn’t ask questions. And on the days Noah could barely stand to look in the mirror, the kitten still climbed into his lap and purred like she was safe.
Like maybe he wasn’t a total lost cause.
The first time Alpine slept curled up on Noah’s chest, it really caught him off guard. He’d just gotten back from a fight, sore and half-asleep on the mattress when he felt something small and warm settle against him. At first, he thought he was imagining it, but then he heard the soft purring.
The tiny creature had found her little place on him. She looked at him once, blinked slow, then tucked herself in and didn’t move. And Noah just lay there, completely still, because for the first time in a long while, something had chosen to stay close to him.
And that became kind of an habit.
He let his head sink deeper into the thin pillow, Alpine rising and falling with every slow breath.
Noah closed his eyes for a moment.
Just as he was on the verge of falling asleep again, he heard an unusual noise coming from somewhere in the building.
It sounded like footsteps.
It had been six days.
Kole hadn’t brought up the fights again, or the betting. But you knew he was still talking to Dean, and some of the other guys who hung around that place. You heard the names, caught little pieces of conversations he didn’t realize you were paying attention to. And even if he was quiet now, you could tell he’d go back soon.
You woke up when you heard the front door click shut. Kole leaving early for his shift at the warehouse.
You listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, then sat up and got ready. You pulled on jeans, your favorite old hoodie, slipped your phone into your pocket, and the bracelet. Then you headed out.
It took nearly an hour to get there. Back to the part of the city where the fight had taken place. The drive felt longer than it was, probably because you kept thinking about what you were even doing. You had no plan. No address. No reason to believe he’d be anywhere near the place at this hour. It wasn’t even nine in the morning.
You parked a little way down the street, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. The area didn’t feel like the kind of place where people should linger if they didn’t belong.
The buildings here were tired. Not quite ruins, but definitely neglected, with graffiti stained every wall, many windows were either boarded up or broken, and the streets were cracked, patched in places where the city had given up halfway through fixing them. Trash collected in corners. It looked like the kind of place people forgot existed.
You got out of the car and looked around, unsure of where to even begin. The warehouse where the fight happened was quiet now, its entrance sealed shut with a heavy chain. You stared at it for a second, then sighed.
What were you going to do?
You had nothing to go on. Just a name. No number. No clue where he might be.
A sudden sound caught your attention.
Two kids, maybe ten years old, maybe younger, were playing with a soccer ball a few buildings down. They kicked it against a wall and chased after it with laughter. You hesitated for a second, then started walking toward them, keeping your hands in your pockets.
They noticed you when you got close, their game slowing as they eyed you with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. You weren’t from around here. That much was obvious. You could see it in their guarded expressions.
“Hey,” you said softly, trying your best not to sound like someone they should run from. “Can I ask you something real quick?”
They looked at each other. "Sure."
You hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and asked, “Do you happen to know a guy named Noah Sebastian? Tall, dark hair, lots of tattoos?”
That sounded so stupid.
The two kids exchanged quick glances, whispering back and forth just out of your hearing. After a moment, one of them looked up and asked cautiously, “Why are you looking for him?”
“He lost something. I just want to give it back to him.”
They muttered between themselves again, then the other kid nodded and pointed down the street toward a worn-down building a little ways off, but still clearly visible from where you stood.
“He usually hangs out there,” the first one said, watching you carefully.
You nodded. “Thank you so much.”
They gave a small, almost shy smile in return, and you turned toward the building they’d indicated, feeling more and more anxious.
You reached it in some minutes. The paint was peeling, it looked covered in dirt, and the heavy metal door was firmly shut. You pressed your hand against it, testing the handle, but it didn’t budge.
For a moment, you wondered if maybe he’d found a key somewhere inside and locked it behind him. Now the door was closed, and you didn’t even know if he was inside at all. Standing there, you felt a sudden feeling of uncertainty, what if you’d come all this way for nothing?
Then your eyes caught a window, cracked open just enough to slip through. It was a little too high to reach from the ground… unless…
Before you fully registered the thought, you found yourself dragging a rusty trash bin across the cracked pavement. At nine in the morning on your day off, here you were, preparing to climb into an abandoned building through a window. That was probably the moment you realized you had lost your mind.
You steadied the bin, climbed up carefully, and then pulled yourself through the opening, landing on your feet on the other side.
You looked around. The space was vast, shadows stretching into dark corners, with long, empty corridors leading off in several directions. The faint echoes of your footsteps bounced softly from the high, cracked ceilings.
You paused, listening. And there it was, a faint noise coming from somewhere deeper inside, from a larger room down one of the hallways.
You hadn’t even stepped fully inside when you heard his voice. He sounded calm.
“I know you’re here.”
You froze for a second, then stepped in.
There he was, standing tall in the middle of the room, shadowed by the soft golden morning light filtering through the broken windows. He looked different from the last time you saw him. Definitely in better shape, wearing a white tank this time. The swelling on his face had gone down, the bruises faded just a bit, and he stood steady on his feet. Did fighters healed quicker than other people?
“Hi.”
The faintest smirk appeared on his lips.
“I thought I told you it was better if you stayed away from all this."
You shrugged lightly, trying not to look as out of breath as you felt.
“Yeah, well. I’ve never been great at listening. My elementary school teacher always told me that.”
That earned a soft huff of amusement from him. “So you grew up breaking into buildings on your free time?”
“Only when I’m trying to return lost property,” you said, pulling the bracelet from your pocket and holding it up between two fingers. “Thought maybe you’d want this back."
He blinked at it, silent for a moment. Then, “Didn’t expect to see that again. I thought your boyfriend was already showing it off as an extra win.”
“Didn’t expect to be crawling through a window to meet an underground fighter, and here we are.”
When he reached you, his fingers brushed yours as he took the bracelet. You felt it in your chest more than you should have.
“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter now. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here for that.”
You watched him secure the bracelet around his wrist with one hand and shrugged. “I didn’t come all the way out here just for this.”
He gave you a look.
You shifted your weight.
“You’ve been stuck in my head for six days for some reason and it was getting really annoying. So I wanted to check if you were actually still alive.”
His brows lifted, clearly not expecting that. “Wow. That might be the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”
You smiled. “I’m full of surprises.”
He looked at you for a moment longer, then he laughed, and something about the sound of it made your chest ache in the weirdest, warmest way. He looked younger when he smiled like that. Softer. Almost boyish.
“Well,” he said, still grinning, “If I knew breaking my face and almost chocking on my own blood in a dark alley was all it took to get a pretty girl's attention, I would’ve done it sooner.”
Had he really just flirted with you? Did he actually call you pretty?
“Please don’t,” you said quickly. “Your face is just starting to look like a face again. Would be a shame to ruin the progress.”
His grin widened at that. “So you do think my face is worth saving.”
You scoffed. “Don’t push it.”
He made a show of pretending to think. “No, yeah, I think I will. You broke into a building for me. I'm invested now.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the corner of your mouth from tugging upward. “I mainly broke into a building to give you the bracelet back.”
“Right. Of course,” he said, slowly. “That makes way more sense. Has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been thinking about me for six days.”
Your eyes narrowed, playful. “You’re a lot cockier when your nose isn’t kinda broken and you're losing blood all over.”
He chuckled again, and then, after a moment, he tilted his head like he’d just remembered something.
“Speaking of that,” he said, and turned away.
You watched as he walked toward the far corner of the room, where a big gym bag rested against the wall. He crouched down beside it, and as he moved, he placed a hand on his ribs, a gesture that hinted they still hurt, though he did a good job hiding the pain.
He unzipped it, and rummaged around for a moment. When he stood again, he had something in his hands.
He walked back toward you, holding it up to show it was clean now.
Your shirt.
“I took it to a laundromat,” he said, holding it out. “Heavy-duty wash. Twice.”
You blinked, reaching for it automatically. It was soft, smelled faintly of detergent. You looked back up at him.
“So,” you said slowly, squinting at him. “You were hoping to see me again. Or you wouldn't have bothered."
He smirked, but shook his head. “Nah. But I figured I’d see you again sooner or later. You looked like the stubborn type.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Your gaze wandered around the space.
He noticed, then scratched the back of his neck.
“Yeah,” he said, half a laugh in his voice, “I wasn’t expecting company. Didn’t exactly clean up.”
You gave a small smile. “It’s okay. Do you live here?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
You nodded slowly, not quite sure what to say as your eyes lingered on the mattress.
“It’s… not exactly a palace,” he added, almost like he was trying to make you feel more comfortable. “But it’s mine, I guess.”
“I’ve definitely seen worse,” you said.
He raised a brow. “Yeah?”
You gave a light shrug. “There was this one motel Kole dragged me to on a road trip. Bedbugs. Shower didn’t work. I had to sleep in a hoodie with the drawstrings pulled so tight I looked like a turtle.”
He chuckled and it echoed a little in the open space, as that boyish look flashed over him again.
You were just about to say something else when a sudden, soft meow came from somewhere behind Noah.
Your eyes shifted past him, and a moment later, a white cat emerged from somewhere in room, fluffy and a bit dirty. She padded over without hesitation, brushing up against Noah’s leg in a slow motion before moving toward you.
Your entire expression shifted.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, crouching slightly. “She’s so cute. Are you kidding me?” You held out your fingers. “Look at her little face. I’m gonna cry.”
Noah huffed out something that might’ve been a little laugh. “She’s Alpine.”
You looked up at him and then at the kitten again. “Hi, Alpine,” you said softly, and crouched all the way down to run your hand along her back.
“She’s so pretty,” you added, glancing up at him again. “You didn’t tell me you had company here.”
“She showed up some months ago,” he said. “Didn’t leave. I figured if she wanted to stay that bad, she could.”
Your hand paused on Alpine’s head. “Smart girl.”
“She eats better than I do.”
You smiled to yourself and gave Alpine another affectionate scratch.
“So, how did you find me? How did you know I lived here?” He asked as something caught the cat's attention across the room and she scurred away.
“Two kids were playing with a ball on the street, like a block over." You said as you stood up again, "I asked them if they’d seen someone tall and covered in tattoos named Noah Sebastian and one of them just pointed this way.”
Noah let out a groan and dragged a hand down his face.
“Miles and Theo,” he muttered. “Of course. I’ve told them, like, a hundred times that if anyone comes around asking about me, they’re supposed to say they’ve never seen me in their lives.”
You laughed. “They weren’t very convincing liars.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“How do you even know them?”
“They don't live far, and their mom used to clean the fight place for a while,” he explained. “Last year. Just a few nights a week. One day she had to go into the city for something. She asked me to watch the kids for a few hours.”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I figured it’d be a nightmare. But they were actually... kinda cool. Little goblins. Thought I was some kind of superhero for knowing how to throw a punch.”
You tilted your head. “So you stayed in touch?”
“Sort of.” He shrugged. “I often run into them on the street or at the gas station where we buy snacks. Taught Theo how to wrap his hands without cutting off circulation. Now they think I’m the coolest person alive because I let them swear when their mom’s not around.”
You snorted. “That's irresponsible adulting.”
“I mean, I try my best.”
“Sounds like they really like you, though.” you said, "And kids are pretty good judges of character.”
He looked over at you, something unreadable passing through his expression. A flicker of surprise, maybe. Or discomfort.
“Yeah, well,” he said after a second, voice quieter, “they don’t know me that well.”
You didn't know what to say. You didn’t know him, you didn’t know his story or how he ended up fighting, and you couldn’t pretend you were in any position to judge him.
He slowly walked over to the mattress, crouched down, peeled the hand wraps from his knuckles, and tossed them onto the rumpled blankets with a careless flick of his wrist. You watched him move, the easy tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles moved under his tattoos.
It struck you that, for all the sarcastic and smart remarks, there was something about him that felt… held together with duct tape and thread.
“You don’t give yourself much credit, do you?” you asked.
He didn't answer right away. Just sat down on the edge of the mattress and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together absently like he needed something to do with his hands.
“Credit’s for people who earn it,” he said eventually, not looking at you.
You took a slow step closer. “You think you haven’t?”
He gave a humorless laugh under his breath, then finally looked up at you. “I don’t know what version of me those kids see. Or you, for that matter. But it’s not the whole story.”
You hesitated for a moment, then asked quietly, “Why do you fight, Noah?"
He stiffened.
“Let’s not do this, okay?” he said, voice firm. “We’re not friends. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. You gave me the bracelet and I gave you your shirt. I think it’s better if this stops now.”
And just like that, his playful, almost flirty way of talking to you was conpletely gone. He sounded like somebody else.
You nodded slowly, but couldn’t let it drop that easily. “If it’s because of the money—”
He cut you off with a sharp glance.
“I know people,” you continued, ignoring the warning. “In the city. Nick from the mechanic shop is looking for someone. Jolly from the music store too. There are jobs you could do. Things better than… fighting.”
He gave you a look that was equal parts amused and skeptical, and suddenly the friendly way he had spoken to you until a few minutes before had completely vanished.
“What makes you think I want to stop?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the question.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “I guess I just assumed…”
“That this was a last resort?” he said, and there was something sharp under the words. “That I’d crawl out of this fucking life the second someone dangled a job in front of me?”
You opened your mouth to respond, then closed it again.
“Noah, I didn’t mean—”
He stood, slow but sudden.
“I still fight" he said flatly, "because I still want to,”
You searched his face, hoping for some flicker of softness, of humor, but there was none now.
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, tone clipped. “But I’m not looking to be saved.”
You stayed silent for a moment.
“I wasn’t trying to save you,” you said, then. “I just thought… maybe you deserved a way out. If you ever wanted one.”
He let out a breath. “I don’t deserve shit,” he said. “And definitely not from you.”
You felt your chest tighten. “I really don’t understand.”
He snapped, the words coming fast and louder than before.
“Then stop trying to!”
The silence that followed his words felt so loud. His eyes were hard now, jaw clenched, like he regretted saying it, but not enough to take it back. He ran a hand through his hair.
You didn’t flinch. You just looked at him, quietly, and said, “Okay.”
A moment of silence filled the space between you. “Maybe it’s better if I leave.” You added.
“Maybe it is,” he said quietly.
You glanced toward the main door at the end of the hallway, then looked back at him.
“Do you have the key?”
Without responding, he turned toward the mattress. He crouched, reached for the worn bag at the foot of the "bed", and rummaged through it. A moment later, he pulled out the small keyring and tossed it toward you.
You caught it in the air without thinking.
The cold metal pressed into your palm, and for a second, you just stared down at it.
You thought maybe you should say something, maybe just "bye."
But nothing came out.
So you turned toward the door, your clean shirt still in one of your hands, without looking back, even if you felt his eyes on you all the time.
You dropped the keys on the floor beside the door after you unlocked it, and as your hand touched the doorknob, a single thought echoed in your head.
Maybe you should’ve just kept the bracelet and stayed home.
As you closed the door behind you, you heard the dull, rhythmic thud of a fist slamming into the punching bag, again and again, each hit louder.
Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
It was hidden deep in a forgotten corner of the industrial district, tucked between rows of abandoned warehouses and loading docks long out of use. It had no sign, barely any light, nothing that marked it as anything but another slab of concrete and rust.
The only hint that something was happening inside were the muffled voices coming through the metal door and the occasional chatting of people slipping in.
You stepped out of the car and pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. The wind bit through your sleeves, but Kole didn’t seem to feel it. He was already circling the front of the car with a grin plastered on his face, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he was trying to play it cool.
He was dark-haired, his eyes green, dressed in black from head to toe except for the gray jacket he always wore. A trace of stubble darkened his jaw, the kind that came from not bothering to shave for at least two days.
“Come on,” he said. “Don’t be weird about it.”
You didn’t move right away. Your eyes lingered on the building.
Could you still walk away? Pretend you weren’t about to watch two men try to kill each other while strangers bet on who’d bleed the least?
Kole bumped your shoulder lightly.
“I told you, this place is insane. You’ve never seen anything like it."
You gave him a flat look. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
He laughed.
“C'mon. I’ve got two hundred on the guy fighting tonight. Undefeated. Everyone’s saying he’s a beast, fast as hell, never goes down.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And if he does?”
Kole grinned wider. “He won’t.”
He reached for your hand and gave it a squeeze, then started toward the building. You followed, reluctantly. The gravel crunched under your boots as you crossed the lot, the only sound besides those muffled voices growing louder the closer you got.
As you neared the metal door, someone slipped out, a man in a black hoodie, talking fast on a phone, his head down. He looked angry, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying. You wondered if he’d lost a bet, or if someone had tricked him somehow.
You hadn’t even stepped inside yet, and you already hated the place.
Kole knocked twice.
A slot in the door slid open with a metallic rasp. A pair of sharp eyes peered out. They flicked to Kole, then to you, then back again.
Kole spoke first. “We’re good. Dean’s expecting me.”
Dean was one of the organizers of the illegal fights, a guy your boyfriend had met a few months earlier and seemed to have quickly become close with. He was the one who had introduced Kole to that world, telling him it was fun and that you could make good money if you knew how to bet, and bet with the right people. Kole had already been to three matches without you before that night.
A pause. Then the door creaked open just wide enough for the two of you to slip inside.
You were struck by the smell first: a mix of sweat, beer, smoke, metal (you wondered if it was blood, and you hoped not) and weed.
The place was big and the walls were streaked with faded graffiti and tinted yellow, like the place had been dipped in old whiskey. The ceiling was high, with led lights casting a warm glow over the room.
People were packed in tight, standing, laughing, drinking.
The ring at the centre wasn’t a ring at all. It was a square outlined with chain and caution tape, the floor inside scuffed and stained in too many places to count.
Kole tugged your arm.
“Come on. We need to get closer before it fills up.”
You didn’t move.
“Kole, this—”
“It’s fine,” he cut you off. “Just stick close to me.”
You let him pull you through the crowd. The voices got louder. You caught fragments of conversation, names, bets, someone bragging about how much cash they’d put down.
A man passed by with a clipboard, calling out something over the music. People handed over bills without hesitation.
You found a spot near the makeshift ring, the crowd pressing in tight all around.
Suddenly, Dean appeared beside Kole, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man,” he said with a grin. Then his eyes shifted to you. “Finally! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added, nodding in your direction.
Kole smiled and introduced you quickly, but you barely caught the words over the noise.
Dean turned back to Kole. “Placed your bet?”
“Two hundred.”
Dean nodded, a knowing smile crossing his face. “Good call. Sebastian doesn’t stand a fucking chance tonight.”
Kole grinned wider. “Then everyone betting on him’s crazy. But good for me.”
Before you could say anything, someone called Dean’s name from behind. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Kole.
“I gotta go. Enjoy the show,” he said, clapping Kole on the shoulder once more before disappearing into the crowd.
You turned back to Kole, trying to find some kind of comfort. He caught your eyes and gave you a reassuring smile.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll get used to it.”
You glanced around. The crowd was mostly men, gruff, loud, sizing each other up or lost in their bets. A few women were scattered through the room. One was pressed against a wall in the far corner, kissing a man fiercely. Another laughed with a bottle clutched in her hand.
As you were still scanning all the people in that place, Kole spoke again, his mouth close to your ear, his voice low so only you could hear. “There, see that guy? That’s Sebastian. Or Noah, whatever you wanna call him.” He nodded toward a tall figure on the other side of the room with his back mostly turned, speaking quietly to another man.
He had broad shoulders but didn’t look too muscular, he wore a black tank top and seemed covered in tattoos. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and he lifted a hand to brush some strands out of his eyes.
He had a silver bracelet around one wrist, something simple that caught the light when he moved, and both his hands were wrapped in black tape.
His tattoos, unlike some of the harsher ones you'd seen around the place, looked almost softer, though you couldn’t make out the details clearly, they seemed to be flowers and leaves wrapped around his arms.
He turned around, and for a moment, his brown eyes met yours. They looked tired but not cold, just like someone who’d been through a lot and had nothing left to lose.
Kole didn’t seem to notice.
There was something softer about him, and not only the way his tattoos looked. Something that didn’t quite fit the image he was trying to project. He looked like someone playing the part of the scary fighter because it was expected of him, not because that was really him.
Then, he shifted his weight and turned slightly, continuing his conversation with the man in front of him like he’d never looked at you at all.
You leaned in a little closer to Kole, still watching the guy across the room. “Why are you so sure he’s gonna lose tonight?”
Kole gave a short laugh under his breath, like the answer was obvious. “Because you haven’t seen the guy he’s fighting yet.”
You opened your mouth to ask another question, but before you could get the words out, a loud metallic clang rang out, not quite a bell, more like someone slamming a steel bar against a pipe. The noise cut through the music and chatter, and almost instantly everyone turned toward the ring, voices rising and shouting.
You saw Noah stepping toward the makeshift ring, his movements calm, almost slow. He climbed through the chain barrier with ease, black-taped hands flexing slightly as he adjusted his stance.
Then his opponent followed.
If Noah was tall, around 6’3”, the other guy was towering. At least 6’8”, maybe more, and built like he was carved from concrete. His arms were huge, veins visible even from where you stood. He looked strong and he moved like he was sure he was going to win.
And just like that, it made sense.
You suddenly understood why Kole had bet against Noah. Why everyone probably had.
Because standing next to this guy, Noah really looked like he had no chance.
Noah stood still, head slightly lowered, hands loose at his sides. The other guy rolled his shoulders back and flexed his neck like he couldn’t wait to tear something apart.
Then the signal came.
No bell. No referee. They weren't even wearing boxing gloves or any dental protection. Just a shouted “Go!” from somewhere in the crowd, and they moved.
Noah darted forward first. Fast. Faster than you'd expected. He closed the space between them in a second and ducked low, slipping just under a wide punch that would’ve taken his head off. He twisted to the side and landed a quick jab to the ribs, nothing extremely heavy, but enough to make the bigger man grunt and pivot.
They circled.
Noah stayed moving, fast on his feet. The other guy was slower, but every swing he threw felt like it could break bone if it landed.
For a while, it was just movement. Dodging. Glancing hits. The thud of fists against ribs, the crack of footfalls on the stained floor. The crowd screamed every time someone got close to landing something big.
And then, Noah misjudged the angle, maybe by an inch. He went in again, too close this time, and the bigger man caught him.
A punch to the side of his face.
You heard it. That awful, heavy crack of skin on bone.
Noah’s head snapped sideways and he staggered. But before the cheers could even rise, he twisted back with a elbow that landed against the other man’s jaw. A small payback.
It wasn’t enough.
The bigger man slammed his shoulder forward, knocking Noah off balance, and then another hit, straight to the stomach. Noah went down.
He hit the floor hard, one hand catching himself, but there wasn’t time. The next punch came before he could stand. Then another.
Each one landed with a sickening sound, like something breaking.
Noah's opponent took a step back, chest heaving, not from exhaustion, but like he was just getting warmed up.
He turned slightly, raising both arms above his head, palms open as if inviting the crowd to praise him.
And they did. People screamed a name you couldn’t understand, drinks were thrown into the air, fists pounded the chains of the makeshift ring.
Noah pushed himself up again. Blood dripped from his mouth. He swayed on his feet.
The bigger man didn’t wait.
As soon as Noah was back on his feet, blood painting his chin, the other guy launched forward like a freight train.
A kick slammed into Noah’s side.
Noah’s body twisted before crashing to the ground with a thud, skidding across the floor.
He landed right in front of you.
You flinched, instinctively stepping back.
Something slid across the concrete, his bracelet. The silver one that had caught the light earlier. It had somehow come loose in the fall and now scraped its way toward Kole’s boots, stopping just against the toe of his black shoe.
Kole crouched down quickly and snatched it up.
You turned to him, staring. “That’s not yours.”
He grinned, holding the bracelet up between his fingers, letting it dangle in the air like a prize. “This night just keeps getting better, huh?”
“Kole, you can't —”
“I didn’t steal it,” he cut in, slipping the bracelet into his pocket. “I found it. On the ground. Finders keepers.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came out.
Noah was still on the floor, coughing, trying to push himself up again. His blood smeared the concrete just inches from your boots.
Noah pushed himself up again, barely. One knee under him, a hand gripping his ribs like it might keep them from shattering altogether. For a second, he found his footing enough to swing another punch.
But the other man saw it coming. He ducked easily, a smug grin stretching across his face like he was enjoying every second of this.
Then he drove a brutal fist into Noah’s ribs.
The sound was sickening, like a crack, or maybe just your imagination, but either way, it made your stomach turn. Noah dropped again, folding over his midsection, arms wrapped around his stomach as he collapsed.
He didn’t even have time to catch his breath before the other fighter was on top of him.
Straddling his chest, pinning him down, and throwing another punch at his face.
Noah tried to block it, but his arms were too slow.
And he punched him again.
His head jerked to the side.
And again.
Blood sprayed against the stained concrete.
He squirmed beneath the weight, tried to raise a hand to hit back, but the punches kept coming.
The crowd cheered and shouted.
But all you could see was a man covered in blood.
On the ground.
Defenseless.
Getting his face caved in.
There was so much blood.
It didn’t even look like a fight anymore. It looked like an attack.
The man on top had already won. It was obvious. Noah wasn’t resisting, wasn’t fighting back, wasn’t even moving anymore. Just jerks and spasms with every blow to his face or stomach.
And no one was stopping it.
You wondered what the rules were. If there were any.
You felt something twist in your stomach. Your mouth went dry.
You couldn’t breathe.
“I need air,” you said, barely loud enough to hear yourself.
Kole turned his head, distracted. “What?”
“I said,” you snapped, louder now, “I need air.”
And then you were moving, shoving through the crowd.
No one probably even noticed.
You were just one more body in the way.
You pushed past shoulders, dodged a man holding a beer who didn’t even glance at you.
You spotted a door at the back.
You hoped it was the exit.
You pushed it open and stumbled into the night.
The door creaked shut behind you with a dull clang, muffling the noise of the crowd just enough that you could finally think. The air outside was cold and sharp, but you welcomed it. It smelled way better than the stink of sweat and blood and beer inside.
The alley stretched out in both directions, empty and quiet. A few scattered streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting pools of pale yellow light that flickered slightly.
Trash bins lined the wall, dented and overflowing in places. A broken pallet leaned against a fence, a cracked bottle near the curb, glittering faintly.
You walked a few steps and sank down onto the edge of the curb. The concrete was cold beneath you. You pulled your coat tighter, but it didn’t help much. You stared at the ground, and you breathed.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Your heart was still racing, and your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
What you saw in there, wasn’t even sport.
You tried to understand it. Why people would come here. Why they’d want to watch someone get beaten half to death for fun. For money.
Did they ever think about what it looked like after the lights went off? After the winner walked away, and the loser just... stayed down?
You swallowed.
You wondered if anyone had ever died in that ring. If anyone even cared.
It was nothing like the movies. There, the blood was fake and the bruises washed off.
People cheered because they knew it wasn’t real.
But this?
This was real, and it fucking sucked even just being there, even just watching.
You were still sitting there, hunched over, trying to breathe, when the door behind you burst open with a loud clang.
You flinched.
Two men stepped out, each one gripping Noah by an arm. His feet dragged limply behind him, feet scraping over the concrete. His head hung forward, chin against his chest, and his hair, dark and sweat-slicked, clung to his forehead in wet strands. His face was a mess of blood and swelling. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his cheek was split open. Blood dripped from his nose and his mouth.
They barely even looked at you. One of them opened his hand and shoved Noah forward like he was nothing but trash.
He hit the pavement hard, the sound awful and dull, and then he didn’t move.
Just crumpled there. One arm bent awkwardly beneath him, the other lying useless at his side.
Then the men turned and went back inside, letting the door slam shut behind them.
You stayed silent for a moment, the only sound in your ears the quick thump of your heartbeat. He didn’t move. Not at all. For a fleeting second, your mind raced with the worst thought: maybe he was dead.
Slowly, you inched closer, careful not to rush or startle him. His face was pressed against the cold concrete, one cheek resting flat on the rough surface while the other was hidden beneath tangled strands of dark hair.
You dropped to your knees beside him, your heart still pounding in your chest. “Please, tell me you’re not dead,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.
Gently, you brushed the hair away from his face with your fingers, trying not to hurt him even more.
His eyelids fluttered open just as your hand made contact, but he didn’t look in your eyes.
“Not yet,” he mumbled.
A small relief washed over you.
He didn’t try to move. He just laid there, face bruised, lips split, blood drying in sharp red lines along his jaw and neck.
“I should probably… get you up or something,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.
No answer.
You swallowed and shifted forward an inch.
“Okay, I’m going to help you sit up, alright?” You paused. “Unless that’s a terrible idea.”
His lips barely moved. “They’ve had worse ideas tonight.”
You let out a faint breath that was almost a laugh, then finally reached toward him, slowly, gently, and slid your hand under his shoulder.
He groaned but didn’t protest, and with a little effort, you managed to ease him into a sitting position, his back leaning against the brick wall behind him. He winced through gritted teeth, one hand coming up to press lightly against his ribs.
“Sorry,” you murmured.
“S’alright,” he rasped, closing his eyes for a second. “Better than lying face-down in garbage.”
You sat back on your heels, watching him breathe. One of his hands wasn't covered anymore, and his knuckles were raw and red, the other was still loosely wrapped in torn black tape. The side of his face was already swelling.
“I have no idea what to do.” You said. And it was true. Obviously it was the first time you found yourself in the back of an illegal fight club with a beaten up guy.
His mouth curled faintly, more pain than smile. “It’s not the first time,” he said, “You don’t have to do anything.”
He looked like a kicked dog, half-expecting someone to come finish the job.
You didn’t know what to say. You just stared at him, and for the first time, up close, he looked back. Even with one eye nearly swollen shut, he met your gaze.
He was younger than you’d first assumed. Probably still in his twenties. You’d never seen someone look so young and so tired at the same time.
He was looking at you like he was trying to understand why you were still there, why you were trying to help him. Like it never happened to him before.
You found yourself wondering why he was even there. Why he did what he did. What his story was.
There was no way he did it because he liked it, you could see that written all over his bloodied face. In the way he sat slumped against the wall, exhausted.
He wasn’t like the guy who had beaten him. That man had raised his arms for applause, grinning. That man enjoyed it, Noah didn't. And not just because he lost.
You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could, a sudden rush of blood spilled from his nose. He coughed hard, blinking fast.
“Shit. Tilt your head forward,” you said quickly, reaching toward him but stopping just short of touching. “Don’t let it go down your throat.”
He nodded faintly and leaned forward, breathing heavily through his mouth. You looked around instinctively for something, anything, to stop the bleeding. You didn’t have tissues and your leather jacket couldn’t help.
You thought about it just for a moment, hoping you were not going to regret it.
Then, you stood up quickly, heat rushing to your face even though the air outside was biting cold. Your heart was still racing, your hands trembling slightly.
Honestly, it felt a little bit like you suddenly lost your mind. Because this wasn’t something you usually did:
stripping in a dark alley in the middle of the night for a guy you barely knew, a guy you saw for the first time less than an hour ago in a underground fight club. A guy whose name you only knew because someone else told you. If that was even his real name.
But there was nothing else. No tissues. No towels. No first-aid kit magically appearing out of the shadows. Just you, him, and the slow, steady drip of blood from his nose onto the dirty pavement. And the fact that you were a person with at least a bit of a heart, someone who hated seeing another human being suffer, unlike all those people back inside.
So you turned around, to have a second of privacy while undressing.
Your fingers moved quickly, unzipping your jacket and shrugging it off your shoulders. The cold bit into your skin instantly, but you ignored it. Then you pulled your shirt over your head in one smooth motion, balling it up in your hands. You were left in just your bra for a moment, breath hitching in your throat as the wind kissed every inch of exposed skin.
Then, you pulled your jacket back on, zipped it up to your throat, and exhaled a shaky breath as you turned back toward him.
He was still hunched over, blood slowly dripping between his fingers, and he hadn’t said a word. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed.
You dropped back down to your knees beside him, still holding your shirt in your hands.
You held it out to him carefully, not pushing it into his hands.
“Here,” you said.
He looked at the shirt in your hands like it was something he didn't deserve for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached for it.
His fingers brushed yours, and the contact was barely there but it was enough to make your breath catch, even if you didn't know why.
“Thank you,” he said.
Then he paused.
You saw it, the moment he noticed the smear of blood on your fingers. A small streak where his fingers had touched your skin.
His eyes widened slightly, and he looked up at you with a flash of something that almost looked like shame.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
You blinked, looked at your hand. It wasn’t much. Just a thin streak of red, already drying in the cold air.
“It’s okay,” you said softly.
Because it was okay. You hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out. Maybe because, in that moment, you were too focused on him.
On the man who, if it weren't for you, would probably still be lying face down in a pool of his own blood. The man you knew probably wouldn't call anyone for help and would just stay there until someone else found him, maybe while throwing out the trash.
He nodded slowly, not quite meeting your eyes again. He looked down at the shirt, then raised it gently to his face, trying to stop the bleeding. You watched him as he moved.
You didn’t say anything else for a while. Just sat there as he used your shirt to stop the bleeding.
“What’s your name?” he asked then.
You told him, and he repeated it quietly, as if tasting the word, then gave you a faint, tired smile. “Noah.”
"Yeah, I figured."
“I’ve never seen you here before.”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual but feeling a bit exposed. “Yeah, first time. My boyfriend dragged me along.”
He shifted slightly against the wall. “You didn’t even see the match finish.”
You frowned. “It wasn’t exactly something I was enjoying. For a second I thought I might throw up.”
Only after answering did you register what his words really meant.
He had noticed.
Somehow, while lying on the floor, half-conscious and getting the life beaten out of him, he’d seen you leave. Was that even possible?
“How much did you win tonight?” He asked before you could say anything.
You shook your head. “I didn’t bet. Just him.”
He let out a low chuckle, then flinched for the pain. “You should’ve. It was obvious I was gonna lose.”
You frowned. “Why did you fight then?”
Noah gave a dry laugh. “This is all I've got.”
A dark alley, a fight club and body covered in bruises?
“Impossible.” you said.
He had to have a family, friends, a home somewhere. Right?
“You don’t know me.” he muttered.
And the way he said it… it felt like an answer to all the questions that had been racing through your mind.
No, he didn’t have anyone. No other options. No place to go.
You didn’t really know him. For all you knew, he could’ve been a criminal.
But something deep down told you he wasn’t.
He didn’t seem like someone who deserved to be thrown out like garbage, left bleeding and broken in a dark alley after getting beaten half to death.
A damp strand of hair kept falling into his eyes, and you found yourself fighting the urge to brush it away with your fingers.
The bleeding from his nose had finally stopped, but then he shifted, just slightly, and let out a sharp hiss through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he muttered, one hand flying to his ribs. His jaw clenched, and his eyes (or eye) squeezed shut for a second.
You leaned in. “Ribs?”
He gave a faint nod, breathing shallow. “It'll be okay in a couple of days.”
“You need a hospital,” you said firmly, even though you already suspected what his answer would be. “They need to check you out. That could be serious.”
“No.” The word came out fast. “Out of the question.”
“You could have internal—”
“I said no.” He insisted. “I don’t have the money. And they’ll ask too many questions. I can’t risk that.”
You hesitated. “I want to ask many questions too.”
He looked away. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, softly, he said, “You shouldn’t.”
Your mouth opened, but before you could speak, he went on.
“You seem like a good person. So… don’t come back here. Don’t get involved.”
“I-”
“It’s better if you don’t ask anything. And it’s better if we never see each other again.”
Then, quieter still: “But thank you. For this. For staying. For giving a damn when nobody else did. I mean it.”
You exhaled, your breath fogging faintly in the cold air. "Is that your way to tell me to leave?"
“Yes. But before I need-” he paused, glancing at the damp concrete beneath him. “Can you help me up?”
You stared. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head once, slowly. “No joke. I just need to stand. Please.”
Your heart squeezed. Please. He didn’t look at you when he said it. There was something almost painful in how quiet the word came out, like he wasn’t used to asking anyone for anything.
“You’re insane,” you murmured. “You’re going to pass out the second you try to move.”
He didn’t answer. Just held your gaze, and waited.
And you just couldn't tell him no.
So you just slipped an arm around him, one under his shoulders, careful of his ribs.
He was heavy and incredibly tall. Your palm pressed briefly against his chest, and you felt the stickiness of old blood, dried and flaking now.
He hissed through his teeth, body trembling slightly, and his fingers gripped your jacket.
“Okay,” you whispered, grounding both your feet. “On three.”
It took longer than it should have. Every movement was careful and slow.
When he finally made it upright, he swayed.
You tightened your hold for a second, steadying him. His body was warm against yours despite the cold of the night.
You didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
Then, slowly, he took a half step back. You let your hands fall away as he reached for the wall, one palm bracing against the brick for support. He leaned into it.
“I’m good,” he said quietly. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”
Just as you were about to say something, the door Noah had been thrown out creaked open.
You turned at the sound, seeing Kole stepping into the alley.
“There you are,” he said, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
You froze for half a second. Noah straightened a little, his fingers still splayed on the brick for balance.
Kole’s eyes flicked to him and stayed there. He let out a low whistle, dragging his gaze from Noah’s bruised face to the bloodied shirt.
“Damn, man,” he said with a lopsided grin. “You look like shit.”
Noah didn’t say a word.
“But,” Kole continued, shrugging with one shoulder, “you made me win two hundred bucks tonight, so... thanks for that.”
There was no real gratitude in his voice.
Kole turned to you again, like the interruption was over. “Come on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the street. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, he started walking.
No pause to see if you’d follow. No offer of a hand. No helo for the man covered in blood next to you. Just an expectation that you’d fall into step, like always.
You lingered for a second. Looked back at Noah.
He hadn’t moved. His eyes were on the ground now, jaw tight, face unreadable. You didn’t know what you wanted to say.
“Try to take care, Noah” you said softly. What a weird thing to say to a man who was fighting for a living.
For a moment, you thought maybe he wouldn’t look up. But then he met your eyes again.
"Yeah. You too."
You started walking away.
The air felt immediately colder without his warmth beside you.
You didn’t stop thinking about him the entire car ride home. Not even for a second.
Not when the lights of the city blurred past the window, not when Kole went on and on about how he should’ve bet more, how the guy didn’t stand a chance from the start, how easy money like that didn’t come around often.
“You dipped out before it ended,” Kole said, eyes on the road, voice casual.
You kept your gaze fixed outside the window. “I wasn’t feeling great.”
He hummed. “Yeah, it was pretty rough. That guy took a beating. Probably gonna piss blood for a week.”
You didn’t respond.
Kole glanced over at you, eyebrows raised. “You good?”
“Fine.”
A beat of silence. The hum of the engine filled the space.
“Didn’t think this stuff bothered you,” he added eventually.
You shrugged, still watching the city slide by. “I guess I never watched someone actually get hurt like that before.”
“It’s a fight,” Kole said. “They sign up for it. You think the guy didn’t know what he was getting into?”
“I’m not saying he didn’t,” you replied, your tone flat. “Just… doesn’t make it easier to watch.”
Kole scoffed under his breath, amused. “You’re getting soft on me.”
You didn’t answer.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, then smirked. “Don’t tell me you were rooting for him.”
Still, you stayed quiet.
“Babe.”
You finally looked at him. “What?”
He grinned. “Come on. He didn’t stand a chance. The second he walked in, you could tell. That’s easy money. I should’ve put down double.”
You looked back out the window.
“Right. Easy money,” you echoed quietly.
Kole didn’t notice the shift in your tone, or didn’t care. He kept going.
“You gotta learn to detach a little. It’s not ballet.”
You remembered the way Noah had staggered, ribs heaving, blood matting his hair.
You remembered the way he’d looked at you like you were the first person to treat him like he wasn't trash in a long time.
He shook his head, amused. “Come on. You’re not actually sitting there feeling bad for the guy?”
You didn’t answer.
He tapped your knee lightly with his hand. “Babe.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
Kole let out a short laugh. “Seriously?”
You turned your head just enough to glance at him. “Yeah. Seriously.”
You both remained silent until you got home.
You didn’t stop thinking about him even when you got into bed and Kole’s arm wrapped around you like nothing had changed.
Especially not then.
Because while his breath warmed the back of your neck and his hand rested heavy on your waist, your mind was still in that alley.
With him.
That man who, somehow, felt like he deserved better.
Who looked like a beaten-down stray too wary to trust kindness.
Who hadn’t asked for help, but hadn’t completely pushed you away either.
You kept seeing his face, bruised and tired but his eyes were still kind.
You kept hearing his voice, low and rough, saying thank you like it was the first time anyone had tried to help him.
You fell asleep thinking about him. And he was your first thought when you woke up.
summary: Rooster and Hangman spot a mysterious woman… who turns out to be already taken.
“Hey, Rooster. Hottie at 12 o’clock.”
Jake's voice broke the euphoria of the moment. Bradley was energetically celebrating a perfect pass he'd just thrown to one of his teammates, capping off an intense round of the improvised beach game. The sun was blazing high, the clear sky seemed to melt onto the sand, and the waves crashed in a slow rhythm as the pilots—sweaty, wet, and covered in sand—ran back and forth amid shouts, laughter, and tanned bodies.
“That fatso?”
“On my 12, idiot,” Hangman replied in annoyance, rolling his eyes. “Turn to your left.”
Bradley obeyed, curious. And then he saw her: leaning elegantly against the railing of the beach cabin, a woman observing the scene. The wind gently ruffled her hair, and the sun cast golden glints on her exposed skin. She wore a simple bikini top, denim shorts, and a light white robe that barely covered her back. Hanging over her shoulder was a jute bag adorned with a colorful scarf tied to the handle.
“I think for the first time we agree, Hangman.”
They both stood motionless, watching her from a distance as if the world had slowed down. She seemed to be searching for something—or someone—in the crowd, her face turning intently while her sunglasses obscured her intentions.
“What do you think she's here for?” Rooster asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Maybe she just wanted to see a bunch of shirtless machos," Jake replied with a crooked smile. "I hope so, man. Because that doll looks like something out of a damn dream."
As if she'd heard them, the woman raised her hand in their direction, greeting them with a broad, bright smile. They looked at each other, puzzled.
“She’s waving at us. Wave back!” Brad ordered, nudging the blond.
They both raised their hands enthusiastically, thoughtlessly using that charming smile that had worked so often for them. But just when they thought they'd captured her attention, a third player entered the scene: someone was running from the side toward the woman, with determined steps.
“Bob? Does he know her?”
“So it seems”
Floyd approached her urgently, his smile widening with every stride. He didn't even let her descend the cabin steps: from his lower position, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground in a surprise hug. She let out a loud, genuine laugh that pierced even the sound of the waves.
“Maybe it's his sister or something,” Hangman suggested, still trying to grasp a reasonable idea.
But the illusion shattered in seconds. As soon as Bob placed her on the ground, he leaned down and kissed her with such confidence that it left no room for interpretation. She responded with the same intensity, wrapping her arms around him as if they'd been searching for each other for centuries.
“Well, unless incest is seen as a good thing in Lemoore…” the black-haired man began, “I don’t think she’s his sister.”
They both froze, watching the scene with a mixture of amazement and envy. Bob's arms settled naturally around the woman's waist, while she took off her sunglasses to get a better look at him.
She spoke animatedly, gesturing with her hands and smiling with every sentence. Although they couldn't hear the conversation, it was clear they were in their own world. When she wasn't speaking, she rested her hands on Bob's chest, with a familiarity that was impossible to fake.
When it was his turn to speak, she looked at him with such devotion that even from a distance, the intensity was palpable. Her eyes practically glowed, her expression screaming a deep crush. Just a few girls had ever looked at them like that in their lives.
Bob's index finger pointed in the direction of the beach, as if he were telling her about his crewmates, and she waved her hand in that direction again.
“I think she’s actually waving at us now.”
“I hope so. Say hi, idiot.”
The two of them repeated the gesture, this time with some nervousness. To their surprise, she waved again. She laughed at something Bob whispered to her and then turned her attention back to him, caressing his face before stealing another kiss. Small, soft, close together. He placed one more on her cheek before taking her hand and starting to walk toward the beach.
“Don’t run away, coward”
“I wasn’t planning to” Rooster replied, though he was lying. The step he took back had given him away.
They stayed where they were, waiting. Bob and the girl finally approached.
“Huh, have you seen Maverick? I need to talk to him.”
“I think he’s sitting in his lounge chair… or something,” Jake replied vaguely. Then he looked at her with interest “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”
“Sure. Guys, this is my wife. Honey, this is Lieutenant Jake Seresin and Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”
They both stood with their mouths ajar, trying to process what he had said. They wondered if they had heard wrong, but sure they hadn't.
“Nice to meet you,” she said with a smile, extending her hand. “I’m sorry to burst in like this. I wanted to surprise Bob. I hope my arrival doesn’t interrupt anything important.”
“Not at all,” Rooster said quickly. “It’s a pleasure to meet Mrs. Floyd.”
The pilots glanced at each other and couldn't help but notice the slight blush they both—she and Bob—shared, as if the expression 'married couple' still sounded new and shiny to them.
“Let’s go find Mav. See you later,” Bob said, before leading her by the hand.
“Bye, Bobby”
“Nice to meet you,” Rooster added.
They waited until the couple had walked a few steps away before spilling their guts.
“His wife? Can you believe it?”
“Of course. The guy is a true gentleman. I'm sure he won her over on the first date.”
“The world is so unfair,” Jake hissed. His friend laughed, resigned.
“Or we are idiots”
“Rooster, I think, for the first time, I completely agree with you too.”
summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps
notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling
warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 21143
your callsign is sunny
It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together.
Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish.
You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick.
It was meant to be.
Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.
And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch.
A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms.
Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.”
She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open.
“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”
Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.”
She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.
“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.”
“Wasn’t the other day.”
You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.”
Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?”
He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.”
You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.”
Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.”
You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side.
Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.
“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.”
Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.”
You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk.
Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge.
“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.”
He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?”
A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.”
Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?”
He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote.
“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters.
He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be.
He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap.
“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.”
“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you.
“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?”
His eyes go wide at your tone.
“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.”
You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels.
“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.
Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.”
You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh.
“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.”
“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation.
You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling.
“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.”
You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.”
You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.”
You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.”
Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?”
Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.”
You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.”
Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.”
“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.”
You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.”
“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.”
You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.”
Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.”
“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?”
“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.”
“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.”
Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.”
Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.”
You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?”
“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.”
You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds.
“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.”
You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.
“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.”
“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.”
You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer.
“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare.
“So what, Mick?”
He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.”
You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?”
Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.
“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.”
The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers.
You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you.
It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please.
But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth.
And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection.
An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick.
“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen.
Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.”
“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.”
His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.”
A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.”
“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?”
There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest.
Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.”
“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.
“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.”
Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?”
Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.”
“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?”
“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.”
You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.”
“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.”
You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs.
“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.”
“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.”
You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?”
Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.”
Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.”
Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”
“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.”
You snort. “So, seduce him?”
“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.”
Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.
“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.”
“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.”
“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.
“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.”
Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.
“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.”
“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?”
That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire.
You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”
-
The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum.
“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.”
“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?”
You roll your eyes. “Both.”
“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn.
Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.
This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings.
“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.”
You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin.
The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.
About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor.
Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?”
Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail.
Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan.
When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin.
You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade.
“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear.
“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue.
Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next.
“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.”
“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.”
She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Why are you wearing a thong?”
You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.”
She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.”
“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”
You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.
Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it.
“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing.
Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.”
You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead.
Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory.
Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work.
By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose.
You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha.
Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him.
“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?”
Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.”
“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk.
“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything.
Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.”
“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!”
The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic.
Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view.
“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look.
The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket.
“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.”
You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover.
Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related.
“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?”
Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?”
Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”
“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“How many are left?” Natasha asks.
“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.”
“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.”
“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.”
You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing.
“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.”
Bob blinks at her. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.”
“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.”
With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation.
“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.”
Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.”
Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to.
-
“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.”
She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear.
Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister.
You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should.
Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business.
“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times.
A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot?
“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside.
There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him.
“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff.
“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor.
Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet.
It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away.
“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently.
“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.”
“What game?” Javy asks.
Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.”
Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up.
“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing.
“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.”
Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”
Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become.
“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.
Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?”
You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough.
Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time?
Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip.
Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.”
Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?”
Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”
Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.”
Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?”
Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig.
And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud.
The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through.
“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.”
But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?”
You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.”
Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone.
You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.”
You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder.
“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.”
You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement.
The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch.
His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.
You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.”
A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.
“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter.
Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!”
You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset.
You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger.
God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive.
The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it.
You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being.
“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?”
You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency.
Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.”
Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason?
You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral.
“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit.
She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.”
He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.”
Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare.
“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room.
Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering.
He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him?
Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could.
“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned.
Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”
The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath.
“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide.
“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.”
“You bitch,” Jake mutters.
“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.”
“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch.
“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.”
Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends.
Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it.
“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other.
Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-”
“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.”
Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying.
Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.
The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest.
“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.”
“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.”
Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath.
Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.”
“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.
He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.
“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth.
“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.
“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in.
There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free.
Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis.
Then the room explodes.
Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness.
Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.”
Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”
“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.”
You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin.
It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner.
Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen.
By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.
“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand.
You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?”
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?”
“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”
He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.”
You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?”
Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.”
You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.”
He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.”
Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face.
“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face.
Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker.
“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.”
You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth.
“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler.
You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up.
“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen.
It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face.
Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach.
You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what.
Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise.
Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it.
What is it they call that?
Oh yeah… big dick energy.
Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants…
Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.
A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug.
Stop staring, she mouths.
You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie.
“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?”
“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back.
The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs.
“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.”
You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.”
The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts.
“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further.
There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet.
“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?”
Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob.
He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking.
The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name.
“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?”
Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual.
“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.”
Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely.
Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.”
You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction.
The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it.
The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining.
The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame.
“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers.
You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change.
“Yeah?”
Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers.
The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave.
You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room.
It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations.
On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins.
A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob.
And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves.
You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together.
You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear.
You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks.
Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle.
Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen.
Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others.
“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen.
You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO.
Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face.
He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic.
Your frown deepens. “What are you-”
But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand.
“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer.
You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked.
“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing.
“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him.
“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.”
Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?”
Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly.
“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?”
Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?”
Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?”
Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest.
You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd.
“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.”
The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top.
“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.”
He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room.
You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you?
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does.
You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it.
You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache.
You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest.
His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out.
"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag.
You blink. “What?”
“For your clothes,” he says simply.
“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside.
His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt.
“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.”
You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s.
His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all.
You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen.
Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back.
Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor.
Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step.
The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader.
Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk.
You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes.
…Right?
Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir.
“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans.
Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.”
“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.”
“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop.
“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers.
Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night.
Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence.
Too much silence.
You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps.
You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway.
It doesn’t.
Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen.
The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin.
“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?”
You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight.
Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest.
Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.
You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath.
You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn.
“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer.
No. No, you’re not.
You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-”
Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton.
The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.
He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin.
You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you.
He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks.
You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching.
When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter.
“Bob,” you whisper.
Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.”
You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself.
“Like what?” you ask softly.
“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath.
You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton.
“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now.
He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm.
You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?”
You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now.
“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging.
He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin.
You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap.
But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath.
“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock.
You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away.
It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin.
You don’t sleep. Not at all.
-
“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?”
You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis.
“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat.
You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you.
“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.”
You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-”
“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you.
Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food.
“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.”
You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence.
“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.”
Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another.
Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.”
Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?”
You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?”
You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.”
“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.”
“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.”
You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?”
Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way.
Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.”
“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.”
“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin.
You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?”
“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.
You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter.
Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.”
You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...”
She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.”
-
Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird.
The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition.
You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose.
“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon.
You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.”
She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up.
At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are.
“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs.
He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.”
You snort. “Little?”
Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.”
You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth.
Then you both nod. It’s show time.
“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly.
You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.”
He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?”
You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?”
His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey.
“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?”
“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”
Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?”
You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?”
Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.”
You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief.
You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay.
A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose.
The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye.
On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel.
Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke.
That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing.
By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun.
That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back.
Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining.
“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?”
He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
She snorts. “That was very convincing.”
He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out.
Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column.
“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?”
Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.”
“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?”
“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.
Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?”
He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.”
“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.”
His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet.
“I doubt it.”
“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing.
Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast.
Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.”
He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.”
Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.”
Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face.
“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.”
“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display.
“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder.
You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.”
Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting.
There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned.
It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.
“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.”
You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little.
“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly.
You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear.
“You’re annoying.”
He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles.
When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder.
“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth.
You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”
You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny.
“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry.
Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.”
You frown. “Yet?”
“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.”
You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table.
When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares.
But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes.
You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.”
Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear.
You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea.
You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him.
You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.”
Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.”
You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.”
“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.”
You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first.
Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.”
His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.”
“Swear it.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.”
You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.”
You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details.
“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.”
His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk.
“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.”
You roll your eyes.
“I want in.”
You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I want to help,” he says, plainly.
You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”
He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.”
You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.”
He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.”
“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.”
“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.”
You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.
“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!”
He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh.
Great. Now Hangman is involved...
You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like.
“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer.
You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.”
He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there.
But Bob notices.
And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white.
Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.”
Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle.
Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”
Bob shakes his head. “No.”
“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.”
“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.”
“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.”
“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin.
Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.”
Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.”
Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel…
You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat.
“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers.
You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.”
She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”
Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air.
“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.”
Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace.
“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.”
You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.”
Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.”
Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.”
“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.”
Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.”
“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.”
Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand.
Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.”
Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.”
“You want us to lie?” you ask.
He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?”
You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.”
Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.”
Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing.
“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.”
“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels.
You frown. “What?”
“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.”
You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?”
-
The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee.
Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.”
“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield.
“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone.
Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?”
He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.”
You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red.
“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs.
Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.”
You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you.
“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.”
You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin.
You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies.
“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face.
Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.”
“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt.
You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far.
“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?”
“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.
“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice.
Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place.
“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?”
You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts.
Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?”
Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.”
The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean.
Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder.
You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at.
Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered.
He’s furious.
And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you.
You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand.
And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal.
You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you.
Hangman might be a genius after all.
You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin.
You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore.
You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you.
You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.
You freeze. “What?”
She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned.
You twist around.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.
Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin.
And holy shit.
It’s glorious.
Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you.
But in the light of day?
Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go.
The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too.
You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.”
Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.”
You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose.
Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face.
But it’s not a wave.
You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.”
You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?”
Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?”
You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.”
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-”
“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.”
Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water.
When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges.
You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching.
Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter.
Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.
“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces.
Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement.
“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.”
You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?”
He winks. “Because we’re the best.”
You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be.
After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance.
You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble.
You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy.
“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.”
Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob.
You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.”
There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins.
But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!”
And the game is back on.
The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares.
You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate.
“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.”
He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent.
And Bob sees everything.
You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under.
You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots.
He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary.
“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.”
There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group.
Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know.
The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way.
Bob.
“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept.
Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal.
He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line.
Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide.
You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.”
After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod.
This is it.
Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching.
And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score.
But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time.
Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying.
You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand.
It’s just Bob now.
He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan.
You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both.
The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat.
You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist.
You don’t move.
You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in.
Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put.
“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline.
His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes.
You lean in just a little.
“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?”
His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours.
They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation.
Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time.
Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe—
He snaps.
He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down.
And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.
He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second.
You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him.
His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second.
His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable.
You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in.
You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost.
There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered.
When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.”
And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again.
“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear.
Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.”
You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction.
“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.”
Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death.
“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear.
Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.”
“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.”
You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back.
Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.”
“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign.
You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.”
There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again.
Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.”
Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.”
“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.
He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.”
You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful.
“Shit.”
You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach.
“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word.
His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.”
Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent.
“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.”
You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love.
And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.
And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.”
Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”
He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you.
Then he turns and jogs toward the water.
It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways.
Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?”
You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips.
Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!
Summary: After a rough couple of years in California, you move to the quiet pastures of Wabang to work in your sister's bakery, finding solace in the life she's built for herself there. A fresh start would've been a lot easier if a certain six-foot, blue-eyed cowboy hadn't waltzed into the shop with his Stetson pulled low.
Wordcount: 13.239k (sorry)
Warnings: SMUT! (it gets filthy pls don't look at me - oral sex f!receiving, fingering, handjob, spit play??, corny dirty talk), Soft Dom!Rhett Abbott, Possessive!RhettAbbott, Sub!Reader, Sub Space (adjacent? Sub-space-ish?), Mentions of Daddy Kink, Massive Praise Kink, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Porn with a lot of Plot, Angst (can't write anything without it lmao), Fluff, Humor, Slow Burn, Mentions of Drug/Alcohol Use, Implied Bar Fights, Reader has a troubled past, CORNY THIS GETS SO CORNY.
A/N: (this is my belated unsolicited two cents on the Sabrina Carpenter album cover discourse, like let a woman SUB BRO let a gal be a whiny bottom!) Yes, I've been temporarily Rhett-Abbott-pilled...Yes, I've been yee-haw-ed so hard...this was a one-time thing to exorcise my demons
The Disappointment Club
The first time you saw Rhett Abbott, you were behind the counter of your sister’s bakery, piping lemon-thyme curd onto a fresh batch of muffins with the precision of someone who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a piping bag—or a convection oven; or anything sharp, really; anything inside of a bakery, possibly.
“So, you’re the new hire?” The man said, all six feet, Wyoming drawl, and his Stetson pulled so low all you could see was his mouth.
You were about to speak up when a glob of curd plopped onto your boot.
“That’s my little sister, Rhett,” Maya warned, kicking open the swinging doors as she emerged from the kitchen, a batch of mint-green pastry boxes piled in her arms. “So you better not get any funny ideas.”
“Alright, I hear you.” He huffed a low laugh, rifling through his wallet before handing your sister a couple of bills. “I’ll make sure to keep my ideas void of humor.”
“Good, and keep them to yourself while you’re at it. Greet your mom for me!” Maya added with biting faux sweetness that had haunted you throughout your childhood. She handed him the pastry boxes, and the two of you watched in silence as he lumbered out of the bakery. The ding of the shop bell, the cuff of his boots on the tiles. He looked back once through the shop windows, the brim of his hat revealing a surprisingly tender face. The shape of it there, for a moment, in a soft bar of sunlight—before he disappeared from view.
You lowered the piping bag and took a long breath.
“Don’t even start.” Maya thwacked you with a dish towel.
“Who the fuck was that?”
“Someone you will not get involved with.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cowboy McDreamy—”
“Stop. Don’t start with your funny ideas.”
“My ideas are famously hilarious.”
“Trust me. Rhett Abbott’s the type of guy who goes for buckle bunnies and tourists—"
"Buckle-what?"
"—and you are very much neither, so how about you make sure those blueberry muffins don’t look like someone assembled them with their eyes closed, hm?” She cocked a brow at your army of malformed swirls. You scoffed.
“You know what?” Defiantly, you lifted the piping bag and proceeded to squirt the rest of the curd into your mouth—before scrambling to the back, dodging your sister's ardent attempts at skinning your ass raw with a dish towel.
· · ❁ · ·
The second time you saw Rhett Abbott, you were on a date at The Longhorn. It was the only bar in town that had decent enough beer and a dancefloor that wasn’t slick with liquor and vomit past ten PM.
Your sister had set you up: He was the son of the game warden, Adam or Adrian (you’d long forgotten), awkward but polite, built like a shy greyhound, and stealing glances at your cleavage in intervals growing shorter and shorter the further he worked his way down a bottle of Budweiser.
He wasn’t terrible company, patiently listening to you talk about the weather and how much you missed San Diego and your current hyperfixation on the baby goat that lived on the farm next door to your sister’s place. It has three legs, so they built her this tiny prosthetic, so she can walk properly. They named her Tres, as in Tres Leches, get it? Isn’t that the most adorable fucking thing you’ve ever heard in your whole entire fucking life?
You tried to ignore Adam-Adrian’s audible sigh of relief when you got up to grab another round of beers. Maybe you’d get yourself something stronger. Or maybe you’d find a good enough excuse to call it a night, and you would’ve, you really, really would’ve if you hadn’t bumped your shoulder into none other than Mr. Cowboy McDreamy himself.
He’d swapped the Stetson for a washed-out baseball cap. Jaw hard and stubbled, nose a long slender slope in the lights reflecting off the dancefloor.
“Hey there, Shortcake.” His quirk of a smile that aged him backwards.
Shortcake.
It wouldn’t have worked anywhere else, with anyone else, but you were a lightweight two beers in, and you liked the way the light hit his eyes, clear blue, like a drop of rain on a car window.
You would’ve said something cheeky, something about having funny ideas—but he cut you off: “He sure seems like a good time.”
Tipping his chin towards Adam-Adrian slouched in the booth like a lonely sapling.
You didn't like the way he'd said it. You knew men like Rhett Abbott, and you knew what happened when you let them into your life. “You know what,” you said, “he is, actually. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Rhett’s eyebrows lifted once, then smoothed out. “Okay.” He took a swig of his beer. “Got it.” Like something had been settled between you two.
· · ❁ · ·
The third time you saw Rhett Abbott, your sister’s husband, Jonah—Like the actor! Oh, and the book! Ha-ha! (which had gotten old the first time he’d said it)—took you out to the rodeo grounds.
You and your sister had grown up in San Diego, amongst beaches and high-rises and palm trees lining manicured promenades. A place of juice cleanses and electric scooters. Men riding bulls in an arena had seemed unthinkable to you; something arcane, something forgotten.
The rusty roofing of the grandstands shaded the crowd from the setting sun, its light disappearing behind the mountains, the endless sprawl of the valley. Everyone was buzzing, solo cups swishing beer, kids pressed up against the railing. A glossy nimbus of girls in cowboy boots and jean shorts chirped drunkenly one rung below. Every once in a while the PA crackled with the rumbling voice of the announcer, “Aaaaand here we go, folks! Big Joe out the gate, looking strong. Ah! Look at that spin, folks, right in the pocket—”
As a middle-school teacher, Jonah was forever sweet and excited about anything. Even bull riding, it seemed. He explained bull ropes and suicide grips, rattling down the names of the upcoming bulls in the pen. “—okay, so there’s Rotten Dynamite, rankest motherfucker you’ll ever see. Then there’s Terminator. Oh! And Iron Dome! We love Iron Dome. Blind in one eye, bucks like a whipcrack. Heard Rhett’s riding him tonight—”
Everyone knew Rhett Abbott rode bulls. The framed picture of him and his dad hung above the bar at The Longhorn, the two of them triumphantly holding up a big-buckled belt, the hard set of their twin jaws. People in Wabang rode bucking horses and lassoed cattle, wore their hats to the pharmacy and the supermarket, and hauled feed on their way to church. Old buildings still had hitching posts that cracked and blistered in the sun, like in a Western.
Rhett riding bulls wasn’t a surprise—but seeing it was.
When the chute slammed open, you imagined something inside the crowd opened with it. Iron Dome, with its roiling beastly body, black as a hole in the floodlights, thundered into the arena. Dirt spraying. Crowd shouting. Rhett’s slender body meeting each jerk and heave and lunge, face hidden beneath the wide brim of his Stetson. The crowd surged forward all at once, a wild energy shuttling through it like a wave. Jonah hollered next to you, pumping a fist into the cool evening air.
Five seconds, six seconds—
Seven point one.
Rhett's body bending back, bow-tight, arm flung as high as the kick of the bull’s hind legs. Fused in perfect symmetry, their golden ratio like something painted.
You flinched when Rhett’s arm snagged on the rope, and when Iron Dome finally lashed him off, and he went flying into the dirt—whatever had settled between you two, all at once, unsettled itself.
· · ❁ · ·
During the biggest fight you’d ever had with your sister, she’d called you a human hand grenade with the propensity for blowing up your life more than you could afford to. Which…okay, fair.
People never expected you to be difficult or complicated or messy. You didn’t look it. Most of the time you didn’t even act like it. Until you slipped up, and slipped up some more, and then the slipping up turned into something big, and the big thing turned into something unstoppable.
Your mom had been the only one to describe it right, she’d understood, and in a moment of rare clarity that tore through the molasses of her medication, she’d whispered it to you like this:
It comes in waves—until eventually the tide stops receding.
You’d arrived in Wabang with a duffle bag, wearing a rumpled sundress and hiking boots.
Jonah had picked you up from the bus station with an excited grin and a too-tight hug. Maya had made you chicken and waffles, like when you were kids.
Back then, she'd made it whenever Mom was at her worst, when she was passed out for days, barricaded in her room like a pharaoh in a tomb. Chicken and waffles usually meant things were shitty and couldn't get much shittier. It also meant you'd skip school and spend the day at the mall down Fifth, where the sun slanted through the glass dome in the food court, made it all hot and damp like a terrarium, and the two of you would pretend to be salamanders lazing on the bench by the churros stand, T-shirts covered in cinnamon and sugar and delight.
Wabang felt like those afternoons in the mall. Wabang was supposed to be the place where you got better.
You stuck to your routine, you made your bed, you ate enough and drank enough, you slept and woke on time, you went to work, you stuck to beers and cigarettes, you read and wrote and you fed the chickens in the garden, you always came back home.
One afternoon, sitting on the porch staring out at the endless bowl of the valley, Maya handed you the keys to the bakery. “I want you to open up the shop. Four-thirty AM on the dot. You think you're up for it?”
“Are you kidding?”
Tomorrow was going to be a day so big, even Jonah was stopping by to help. They’d prepped the order for the wedding on Willow Ridge all week. Maya had even pulled an all-nighter the day before. It was a big deal, and she trusted you enough to be a part of that big deal.
Trusted you enough to be a part of this life that she'd built so far away from the mall down Fifth, from mom—from you.
Smiling carefully, you reached for the keys. Maya snagged them away, narrowing her eyes. “Don't eat all the frosting, you little shit.”
“Not making any promises.”
She tossed the keys and you caught them.
You felt like a saint anointed, like someone had tapped a sword to your shoulder, and you glowed with it, and your sister was so beautiful in the sun, and you’d said thank you, and you’d promised you’d do good.
You’d be good.
Maybe you deserved to celebrate being so good.
It was a Friday night after all, and you were bored and maybe a little sad, and maybe you were exhausted from following all these rules you were trying to build your life around. And so you rode the rusty bike Jonah had dug up from the bowels of their garage all the way to The Longhorn. And what started with a beer, ended with a bottle of whiskey and a joint on the back of someone’s pickup. Tame in comparison to what you'd once done on a Friday night, or on any night, really.
So it was fine, right? It was going to be fine.
There was a girl with a shiny blonde mane and pink-chrome nails, her deep, lovely croon when she called you “—so fucking pretty, baby girl.” You missed feeling like this. You missed saying yes and yes and yes, bursting from it, unstoppable. You might’ve kissed her, but you weren’t sure, you might’ve wanted to marry her, which sounded about right, and you wanted to tell her this, to confess it to her and hold her soft pink-chrome-tipped hands...
The next thing you knew, you woke up next to your bike in the flatbed of a pickup, in a driveway you didn’t recognize, in a part of town you weren’t familiar with.
Head pounding, throat sore. Five missed calls from your sister. It was Saturday. It was noon.
You were still drunk when you reached the green-and-pink awning of Sweet Pea’s, its buttery cream trim like frosting. Inside, the bakery was buzzing with a barrage of patrons on the sunniest Saturday Wabang had seen in weeks. At the counter, Maya didn’t speak to you. Instead she sent you straight to the back where you threw up once in the sink and once in front of the convection ovens.
“Give me the keys,” Maya ordered, and you patted yourself down, before you remembered you’d stuffed them into your boot. She told you to go home, that she didn’t want to see you today. Jonah promised that everything would be fine, that Maya just needed a minute. Get cleaned up, he’d said. It’s gonna be okay, he’d said. But he hadn't looked so sure.
You hadn’t been good.
You hadn't been good at all—
Head throbbing more than it had before, you dragged your shitty bike through town. You rode until the sparse sprinkling of houses turned into open fields, pastures flat and endless. You struggled down a lonely dirt road, sweat spilling down your back, your chest, your face, stinging your eyes, you were hot, you were so hot, and your arms shook from the rattling of the uneven ground.
The road stopped abruptly at a rusty fence. You dropped your bike and climbed through the wide gaps between the bars. Marching through the field that stretched on forever, an ocean’s worth of it, green, dry, pricking at your bare legs, the afternoon sun battered you like judgment. You kept wading forward until you couldn’t get yourself to, until unceremoniously, with the theatrics of a very hungover and very disgraced saint, you collapsed into the shade of a lonesome tree.
You were sure then that you’d reached the end of the world, that you were so far away from anything and anyone, and that here, like this, finally, no one would hear you.
When was the last time you cried?
Covered in sweat and dirt, possibly still drunk and possibly still high, key-less, wretched, useless, melodramatic, sobbing, gasping for breath.
It comes in waves—
“Look, I don’t mean to bother you, but this here’s private land.”
You’d heard it too late.
The horse, the gentle pelt of its hooves in the field. It’s puffs of breath. A man’s low murmured, easy, girl.
You refused to open your eyes, feeling like a child, as you flopped onto your side to turn away.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“You doin’ alright?” His voice softer then.
“I’m fine,” you murmured into the grass. The buzz of a bug on your cheek. You slapped it away.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, just—” sunbathing? contemplating? “—having an existential crisis. I’m almost done.”
A sound like a huff or a scoff, a swallowed-down laugh maybe.
“Do you need me to call someone?”
“Just give me a second.” Pressing your hands to your face, you took long breaths, waiting for that big bawling bone-pelting agonizing throb of exhaustion to settle down. “Okay,” you finally said. “I’m finished.”
Turning towards him, there he sat, high upon his noble steed like a cowboy in a story. With his brows scrunched beneath his Stetson, he was a man fully unprepared to stumble upon some sobbing wildling on a Saturday morning.
You weren’t sure if he recognized you. You didn’t care. You’d lost your capacity for public shame a long time ago.
“Right. I’ll leave. Uh—sorry.” You got up, wobbling there like a newborn calf, shaking out the damp hem of your dress, before heading down the path you’d trampled into the grass.
“Wait,” he called out. “Do you want me to bring you back?”
The thought of getting on a horse made bile rise in your throat. You weren’t going to risk throwing up a third time.
“No, thank you,“ you shouted.
He followed you all the way back to the fence, the steady trot of his horse in the distance. You felt his stare across the field, hot and strange on the back of your neck as you peeled your bike off the road and headed home.
It was the fourth time you’d seen Rhett Abbott, and you’d prayed it was the last.
· · ❁ · ·
“Hey there, Shortcake.”
God didn’t like you very much apparently.
You swallowed, hunching lower behind the display case where you were restocking the cardamom cinnamon rolls.
Rhett was tall enough to lean over it. “You feelin' better?”
So he had recognized you.
Standing up straight, you cleared your throat. “All my demons have been temporarily exorcized, thank you.”
“Hm.” He huffed a laugh, that quick smile of his that made him all boyish. “Reckon I should try that sometime.”
“Well, I highly recommend hysterically crying on someone else’s property. It’s very cathartic—”
“That you, Rhett?” Maya shouted from the back.
“Yes, ma’am.” He straightened.
“Just gimme a sec, I’ll grab your mom’s order.”
You busied yourself with wiping down the countertop before your sister caught you fraternizing with the one person in Wabang that needed to be left un-fraternized with.
The two of you had only recently regained some common ground, and part of that truce was the unspoken rule that you please, please, please not obsess over the wrong people.
Rhett Abbott wasn't wrong per se; he just wasn't very right either.
Rhett’s shadow spread across the counter as he leaned over the display case again, close enough you caught the waft of his cologne, the unbearable blue of his gaze. You swallowed. His attention trailed down your throat. When he smiled again, it was soft, it stayed there for a while. His voice low then, “There’s a rodeo tonight. You should come. If none of us break any bones, we'll head to The Longhorn.”
You stared at the spot where the worn collar of his denim jacket pressed into his neck.
“I’ll think about it.” You said it to that spot.
“Good.” He said it to your mouth.
Good.
You’d found out long ago that there was one word that could make you do anything for anyone.
Just one word—and you were piled in the truck bed of Rhett’s Chevy Silverado, squeezed against the cab with some of his old friends from high school, your legs slung over the lap of a woman who’d known Rhett since kindergarten and who had the sweetest gap-toothed grin you’d ever seen in your life. You told her so, and the gap between her teeth seemed to grow with pride.
Driving down the winding roads of the valley, the cool air snapping your hair into your eyes, the hem of your dress fluttering, you tipped your head skyward. Before Wyoming, you’d never seen a sky so black. The nights here hit harder than anywhere else.
You cackled when Gaptooth helped you press the hem of your dress down before you flashed the whole truck, laughing harder when she offered a pull off her cherry-red vape. With the smoke citrusy and sweet in your mouth, you turned towards the driver’s seat, your cheek mashed against the flaking metal edge of the truck bed.
Rhett was driving. You watched his long tan arm lean out the window, fingers tinkering, playing with the wind. The soft swirl of hair. The faded bull skull tattoo on his forearm, flashing there in the beam of the headlights.
You wanted to reach out, mirror every turn of his wrist, trace the swell of a vein—
His arm went limp. You realized too late he was watching you in the side mirror.
That buzz in the back of your head, down your chest, places below.
You didn’t look away once.
· · ❁ · ·
At The Longhorn, everyone scattered, some fighting their way to the bar, others pulling each other to the crowded dancefloor.
“What’re you drinkin’, Shortcake?” The voice was too high to be Rhett’s. It was another rider from before. (Lloyd something-something; four point three seconds on a bull named Napoleon, which was fitting considering Lloyd was as tall as a water dispenser.)
“Uh.” You hastily checked the meager cash you’d stuffed into your boot. “Whatever five bucks will get me—”
“It’s on me.” The rough twang of that familiar voice as he leaned over you. You could still smell the dirt on him, the sweat. “Shortcake.” Rhett shot Lloyd a sharp smile, and you had to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes.
(You bought yourself your own cider with your own five bucks.)
The rest of the night went on easy. Crowd thick enough you kept drifting away from familiar faces, before meeting them again in the line to the bathroom. Hopping from table to table, clinking bottles and shuffling cards, until Gaptooth pulled you to the dancefloor, where girls in boots and baby-tees taught you how to line dance. “Shake those hips, San Diego!” And so you did, and life was at its sweetest, and you didn’t have to think about the last couple of days or the last couple of years or how Maya had stopped asking where you went at night. And you spun and spun, spun wildly, and thought only about a blue pair of eyes watching you beneath the wide brim of a Stetson.
Oh God, how you’d missed this feeling.
He found you much later; outside, at the back entrance, unlit cigarette between your lips, crouched on the ground with your back against the wall. You were in the process of yanking a boot off, tipping it upside down in the hopes it would produce your lighter. Had it fallen out on the dancefloor?
“Need a light?”
Rhett leaned one hand against the wall, presumably still a little lopsided from facing off a two-thousand-pound bull a couple of hours ago.
“One sec,” you said, yanking off your other boot, revealing a couple of coins and a tube of lipgloss. You looked up at him, his lighter already in hand. You smiled. “Yes, please.”
Rhett huffed a laugh. You wondered what his full laugh sounded like, big-bellied and unbridled. Did he tip his head back from so much delight?
Leaning against the wall with a stifled groan, Rhett carefully slid to the gravel, knees popping. He landed on the ground with a thud. “Shit. Ow.”
“Careful”
“Think that’s too late for me.”
“That bad?” you asked.
“Surprisingly less terrible than last time.”
“Who would’ve thought a bull named Bonecrusher would go easy on you?”
“If by easy, you mean he made me see God a couple of times, sure.”
You snorted, before popping your cigarette in your mouth and waiting patiently for him to light it for you. He huff-laughed at that too. Apparently he was easily amused.
His hand, big and dry as a baseball mitt, came up to shield the flame from the wind, and for a moment all you smelled was him. The earth, the acrid sweetness of sweat slicked across skin for too long. Like you’d been tucked into him, an animal in his burrow.
You couldn’t look at him like this. You hummed with this feeling. The brim of his hat bumping gently against your forehead. When the flame caught, you leaned away and took a long, long drag. “Thanks—” You cleared your throat. “Thank you.”
“Sure.”
The two of you sat there for a moment, drenched in the red halogen glow of a neon sign. You, crosslegged, playing with your necklace, pressing the pendant to your mouth; him, with one long leg stretched out, the other hiked up for his forearm to lean against, fiddling with his Zippo. You stared at a couple making out against a car. He stared at the men smoking by the bins.
You both spoke at once:
“Why do you—”
“Why were you—”
“Oh. Sorry.” You blinked.
Rhett pointed his Zippo at you. “By all means, ladies first.”
You snorted again, offering him your cigarette. He hesitated, like he hadn’t expected it, but you were still humming and the night was cool and life was still at its sweetest, and when he took a drag, stubbled jaw working, it felt like you could get away with more than you should.
“Why does everyone say you choose the rankest bulls on purpose?” you asked.
Rhett seemed to give it some serious thought, tugging his hat back to look at the sky. He handed you the cigarette. Then, “‘Cause I’m convinced I have something to prove. It’s either that or a real shit attempt at self-sabotage. Sometimes…it’s both.”
His honesty made something inside of you open.
”Why were you crying the other day?”
Taking a drag from the cigarette, you gave it some serious thought too. Then, “My sister’s giving me a second chance. I stopped getting those a long time ago, so I’m just trying really, really hard not to fuck it up. But I kind of suck at not fucking things up. I don’t know, it’s…” You took a breath, trailing off.
“Complicated?” he said.
“Excruciating.”
“Sounds about right." Rhett hummed in agreement, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re in luck. You’re speaking to the Abbott Family Letdown. So.” He gave a silly flourish with his hand.
“Oh.” You sat up in mock-surprise. ”Why didn’t you say so? Always a pleasure to meet a fellow embarrassment.” You popped the cigarette back in your mouth and stretched your hand out. He shook it with a laugh. The squeeze of his thick fingers, warm and dry.
“We could start a support group,” he said.
Reaching your hands above your head, like you were hanging a banner: “The Disappointment Club,” you mumbled around the cigarette.
When Rhett Abbott laughed, really laughed, when he shook with it and his shoulders did a little shimmy, he did indeed tip his head back from so much delight.
You laughed with him. You wanted to press two fingers down the Adam’s Apple that bobbed up and down his throat. You were so close the brim of his hat bumped against your head again. You told him everything then, told him about the keys and the girl and the back of that pickup. “—and so Maya had to cancel multiple orders and pay it out of her own pocket. Plus, it was, like, the pastor’s daughter’s wedding. So I’m assuming God was cataclysmically displeased.”
“God’ll forgive you for a couple of fuckin’ muffins.”
“A couple of muffins? Those were toasted pear-and-almond tartlets with a frangipane center and a cardamom crumb topping.”
“Frangi-what-now?”
“Exactly.”
“Trust me, it ain’t that bad. One time I got so drunk in the barn I forgot to latch the gate, and we lost forty head in a night. Took me days to herd them all back together, and my dad didn’t let me into the house until they were all accounted for.”
“If we turn this into a competition, we’ll be sitting out here all night.”
He turned then. His slow crooked smile. “Sounds like a good time to me.”
You didn’t know how long you sat there, talking. Your cigarette stub forgotten on the cool asphalt. The parking lot was empty now. Even the neon sign seemed to have dimmed.
Whatever had unsettled between you two, unsettled itself so completely you fell wide open. He could’ve reached right inside, he could’ve thrown something in—
Was it so wrong to look at him like this and hope, with a desperation that might’ve killed you, that he wouldn’t look away?
· · ❁ · ·
Friendship.
Could you call it that?
It felt a lot sharper, had more blowback.
Rhett liked to describe it as your little two-man support group. “Hottest club in town,” he’d say. Which wasn’t particularly funny, but it was stupid enough it made you snort every time.
Time was no longer governed by phases—no more mornings, noons or nights, no more suns or moons—instead, you found yourself adhering to Rhett Abbott’s reliable rhythms.
Your days started when the tiny bell above the shop door rang, and the brim of a worn Stetson swung up to reveal that surprisingly tender face. Maya had her suspicions about Rhett stopping by the bakery almost every day like clockwork: “There’s only so many errands he can run…and do you really think Cecilia Abbott eats that many toffee-nut buttermilk muffins? Woman must be enormous by now—”
You felt like a puppy, Pavloved, scrambling to the counter every time the shop bell trilled in the quiet. On the days he didn’t come in early, you usually met him on your lunch break. You were notoriously terrible at making sure you ate properly, and so he’d bring you a sandwich, or take-out, and you’d eat on the back of his Chevy in the parking lot, legs dangling from the truck bed, kicking up every time he made you laugh. Rhett made you laugh the way you’d forgotten to, that startled smack of a cackle, like you still couldn’t believe that there was someone who made you topple over from so much fucking glee.
Your favorite days were the ones he was off work early, and he’d come pick you up, toss your bike onto the truck bed—“Get in, Shortcake, we’re going on a trip!”—and he’d take you to the lakes or a town one valley over or the mountains, show you Wabang, show you Wyoming. He showed you the delicate difference between yarrow and hemlock when you trekked through the forests.
“Wow, dude, real Bear Grylls energy,” you’d said the first time he’d started a fire on a bed of pine needles.
“That’s the most California thing I think you’ve ever said.”
“Wait until I start talking about the way they stack vegetables at Erewhon.”
He grunted a laugh.
“Do you miss it?”
“The vegetables at Erewohn?”
“Home.”
It took you a moment.
The thought of your sister’s and Jonah’s sweet storybook house, with their porch covered in sun catchers shaped like honeycomb, their little brood of chickens in the garden, how the thought of it all moved through you on reflex. But Rhett hadn’t meant that house or those people or this place.
“I don't know, sometimes.”
Sometimes being here makes me forget to miss anything at all.
You forgot to miss the most at night, when your days came to an end at the rodeo or The Longhorn. When Rhett sloppily swung you across the dancefloor, the smell of beer and sawdust and the distinct spice of his cologne. Rhett was fierce, he was momentum, he was unstoppable force in a place full of immovable objects. You wanted to hurtle away with him, wrap yourself around his body, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, chin to chin—take me places.
Did he know he did this to you?
Did he know how easy you were?
That when you chose someone like this, you fell into them, and everything and everyone else fell away?
You didn’t pay attention to Lloyd’s weird come-ons, didn’t care about the girls that crushed around Rhett after he tumbled off another bull, or the way he always seemed to sidle up to you whenever anyone tried to buy you a drink.
You were singular, soaking up his closeness until you felt thick and stupid with it, and all you could do was let him turn you on the dancefloor like a drunken spinning top, his gravelly laughter shaking uncontrollably in your ear. Those lean arms looped around your waist, and your hands slid up the skin of his neck, slick with sweat, to cradle his face.
How those eyes crinkled when he grinned, and how easy it was then to imagine him as a child. The defiant thing with bloodied knees getting into trouble at the edge of town. The Abbott Family Letdown, you thought with so much fondness you could’ve kissed his cheek.
Nights always ended like this: The two of you fused to each other, dancing, or squeezed into a booth, or smoking out in the lot, talking and talking about everything and anything, about the places you wanted to see, and the things you wanted to do, and the people you wanted be. The choices you wanted to make and the ones you really, really wished you could remake.
Sometimes you didn’t speak at all, and you just sat there and stared at each other, as if to say: Out of all the places in the world, this is where I find you.
· · ❁ · ·
You loved the rainy season, loved those humid afternoons you’d sit on the back deck at Rhett’s place.
He’d fixed up the Abbott's old bunkhouse with Perry, a small cabin at the edge of the forest where ranch hands used to stay back in the day. The two of them had worked on it for a year, and you knew Rhett felt a sense of pride whenever he talked about it, running his hands along the smooth timber walls with a kind of care that felt personal. He and Perry had carved their names like kids into the bottom of the front door, and Rhett knocked the tip of his boot against it every time he left the cabin. “For luck,” he’d told you once, and he’d looked a little sad.
His was a place of wide gridded windows and Navajo rugs. It was surprisingly sentimental, filled with keepsakes and old furniture from his parents or his grandparents, the kind of place that looked like it had been here from the start, as enduring as the soft in-line of a favorite coat.
You liked the traces of him here, the mundanity of them; aftershave and painkillers in the medicine cabinet, forgotten mugs of coffee left on window sills and counter tops, his belts, his toppled boots by the door, his packet of Camels by the sink, his dad’s old CD collection—The Black Crows, ZZ Top, Stevie Ray Vaughan—a small army of Amy’s arts-and-crafts projects sprinkled atop shelves, family photos tacked to the refrigerator.
Out on the back deck, your eyes trailed over the rocks set in a neat row on the railing. You sat in a wicker chair, listening to the rain pattering against the tin roof, the cradle of pine all around.
You’d had a long day at the bakery, and Rhett had had an even longer day herding cattle out of the west pasture, which had started to flood from all the rain.
He sat on the deck with his legs stretched out and his back against the railing. In a T-shirt and jeans, head knocked back, his baseball cap pulled low.
He’d closed his eyes a long time ago. Had he fallen asleep?
“Stop starin’,” Rhett mumbled, eyes still closed.
You snorted, caught. Ears going hot, you dug your cheek into the weave of the wicker, clenching your eyes closed like a child when he opened his. Your tell-tale grin. His low chuckle.
You felt young with him sometimes. Like you didn’t have to pretend the way you did with Maya, constantly trying to prove that you weren’t the useless little sister floundering through life.
It was easy with Rhett, you could be honest. And you had all these big feelings and these even bigger wants, and they were shameful, complicated, and they ached, and you knew this need all too well, had felt it with every crush you’d ever had, never knew what to call it or how to say it, or how to have it be done to you. You didn’t just like people; you disappeared into them.
And with Rhett…
You wanted to crawl after him on your hands and knees, feel his big, big hand grab you by the hair, pulling and pulling, your teeth sinking into the worn leather of his belt.
Open up, Shortcake.
You swallowed. You pulled your knees to your chest. You wanted to close yourself like a box.
“You want the talking stick?” Rhett asked with one of his huff-laughs.
The talking stick was silly.
You didn’t know when it had started; something to do with support groups and their strange rituals, and you’d said it as a joke once at the bar when Rhett had looked like he wanted to say something but was holding back. You’d handed him your soggy coaster and said, You want the talking stick? And he’d taken it with a smile loosened by relief.
You shook your head. “No, thank you.”
“You sure?”
“Super.”
“Because if you ain’t taking it, I will—”
“Oh god, if you’re going to start talking about that bull rope paste again, I’ll suffocate myself in the mud.”
“First of all, it’s called rosin. Second of all, ouch.” He looked genuinely offended. “And you better make your mind up quick, ‘cause I’m gonna start listing my favorite ones. Also, did you know you have to heat it just right? Otherwise it’s like pulling taffy—”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had the kind of sex I really want to have,” you finally said. Blurted, really.
You thought of what your sister had called you once: a human hand grenade.
The distinct click of Rhett snapping his mouth shut, teeth on teeth. The rain pattered on—and you knew you had to as well, you had to get it out quick before you stuffed it all back down.
“And I’m scared I’ll never have it because I’m too chickenshit to tell people about the kind of sex I want to have, and, it’s nothing crazy, it just—it’s…a feeling? And like, some people just aren’t into it, but I haven’t slept with enough people to really know if that’s true or if I’ve never bothered to get close enough to someone to actually tell them or to know if that really is the kind of sex that I actually want, because I’ve never had it, I just know that I want it, and what if I tell the next person that’s the kind of sex I want and then I don’t like it at all…what then?”
You’d closed your eyes again, vibrating, the blackness vibrating with you.
“What kind of sex do you wanna have?” Rhett’s voice was so low you barely heard him.
Breath catching. You opened your eyes. You stared at his hands.
You pantomimed tossing the stick over your shoulder. “Lost it,” you mumbled.
I'm sorry, you wanted to say but you couldn't get yourself to.
Even though you weren’t looking at him, you knew Rhett was thinking, trying to figure out if he could push you or if he wanted to wait it out, if he should pave it over with conversation, or if he should stand up to grab a beer. Because in the end, you were friends. And you did know him, and he did know you.
Rhett settled for something that broke your heart a little. “You know, you can talk to me. Right? About anything.”
You swallowed, nodded.
“Want a beer?” The soft familiar crack of his knees as he stood.
You were too scared of the things you’d say if you had one. Shaking your head, you said, “Water, please.”
· · ❁ · ·
Something shifted after that. It felt tectonic, structural. There was this muscle inside of you strung so tight. It waited. Agonized for relief, for a thumb to rub along its tendons and help it unravel itself.
It was different that morning, and you were curled in the tub, shower head pressed close—down there, right there—and you needed so much, and his name spiraled through you endlessly, oh god-oh god, eyes squeezed shut tight enough the whole world cracked open. You came so hard you felt helpless in it, loosened from yourself, your mouth finding your forearm, your teeth finding your skin—
You’d bitten down hard enough Rhett traced a finger over the swell when you met him later that day. “What happened?” His voice too low. Unfamiliar.
“Hurt myself at the bakery,” you lied.
He huffed. No laugh. He didn’t believe you.
Whatever had started to shift, didn’t stop its shifting. It infiltrated your conversations, or rather lack thereof, until both of you felt like you were fumbling through something that used to be easy.
Rhett stopped coming into the bakery, rather opting to drive you home whenever you had to close up shop on your own, even if it meant he had to leave the ranch early to drive all the way to town and back. There was an energy around him, especially at the bar when he was a couple of drinks in.
You were used to Rhett Abbott quietly watching over people, making sure no rowdy tourists messed with the regulars, or that the Tillerson boys left Perry alone on the rare occasion that he did join you two at the bar, or looming over you whenever some guy slid up to ask for your number, his blunt: Can I help you, man?
There was something about him, like maybe there was a muscle inside of him too, strung too tight for too long, waiting...
The first time Rhett got into a fight in front of you, something incomprehensible roiled in your stomach.
It had started innocently enough. You knew Lloyd liked calling you Shortcake, and you’d never paid it any mind; he was a touchy drunk the girls tolerated, each meeting his relatively tame come-ons with an eye-roll and a middle finger. But he’d had too much to drink that night, and his hands had sloppily snaked their way around your waist to pull you to the dancefloor. “—no, seriously, I’m good, Lloyd. Like, I’m running for evil mayor of that town in Footloose. I’m done—”
“Come on, Shortcake, for me?”
“I said I’m fucking good, Lloyd.” His arms tightened around you, breath bloated with liquors unknown. “You can let go now.”
You saw Rhett too late, shoving his way through the crowd. You lifted your hands like you were trying to reprimand an incoming cyclone, “Rhett, don’t—”
Leaning in close to slur something in your ear, Lloyd was oblivious to the fact that Rhett's shoulder was about to collide with the back of his head.
What proceeded was a burst of juvenile male posturing that consisted mostly of huffing and shoving, like two big pigeons clucking at each other over soggy bread on the sidewalk. But when Lloyd whacked Rhett’s hat off with an accidental swing, the next thing you knew, a fist met a cheek, and a knee met a groin—and you cursed God for ever making you this hopelessly attracted to dick.
· · ❁ · ·
“Please don’t do that again,” you told Rhett much later, sitting next to him on his couch, pressing a bag of frozen peas to his head. “Not for me, okay?”
Rhett sat slouched beside you, the big bend of his back, as he stared at the scuffed knuckles of his right hand.
“I’m a big girl. I can deal with Lloyd, for Christ’s sake. He’s, like, three feet. He’s a human step stool.”
“He was touching you—”
“People touch me all the time.”
“Not like that. I didn’t…I don’t want anyone else to fucking touch you like that.”
You tossed the peas into his lap.
He looked at you then, face hazy in the dim lights of his living room.
Anyone else…
It echoed in your body, over and over, traveled all the way through you.
“Pretty sure that’s up to me,” you said.
With a sigh, he pressed the bag of peas to his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m—sorry. Okay? Sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing it until…Yeah.” He took a breath. “I’m a shitty drunk.”
“That makes two of us.” Shifting, you grabbed his arm to help him up, catching him when he swayed with a groan. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed, Bazooka Man.”
Rhett let you guide him to the bedroom, the same way he’d let you drive him home in his truck. It did things to you, knowing you could wrangle this big cowboy down the hallway and into his bed, without him putting up a fight.
You liked when he listened to you—and you knew full well there weren’t many people he listened to in the first place.
“Gotta admit, I got him good though,” Rhett murmured when he stumbled into bed, that stupid little grin of his, the one that made his canines flash.
You snatched the peas to smack him with it. “Stop,” you warned. “You kneed him in the ballsack, you trigger-happy fuck. Are you proud of yourself?”
“I hope his sperm count plummets.”
You couldn’t help your laugh, and he couldn’t help his.
This, you could handle. This was the Rhett with the crooked smile and the lopsided gait, his intense boyishness that made you wonder about how he got each scar on his body.
With this Rhett, things were easy, almost routine, and you felt lulled into the practiced rhythm of it, unthinking; helping him unbutton his shirt, before yanking off his boots, his jeans, the way you had countless of times after he’d been bucked off a bull hard enough he’d returned to the cabin in a tourniquet and his head foggy with medication.
On the first night you’d driven him home from the hospital, he’d told you that he didn’t like letting anyone help him like this, and you’d reached over the stick shift to wipe the hair from his forehead, and something about the way he'd leaned into it had made you so unbearably sad.
You didn’t know when you snapped out of it, crouched before him, about to grab his boots to bring them to the door—when you finally looked up.
His silhouette was black against the glow of the bedside lamp, eclipsed by it, he loomed above you in shadow. Your chest cramped up with a feeling you’d tried so hard to push away.
In your head, you were careless.
In your head, you let his boots fall to the hardwood floor. You crawled to him on hands and knees, and you nuzzled his bare knee, the soft hairs there, the lean muscle of his thigh, ran your nose to the spot where the checkered cotton of his boxers bunched just so. I need. I need and need and need—
“You can’t do that to me, Shortcake.” Rhett’s voice rumbled in the quiet.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.” His voice felt like a finger below your chin, tapping it up.
“Like what?” All breath.
Rhett didn’t answer. His head tipped to the side. You imagined yourself from where he sat, imagined his shadow was big enough it swallowed you whole.
This was a Rhett you didn’t know.
The bed creaked as he leaned forward. You didn’t breathe, didn’t move a muscle, when his fingers ghosted along the edge of your jaw. Your breath hiccuped when you felt a gentle tug on the corner of your mouth, and you realized he’d loosened a single strand of hair from your lips. The heat humming there, humming through you.
“Are you ever going to tell me?” he said.
Your confusion must’ve been obvious, because he spoke again: “Are you ever going to tell me what you want?”
What I want?
It was such a simple answer.
It shamed you how simple it was.
In the dim light, you stared at the vein roped along his forearm. You wanted to trace it with your tongue, with soft grazing teeth, wanted to lap up the salt and tang of his skin, gather it all in your mouth, take the sweetest littlest bites.
You wanted to lean all the way in, kiss the inside of his palm, that starburst scar from when his glove had once ripped during a bull ride. You imagined then, taking the thick pad of his thumb into your mouth, letting it press into your tongue until you bit down, until it reached all the way in. Until you writhed from it.
With a frustrated huff, you tipped forward. Your forehead bumped against his knee.
You didn’t know what to do with yourself anymore.
You could’ve wept when you felt strong fingers carefully run down the curve of your skull. The cuff of nails scraping along your skin. The sound it made.
He held you like this: your head cradled in his big, big hand.
You knew Rhett understood something about you in that moment.
You felt young, skinless, unsure in your body. None of you felt grown. You were all baby teeth. You were a tiny stack of bones that shook.
“You’re okay, darlin’,” Rhett said it with so much tenderness you made a shameful sound low in your throat, and your nose pressed into the scar that ran up the center of his knee.
What you would’ve done to kiss it then, just once, to lave it in spit, with your eyes screwed shut and a hand between your legs, there, down there—
· · ❁ · ·
Your biggest secret was this: You’d let anything be done to you if it was just done sweetly enough.
Your relationship with intimacy had always been complicated.
You knew what you looked like to men; you were the young desperate thing to be flung face-down and taken, filthy little whore, you asked for it, you want it like this, right? You want it like this—
The few times you’d had sex, that assumption had left you shaking in the bathroom after, still drunk or high or both, wiping cum off your face or scraping it out of yourself, rubbing the tacky film of it between your fingers until it got grainy.
The shame of it all, the shame of your body glaring back at you in the mirror like a creature unknown. Because you had wanted it like that, but not really, and you hadn’t known how to say it right, or maybe they hadn’t listened, and you hadn’t blamed them for it, except you had. Most of the time you blamed yourself, an archaic miserable reflex that seemed to define every aspect of you being a fucking woman.
When you thought about what you wanted, sometimes all you were left with was a feeling.
You thought of big sure hands helping you out of your shoes, unlacing one, then the other. You thought of your hair being washed and your mouth being fed and your cheeks being kissed, one at a time.
It was so embarrassingly sexless.
All you wanted was to know with a kind of relief that you could let go now, that it was going to be okay, and that for a blissful fucking moment, you didn’t have to be yourself anymore.
You could just want.
You could be all of your wanting at once and nothing more.
· · ❁ · ·
“Mornin’.”
You didn’t open your eyes.
A low chuckle from above. “I know you ain’t asleep.”
With a tired groan, you cracked one eye open, then the other. Rhett had changed into a T-shirt and sweats. He’d showered, hair still damp and curling at his neck.
He was staring. You knew why. Your dress lay puddled on his living room floor.
Still hazy from sleep, was it so terrible to let yourself be looked at like this? The worn cotton T-shirt you’d snatched from Rhett’s drawer riding up your stomach as you stretched.
You caught the bob in his slender throat. He was pretty like this, you thought. A patch of sunlight spilled across the side of his face, eyes a tremendous shock of blue. He smelled like his deodorant, his aftershave. His hand so close to your face all you’d have to do was open your mouth.
“You feeling better?” you said, voice frayed with leftover sleep.
A night on Rhett’s couch always left you a little discombobulated. It was deep and wide, all buttery brown leather, the kind you sunk into as if lazing in a palm.
Your gaze climbed from his hand up to his bare arm, from his throat to his freshly shaven jaw. You were so tired you couldn’t hide from him.
You fell all the way open.
His hand twitched like maybe he’d reach out.
But you two were good at this game. Especially sober, in the daylight.
Rhett cleared his throat. “Making breakfast. You hungry?” His attention wavered on your mouth.
You swallowed. He tracked it.
“Starvin’,” you drawled in some faux-impression of him, in the hopes it was silly enough to lighten the mood.
He chuckled. “Starvin’, huh? Okay, cowboy.” He grabbed a pillow and whacked your thigh, “Giddy-up,” before heading to the kitchen, limping slightly.
Had he not taken his painkillers?
“How do scrambled eggs and pancakes sound?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Uh—Heavenly?”
“Okay, calm down, they’re more for me than for you.”
“Liar. If I weren’t here, you’d have a cigarette and a Bud Light.”
“If I didn’t make sure you ate properly, you’d be having orange juice Captain Crunch three times a day.”
“It’s delicious?”
“It’s deranged, is what it is.”
You laughed, more out of relief than anything else. This was normal. You could deal with normal.
Not bothering with putting on your dress, you dragged yourself to the kitchen in nothing but his T-shirt and your underwear. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight—you’d weathered the occasional hangover on his couch wearing less—but something about this felt different. There was too much inside of you, and after last night, you didn’t know how to look at him without thinking about the way he’d called you darlin'.
You managed to sit through a painfully normal breakfast—radio on, mundane small talk—and even though it wasn’t Captain Crunch with orange juice, it would do (a mumbled statement that earned you a balled-up paper towel to the head).
You helped clear the table after, before heading out to brush your teeth. When you returned the radio was off, and Rhett was stooped over the sudsy sink, placing a plate onto the drying rack. You hoisted yourself onto the kitchen table and watched as he washed his hands, slowly, methodically, staring out the window like he was thinking.
“You want the talking stick?” you said.
Rhett huffed a laugh, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink, looking down, looking up. His wide back expanded as he took a breath. You almost expected him to shake his head when he finally spoke: “Who bit your arm?”
You blinked. “What?”
“I know what a bite mark looks like.” Of course Rhett Abbott would know what a bite mark looked like. It almost made you laugh, the ridiculousness of it. “Are you getting into fights I don’t know about? Or is Maya—”
“Oh God,” you pitched forward, “no, of course not! Biting’s not her style. She prefers dish towels.” You were joking but Rhett wasn’t laughing.
This whole moment felt unreal. You hadn't thought about it in days. The bruise was already healing anyway, yellow and mottled and absolutely not worth being contemplated on.
You raked through yourself for another answer, something stupid enough, something unbelievable: Tres, the three-legged goat? The wonky convection oven at the bakery? A rabid child on the street—
“Are you ever going to tell me?” Rhett gripped into the sink so hard his hands paled from the pressure.
The question surprised you.
You remembered how he’d asked you that the night before.
It made the same frustrating weight sink onto your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them again, vision splotchy. Staring at the tender swirls of hair gathered at the nape of Rhett’s neck, you took a breath and you said, “It was me.”
You watched as the color blotted back into his hands.
“I was in the shower,” you said. Then, “I was...thinking of you.”
Remembering then how his finger had traced along the tender swell of the bruise just hours later, in the bar, in the red lights, and how you’d secretly hoped he’d press down to make it ache, make you remember how much you’d wanted him, in that moment, in the bathtub surrounded by the splotchy shower curtain, the tiles painted in dried suds, like Venus in her shell, shaking open, shaking apart.
I was thinking of you.
You closed your eyes when Rhett finally turned. Sitting on the kitchen table, legs dangling over the edge, you kept yourself still. You listened to his breath ragged and strange in the quiet. A warble of birds outside. The creak of the floorboards as he came to you.
His closeness was a cloud bank rolling in, suddenly all around, the smell of him, coffee and deodorant and soap. Your face lifted on instinct. Eyes still closed, you basked in the heat of his breath pouring across your forehead, your cheeks.
I was thinking of you.
All of you sighed open.
And you waited for him in that blackness, until you felt the distinct prickle of skin on skin, a knuckle maybe, a single finger running down the inside of your forearm, down, down, before it reached that tender spot.
He pressed.
Your eyes snapped open. Sunlight turned that blue stare into something startling, electric.
As if moving through a trance, your hand settled atop his still on your arm, finding his thumb and digging it into the bruise even harder. That dull ache turned sharp, shot right through you.
Eyes twitching, mouth opening. The sound you made.
Rhett looked at you like he’d never seen you before.
Letting go of his hand, you reached for him, digging your fingers into the hair bunched at the nape of his neck, and you pulled him close, pulled him all the way down. Your forehead rolled against his, your nose mashing into his skin, mouth open, waiting, wanting so fucking much. Pleasepleasepleaseplease—
Rhett stopped you with a thumb on your bottom lip. You couldn’t even feel ashamed for spewing out the most pathetic huff. Filthy little whore. Your jaw loosening, tongue darting out to taste him, to dig your teeth into him just a little.
But Rhett slid his thumb away, pressed it like a gentle warning into your cheek.
“Do you want this?” His voice cracked right in the middle.
You nodded, nose bumping against his a little too hard.
“Speak up for me—”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said, he smiled small. You wanted to bite at it, make it bigger. “You say the word and we stop, okay?”
You nodded. He waited.
"Okay," you said.
“We’ll go slow. Yeah?”
You nodded again, numbed to everything except for him. “Yes, please.”
Rhett groaned, leaning into you so completely your mouths almost collided. “God, you kill me with all your please-and-thank-yous. You’re so good. You wanna be good for me?” He said it like he was testing something. And your chin nudged forward, body bending towards him, and whatever he was looking for, he found it in the way your legs fell open all the way.
Gripping into the back of your knees, he dragged you closer, his thighs sliding between yours, and you sputtered a breath when you felt the hot press of him against all of you.
“Yes,” you breathed.
“You are, darlin’. "
Darlin'
"Fuck, you are. You don’t even know how damn good you are.” His hands sliding back up your side, your throat, gripping your jaw to tip your face towards him. Your fingers fumbling to hook into his forearms. You felt as though all you were doing was holding on.
Letting him lead. Letting him keep you like this.
He made you wait. Ran the tip of his nose almost soothingly along the bridge of yours. Lips taunting, that terrible shudder of closeness that escaped you every time your mouth tried desperately to meet his.
You thought of the way he ran his hand along the flank of his horse, patted her once, twice. Easy, girl—
Maybe you hated him for it. How much he undid you. How he had you sitting there, soaking in it, vibrating inside all of your unbearable catastrophic fucking need like he had you leashed.
“Please,” you finally mouthed into the heat of his breath. And his eyes flashed. And when you were ready to plead just one more time, without an ounce of shame left, his mouth collapsed against yours.
It surged through you like a spinal tap.
Drawing out, deeper, digging all the way in, tongue and teeth, the smooth jut of his chin.
Your hands were everywhere, unsure of what they wanted to grab hold of first, like a woman drowning; in his hair, on his jaw, scraping down his wide shoulders, sliding up the heat of his neck—Here and here and here, let me touch you right here.
Rhett’s hands stayed bolted to your jaw. You felt like he was the only thing keeping you upright, like you’d unspool if he ever let you go.
You were a wanton thing, wincing into his open mouth. A constant drool of need. And you were hot. God, you were so hot. You couldn’t breathe with how hot you were. Yanking at your shirt, you just wanted it off, off. Rhett nipped at your bottom lip once, and then he was smiling. Was he laughing? Like he was catching on, like he took such pity on you. Your teeth clacked against his. You couldn't keep your shit together. You couldn't think, you couldn't think...
“I want—” You tugged at the shirt until his hands joined yours. “I want all of it off.” You sounded drunk, like you were listening to yourself from one room over.
“Okay. Okay, darlin’, I got you.” And he did. He helped you peel the shirt off, but it snagged on your elbow, and your face was stuck against threadbare cotton, and you laughed, because what the fuck? Here you were, going crazy on Rhett Abbott’s kitchen table.
You were still laughing when the shirt finally came off, laughing harder when Rhett tossed it over his shoulder and it landed on the coffee maker.
He was smiling above you, the morning light painting him soft and perfect as he combed the hair out of your eyes.
You wanted to run your fingers over his face, read him like braille.
It was a foreign realization that, now, here, you could. You could do so much. You could have all the things that had piled inside of you, one on top of the other. All of your fucking wanting, it felt bigger than your body. You were so full. And it was just the two of you, and this was Rhett, and it was all going to be okay, it was okay to let go of him and to lean back, push the leftover coffee mugs to the edge of the table, to let Rhett huff a strangled laugh when one of them thunked to the floor, like he couldn’t believe that he was here like this, with you.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, staring down at you
A hand traced where your body met the table, like he was cutting along the shape of you, skin sliding against yours as he traveled up and up, past each dip of your ribs, your arms, shoulders, up the hollow of your throat to your collarbone, to that dip right in-between, where the pendant of your necklace rested.
He pushed it in just a bit, and the pressure made you arch, made you mad with it. “Fuck, look at you, baby."
Baby.
You were baby.
“No one’s ever taken care of you, huh? You poor thing.” His lilting condescension left you gaping. “Remember what you told me? You’ll tell me what you want. You’ll tell me, yeah? How do you want it, baby? I’ll take such good fucking care of you.”
He leaned over you, ghosting his mouth over your jaw, kissing you there, so unhurried. “Where do you want me?”
Everywhere.
You swallowed, shaking your head, eyes screwed shut.
Fucking everywhere, all at once, all the time.
You make me want so much it pushes out everything else.
He chuckled into your neck. “Gotta tell me, baby.” Sucked at your skin with tongue and teeth. His T-shirt hung low enough it grazed over your nipples. You arched into him.
He hummed. “Here?” His thumb tenderly traveled up the swell of your breast and tapped against your nipple. Breath hitching, you shook your head.
“What about here?” His mouth pressed a wet kiss to your clavicle. No. Going lower, kissing a path to your other breast, breath gathering over it. You closed your eyes when he looked at you.
“And here?” His tongue like a small flame over your nipple, laving at it so softly, round and round, the wet sweep making you dizzy. Losing yourself in it. Chest bowing up into his mouth, arching so high it hurt.
He bit down once. You whined. Shook your head again, not there.
On and on it went:
Here? Mouth on your sternum. And what about here? Hands grabbing your waist. A soft scatter of kisses around your belly button. Biting into the soft flesh of your tummy until it kicked a laugh out of you. No, stop, stop. Okay, okay. Here? He fed your fingers into his mouth, the warm glide of his tongue, snag of teeth when they caught on your knuckles. And here? Baby, what about here? Spit on his chin as bent down to lave at each hipbone—No, no, no.
Here? Traveling lower and lower to kiss the top of a thigh, then inside of it with a drag of his tongue.
Your body hiccuped once and hard with need.
Rhett moved around you with the same intensity he had waiting in the chute at the rodeo, holding something back, containing it. You wanted to slam it open, wanted him thrashing and sweating and tossed around, you wanted and you wanted, you wanted so much.
Maybe he took mercy on you, or maybe he’d run out of patience, when he finally—finally—parted your legs. That pained sound of his. That sweet little oh. “Fuck. You’re so wet. You need it that bad, hm?"
You were nodding again. "Yes—" Could he tell how hard you were nodding?
You heard the distinct drag of a chair on the hardwood floor, and you could’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of seeing him sitting at the kitchen table, the very one you’d just had breakfast at, now covered in the sprawl of your naked body, soaked and aching, your thighs parted for him, right foot resting on the back of the chair.
Rhett must’ve caught on because he laughed, tipping his head against your leg, kissing your calf. You hissed when he nipped at you there. “God, I could—” Groaning into your skin. “I could take a fucking bite out of you it's not even funny. Jesus.”
With his arms hooked around your legs, his kisses traveled up the inside of your thigh. You watched, open-mouthed, slack-jawed, as his dark swirl of hair traveled between your legs.
You’d fucked yourself to the thought of this.
“You want it here, baby?” He nosed at the elastic of your underwear, warm breath pouring over you.
You nodded so hard your head knocked against the table. You were swimming in it. The whole world swimming with you. “Yes, please…”
His murmured curse.
Your desperate whine.
Before finally, a kiss to your cotton-covered clit.
It made your whole body still.
“How you do you want it?” he mumbled it against you. Right there. Down there.
You knew he wasn't expecting you to answer, but your needing felt vicious like this, burned in the back of your throat, and you thought:
Messy.
And with a shame that bloomed hot and red across your chest, you realized you'd pleaded for it out loud, voice like a frayed rope one pull away from snapping.
Rhett's lashes were long and dark as he looked up at you. He huffed a laugh.
Something about it sounded very, very mean.
He gave your clit another quick kiss. And then another and another, longer this time, until his mouth opened, tongue flattening against the center of you. You felt him gather spit, felt the hot gush of it. How he grabbed the elastic of your underwear to stretch it across you so tight it made your clit thrum, holding you there, strumming his thumb up and down, playing with it. “Look at this.” Before giving you a quick pat, once, twice—the peeling wetness of it in the quiet. “Fuck, baby—”
Before you had time to gather enough breath, Rhett buried his face into you, mouth mashing against you there, right there. Taking big bites. Spit and tongue and heat that drooled right through you. He groaned, pressing in deeper, the wide pad of his tongue nudging your clit, over and over, working you like this, until you were soaked enough a string of wetness followed when Rhett finally pulled off your underwear.
He flung it across the kitchen, uncaring, and you heard it land somewhere on the floor with a slop.
You were completely naked then, and he stared down at you like he wanted to be everywhere but he knew he had to make a choice.
It made your brain light up. It made you writhe when his palm pressed a smooth circle over your aching core, before cupping it once and hard, holding you like this, holding all of you at once. “You’re so perfect, baby. Look at you being so perfect for me.” His endless reserve of nonsensical drivel, slow and honeyed and drawling, like he was pouring it into you.
You wanted more, you waited for it, legs opening wider, wider.
A breath, then—he spit on your hole.
It felt fucking preposterous.
And then his mouth was on you again. Without that barrier of cotton from before, everything was raw, wetness wetter, pressure harder. His tongue, spongy and hot against you, teeth scraping across your clit. Pulling in a deep mouthful. You felt it everywhere when he moaned. His head shaking once like something gone rabid.
One of his hands dug into your stomach, the other crept up the front of your throat, digging for entrance when it reached your mouth. You let him in, his thick fingers pressing into your tongue.
“Spit.” He said it right against your clit, before sucking.
You’d caught the undertone: You want messy? I’ll give you fucking messy—
You grabbed his wrist, laved at his fingers, until you felt a dribble down your chin, and before you could get lost in the pressure of something thick and foreign in your mouth, he pulled his hand back, smearing the mess over your aching hole. Thumb flicking fast—before stopping. You punched out a pitiful cry.
“You want my fingers, hm? You think this sweet pussy wants my fingers?”
You knocked your head into the table so hard your ears rung, yesyesyesyesyes. Nodding and nodding and nodding and nodding.
You were so open and so wet, he easily breached you.
Full of him. You were full with him.
His fingers curled against that spongy rippling spot inside of you, that spot that gave way completely. He pressed down on your stomach, hard, and you keened, elbows digging into the table, your hands hovering, twitching in the air.
Rhett was strong enough to keep you from moving too much. You blamed all those damn bulls. His body moved on instinct, meeting each buck and squirm of you. He’d told you once that it was never about anticipating the next move, it was about response, action-reaction, it was all reflex when he was on that saddle.
You couldn’t keep still, hips jerking, lurching wildly beneath him. You were everywhere. You were fucking dynamite. But he pressed you down, fingers working inside of you with that steady unbreakable rhythm. His tongue on your clit. The filthy sounds of it dripping into the kitchen, all the lapping, the squelch of his fingers, your wet keening sobs. You let him fuck you and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you like this. Your hands finally tearing in his hair. Feet fumbling to find the back of the chair for leverage, trying to ride his face, his fingers.
Don’t stop, you thought so hard it charged through you like voltage. Please, “Don’t stop—”
His hand on your stomach splayed wider, pressed down, gripping into you—and you realized he’d felt your body tense up faster than you had.
Something about Rhett feeling you were about to come made your vision blurry. His body meeting yours at every turn.
You said his name then. He groaned something into you, but you couldn’t hear it over the pulsing in your ears. Chest arching, legs buckling around his head.
You came in complete and utter silence.
Eyes screwed shut, dropping into blackness.
You thought you might've reached the bottom of something.
It was so perfect you wanted to cry.
The slow drag of his tongue coaxed you back slowly. His fingers had slipped out, now tracing soothing wet circles on the inside of your thigh. You couldn’t believe Rhett's head was still between your legs, mouth lazily lapping up the mess. You gently pushed him away, clit too sensitive for more.
Rhett blinked, bleary-eyed. He looked wild. Hair a mess, face ruddy and wet. Covered in you.
“Holy shit..” His voice was nothing but a low rasp.
Holy shit.
The chair jerked back as he stood again, roughly wiping his face on his T-shirt with such habitual boyishness you couldn’t help but reach for him. Delirious, gooey-warm. You were kissing him and kissing him, kissing him all over. You could taste yourself on him.
"Did so well for me, baby." He murmured in between kisses, smiling slow. "So fucking good." His hands gripped your head, turning you this way and that like he was checking in.
You couldn't do anything but nod. Your legs felt gummy as you wrapped them around his hips to pull him close. His hardness ground right against you.
Rhett hissed. Eyes squeezing shut. Nodding his head almost absentmindedly when you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats to pull them down.
You felt hungry with it. Insatiable.
Rhett’s cock was heavy and full as it sprung free, the glossy-pink tip swollen with all his aching. Your mouth went numb, filling with spit, with how much you wanted to taste him, slide him all the way into you until you stopped breathing.
But Rhett was shaking his head, no. “I won’t last, baby—” Raw enough it almost felt like he was the one pleading with you now.
You didn’t want him pleading.
You wanted him to feel good. All you wanted was for him to feel good.
Without a word, you wiped a hand through the wet mess between your legs, all his spit, all yours, all your cum, the terrible gush of you, and you spread it over him in a slow filthy pump. He was so big, you stacked one hand over the other.
Rhett tipped forward, his jaw slack, transfixed as he watched your hands move over him. “Hah—fuck me...” One wet deliberate slide after the other, his hips bucking forward.
Next time, you thought, you'd have him all the way inside of you. You could almost imagine it when Rhett leaned over you, caged you in with shaking arms. His mouth buried in your throat, licking a hot strip to your ear, slurring more of his sweet nonsense, so fucking good, baby, oh my god, baby just like that, fuck fuck fuck—
He was thrusting into your hands so hard the table kept jerking back, hitting the window sill. The little ceramics there rattling. One fell to the floor. The back of your head knocked against something hard enough it left you dazed, and Rhett's bumbling hands came up to cradle you there, soothe you through it. Fuck, you good, baby?
He was so perfect it killed you, he fucking killed you.
You kissed him, breathed straight out of his mouth. All you wanted was to make him come for you. Come for me. Please, please.
And when he finally did, when his hips met yours in a wet cuff, when he groaned into your mouth, broken, out of it—he spilled hot onto your stomach.
Forehead to forehead.
Breathing heavy.
You felt the wet drag of his spent cock run from your stomach down to your pubis, where he patted it against your clit, once, like some nasty little parting gift, like a promise.
You kissed him one last time before you collapsed onto your back.
For a moment, neither of you said a word. You watched each other. Eyelids heavy. You realized you were breathing in time.
Out of all the places in the world, you thought.
Somewhere in the thick of it, you ran a finger through the puddle of cum on your stomach. Cool now. Spread it across your tongue—acidy, bitter.
The taste of him.
You wanted to disappear into it.
“You’ve gotta stop or you’ll actually kill me,” Rhett groaned, leaning in all the way. He gently grabbed you by the jaw, kissed you, wet and open-mouthed, the slip of his tongue going deep. “You’re so good,” he murmured against your lips. "You're so good..." Giving you one sweet peck, then another.
And you were still stuck in your daze, sitting at the bottom of this thing that felt vast and everywhere. Sunlight poured through the windows, cradling you in the warmth of your afterglow.
Before you could feel ashamed for it, you let it slip: “thank you, daddy.”
And Rhett looked at you like he'd received an answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.
· · ❁ · ·
Afterward, Rhett piled you into his arms and carried you to the bathroom.
You thought distantly of all the other times you’d had to clean yourself up alone.
Rhett was dense and fumbling after “coming my damn brains out, Christ.” But he was trying his best to be slow with you, helping you into the shower.
The two of you swaying like drunkards in the hot spray of the shower head.
You were so tired.
You’d been holding on to something so deeply for so long, it was knocked loose now, it was open like a wound. You imagined the water rushing in, clearing it out until the blood ran clear.
While you both rinsed yourself off, Rhett’s mouth found you every once in a while. It felt like he was making sure you were still there. Pressing a kiss to your temple, the top of your head, a scatter of them on your shoulder.
Once even, he lifted your hand and kissed the inside of your palm with such tenderness you wanted to die.
· · ❁ · ·
“What now?” Rhett murmured into your damp hair.
You were on the back deck, curled in his lap on your favorite wicker chair. Sunlight splintered through the trees as it hit the floor. A patch of it warming your bare feet.
It had taken you a while to climb out of the daze, find your way back to your body. Slowly, slowly, mind un-blurring until you felt coherent.
Your voice was a dry rasp when you finally spoke. “Do you think people should be fucking members of their support group?”
“Okay.” Scoffing, Rhett jiggled you in his lap. “Fucking? Really?”
“Fine. Fraternizing.”
He shot you a withering look. It made you snort.
You knew he was right.
Whatever you’d done on his kitchen table, it had left something big inside of you. It felt important.
“Who would’ve thought Rhett Abbott was such a closet romantic,” you mumbled, delighting in the way he rolled his eyes.
Leaving it at that, you curled back into his chest, lazily lifting a finger and tracing along the soft slope of his nose, down his Cupid’s Bow, each curve of each lip.
Look at you—so surprisingly tender.
He opened his mouth to nip at your finger.
“We’ll go slow,” you whispered, echoing the words he’d said to you before, with such reassurance it felt rooted deep.
“Alright,” he murmured, nodding, letting you press your finger to his jaw to make him look at you. “Slow. I can do slow.”
You couldn't help your grin, thinking about all the things he'd done to you in his kitchen just an hour ago. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
He quirked a mean smile, pinching your side until you laughed.
Like this, you didn’t feel difficult or complicated or messy.
Your laughter spiraled as you tipped your head back from so much delight.
You let it shake through you.
You let it shake through the tin roof and the wicker chair and the rocks on the railing and the sun and the pine trees and the grass and the dirt and the valley that rolled all the way to your sister's house, the very place you'd started calling home the second your duffle bag hit the welcome mat.
And finally, you let it shake through him, sitting there, washed in shards of sunlight—looking at you like you were the easiest thing to love.
