his hand slid into hers and she didn’t look down—not right away. just held it like it was something meant to be held, like it belonged there. his words lingered in the air between them, that soft confession he’d let slip before they stood. she didn’t press it. didn’t call it out or deflect. just gave his hand the smallest, near-imperceptible squeeze.
“then i’m glad you came,” she said simply.
outside, the streets were thick with haze—sweet rot in the air from those damn mothman offerings, the pyres burning in the distance like strange stars. but she didn’t flinch. she didn’t break stride. his presence beside her added a second rhythm to her movement—her steps still quiet, but no longer alone. his hand was still in hers, protective but not possessive. and hers? hers wasn’t letting go.
after a moment, when the silence stretched long enough to become something of its own, she spoke again—low and sure, like she only ever said what mattered. “you’re not just extra time, owen.”
a pause. she didn’t look at him when she said it. she didn’t need to. “you’re the part i look forward to.”
and with that, she led him into the dark—one hand in his, the other free at her side, always ready. because inés tejada didn’t need protection.
For a moment, the only sounds between them were the huffing of their breaths through the masks and the quiet tapping of their feet against the pavement. A small part of Owen wished that he could be more present in the moment, more focused on the warmth of her hand in his and the way she looked back every now and again. His own eyes were constantly scanning, seeking out the forms in the shadowy haze.
A scream in the night set him even more on edge, and he moved even closer to Inés so that he directly flanked her. His hand went to the pistol on his hip. But the scream didn't come closer, just set them on edge. However, in true Inés fashion, she kept focused forward, unflinching even as the night seemed ready to close in. She did not falter, even when the smells of blood and rot seemed ready to choke them, even when the streetlights seemed to barely pierce the veil of dust. Together, she and he moved like a unit, together even without words.
When she did speak, it wasn't to utter words of fear, but to tell him that she looked forward to him. For a second he didn't respond; it had been a long time since he had been something to look forward to. He knew he was a decent soldier, but even he could admit that he was not one that people called for a good time. She was different, though; she had never needed him to be anything other than what he was. If he was broken, she had never seemed to mind the edges and fractures. "I look forward to you too."
When they reached her place, they paused outside the door. Owen didn't move his hand from hers, not yet. The seconds stretched, seeming both too short and too long all at once. It had been so long since he'd had this, even if he couldn't describe what this was. "Safe and sound. Thanks for the walk. We'll have to take one again sometime when the air is clearer and I don't have to get you home so fast." He remembers enough about all this to be a gentleman...not that he wants to go anywhere.
they stood there for a second longer than they needed to, her hand still loosely in his, the night pressing in around them like it was waiting to see who would move first. the air was thick—sweet and rotten at the same time—and somewhere way off down the street another pyre crackled loud enough to cut through the silence.
inés didn’t pull away, not right away. she just let it sit between them, her thumb brushing slow against the back of his hand like she wasn’t quite ready to let him go either. then finally, she shifted, fingers slipping free, and reached for the door. but she didn’t open it.
instead, she turned her head just enough to catch his eye, a small tilt of her chin like she was weighing something—and deciding it was worth saying. “you don’t have to go just yet,” she said, voice low, almost a little rough from the dust in the air—or maybe just from the weight of everything unsaid between them.
her hand rested on the door handle, casual, like she wasn’t holding her breath even though she kind of was.
“if you want,” she added, a little softer, “you can come in.”
she didn’t smile when she said it—there was something too raw about the night for that—but there was a gentleness in her face, something quieter than words. not a test. not a trap. just…a truth, laid bare between them.
the kind of offer you didn’t make unless you meant it.
behind her, the apartment had a faint sliver of light bleeding out from under the door like it had been waiting too.
she stayed where she was, hand still on the handle, giving him the choice—like she always did.
whether he stayed or went, she wasn’t going to shut the door on him.
his hand turned over in hers and the rough brush of his fingertips against her palm caught her off guard—not because of the gesture itself, but because of how genuine it was. how much weight it carried without asking anything in return.
inés didn’t pull away right away. she let the silence stretch between them, let him have that space without rushing to fill it. she wasn’t a woman who needed to be told what things meant—not when so much could be felt in the pauses.
when he asked about the mask, her eyes flicked toward the window again. the glow of the bonfires outside looked even sharper now, like they weren’t just burning—they were watching.
she’d been trying to ignore the tension creeping into the streets these last few days. the rituals, the strange sounds at night, the way the air seemed heavier, sweet with something rotting.
“i’ve got one,” she said after a beat, her voice low, steady. “been keeping it close.”
a pause.
“doesn’t do much good when people are walking around pretending this is all normal.”
she looked back at him, gaze lingering. there was concern in her eyes, but not fear—not yet. just caution. thoughtfulness. awareness.
then came the offer. and that was different.
“you can walk me home,” she said, quietly. “if you’re not too tired of being protector.”
a small breath of something that could’ve been a smile crossed her lips, fleeting. not teasing—just… tender.
“not sure either of us should be out here alone tonight anyway.”
she stood slowly, tucking her satchel strap over her shoulder, eyes scanning the dark corners of the diner, already thinking ahead. calculating routes. watching for signs in the flicker of red light outside.
but when her gaze returned to him, there was something calm in her expression. steadying.
“besides,” she said, softer now, “maps are easier to read when you’re not walking them alone.”
she put her hand out, a gentle offer and with that, she waited—patient as ever, giving him space to join her, no rush in her bones. just quiet trust, and the weight of the night ahead.
“and you don’t need to let go this time. not if you don’t want to.”
Owen's heart quickened at the contact of their hands. The gesture, though simple, contained an intimacy to it that Owen hadn't felt in over a decade. Once upon a time, he might've been smoother, practiced in the art of responding in kind to a woman's touch, but that man had buried his love. This man, the soldier, didn't have gentle hands, but killer's hands. These calloused hands had taken life of man and beast, but all he wanted to do now was feel the softness of Inés' fingers.
He knew that she could handle herself, that she didn't need him hovering over her, but once Owen cared for someone, the stakes seemed to rise. With his unit, Owen was there with them most of the time, able to actively protect them. Inés had her own kind of army surrounding her, but none of them were Owen; if something happened to her, how would he know? Would he show up to the diner one day and find that she was nowhere to be found? The flickering, interrupted darkness cast dark shadows into his mind, igniting memories that he didn't need surfacing. The memories receded a bit when she accepted his offer.
"Well, whether others think it's normal or not, I'll feel better knowing that you're not walking the streets by yourself. We can watch each other's backs," he nodded, standing. He set the credits on the table and nodded to their usual waitress. "And for the record, it isn't just about protecting you. This way, I get extra time to talk to you."
He'd go over the admission later, when he was in his bunk; he'd worry whether it came off as too forward or whether it made it seem like he wanted too much from her. In the moment, however, it was just the truth escaping his lips. And then she reached out her hand and time slowed. What are you, some 14 year old boy, afraid to hold a girl's hand? He chided himself, but he reached out anyway, taking her hand. She said that he didn't need to let go and he did not plan to. With one hand in hers and his other hovering close to his holster on the other side, he went with Inés out into the streets. "Lead the way."
his hand slid into hers and she didn’t look down—not right away. just held it like it was something meant to be held, like it belonged there. his words lingered in the air between them, that soft confession he’d let slip before they stood. she didn’t press it. didn’t call it out or deflect. just gave his hand the smallest, near-imperceptible squeeze.
“then i’m glad you came,” she said simply.
outside, the streets were thick with haze—sweet rot in the air from those damn mothman offerings, the pyres burning in the distance like strange stars. but she didn’t flinch. she didn’t break stride. his presence beside her added a second rhythm to her movement—her steps still quiet, but no longer alone. his hand was still in hers, protective but not possessive. and hers? hers wasn’t letting go.
after a moment, when the silence stretched long enough to become something of its own, she spoke again—low and sure, like she only ever said what mattered. “you’re not just extra time, owen.”
a pause. she didn’t look at him when she said it. she didn’t need to. “you’re the part i look forward to.”
and with that, she led him into the dark—one hand in his, the other free at her side, always ready. because inés tejada didn’t need protection.
she didn’t interrupt.
inés just watched him, like she was holding space for his words, not picking them apart or tucking them into boxes to analyze later. just listening, in the way no one ever really does anymore. it was her quiet gift, and it never asked anything in return.
his words landed between them like something fragile. she didn’t flinch. didn’t shift. just let the silence settle for a few long seconds after he stopped talking.
then—
“that’s the thing about dirty hands,” she said softly, thumb brushing the rim of her mug. “sometimes they stay that way no matter how hard you scrub.”
she didn’t say it like she was guessing. she said it like someone who knew. who had scrubbed until her skin split. who’d learned to live with the stain.
her gaze lifted again, steady on him—not sharp, not pitying, just true.
“but you still show up. and that says more than clean hands ever could.”
a pause.
“and for the record—you’re not a book, owen. you’re a map. one of those old, complicated ones with burned edges and places no one’s dared to chart yet.”
her mouth tugged into something just shy of a smile, dry and soft.
“i just read slow.”
she went quiet again, her own eyes drifting toward the diner window and the flickering glow of bonfires outside, casting long, distorted shadows.
“you’re not alone in feeling blind.”
the words came out quiet. not an admission. a confession.
“some days it feels like the whole world’s gone sideways, and we’re just trying to keep our people breathing long enough to see another sunrise.”
her fingers curled around the mug again.
“so if it helps, you’re not the only one who’s walking forward without knowing where the ground ends.”
she looked back at him, eyes soft now—warmer than they’d been all night. she let her hand reach forward a bit, her small fingers curling around his knuckles to give a gentle squeeze.
“you don’t have to know everything. you just have to keep going.”
She never really needed to come out and say that she understood; her eyes communicated as much or more than her words. Still, Owen could have listened to Inés talk about just about anything. Her words always seemed full of meaning. She heard him, really heard him, so when she responded, it always seemed to be with exactly what he needed to hear. "I think there are those of us who need to have dirty hands so some people get to keep theirs clean. But like you said, you keep going because the choice, if you're never gonna have really clean hands, is who or what you get them dirty for." He knew that she had her people, people who depended on her. For those people, she would move the world. Owen didn't have that many people, but there were a few and he would have dove into the mud for them, for her, his someone who stayed.
In all the seriousness of their conversation, she still got a chuckle out of him, when she described him. A map with burnt edges sounded just about right for him; he could picture one of those old ones that wasn't quite drawn to scale and had missing pieces scattered throughout.
"Well, ain't I lucky then that you're a hell of a navigator." And she was, often seeing him more clearly than he saw himself. She was adaptable and resourceful, more capable of traversing any storm than anyone he'd ever seen. But watching her look out the window and gaze at the bonfires that littered the streets, even she knew that this was a hell of a storm. Perhaps that was why she reached across and touched his hands, a gesture so small but poignant that for a moment, it sent heat flushing to Owen's face. Even so, he turned his hand over and lightly brushed her palm with his fingertips, rough and calloused fingers though they were.
"Yeah..." It was a beat before he made himself pull away, realizing that both of their coffee's were done and Inés probably had something better to do than play therapist to him. "Nés, I know you can handle yourself out there, but do you have a mask or something?" He paused for another moment before the next words escaped his lips. "I could walk you home." They had always met in the diner before, their place away from everyone else. Asking to walk her home seemed like a step in some direction, though Owen could not say which.
his hand turned over in hers and the rough brush of his fingertips against her palm caught her off guard—not because of the gesture itself, but because of how genuine it was. how much weight it carried without asking anything in return.
inés didn’t pull away right away. she let the silence stretch between them, let him have that space without rushing to fill it. she wasn’t a woman who needed to be told what things meant—not when so much could be felt in the pauses.
when he asked about the mask, her eyes flicked toward the window again. the glow of the bonfires outside looked even sharper now, like they weren’t just burning—they were watching.
she’d been trying to ignore the tension creeping into the streets these last few days. the rituals, the strange sounds at night, the way the air seemed heavier, sweet with something rotting.
“i’ve got one,” she said after a beat, her voice low, steady. “been keeping it close.”
a pause.
“doesn’t do much good when people are walking around pretending this is all normal.”
she looked back at him, gaze lingering. there was concern in her eyes, but not fear—not yet. just caution. thoughtfulness. awareness.
then came the offer. and that was different.
“you can walk me home,” she said, quietly. “if you’re not too tired of being protector.”
a small breath of something that could’ve been a smile crossed her lips, fleeting. not teasing—just… tender.
“not sure either of us should be out here alone tonight anyway.”
she stood slowly, tucking her satchel strap over her shoulder, eyes scanning the dark corners of the diner, already thinking ahead. calculating routes. watching for signs in the flicker of red light outside.
but when her gaze returned to him, there was something calm in her expression. steadying.
“besides,” she said, softer now, “maps are easier to read when you’re not walking them alone.”
she put her hand out, a gentle offer and with that, she waited—patient as ever, giving him space to join her, no rush in her bones. just quiet trust, and the weight of the night ahead.
“and you don’t need to let go this time. not if you don’t want to.”
Inés' gaze had unsettled him when he'd first spoken with her; it was so focused, making him feel like she was looking through him and the layers of armor that enclosed him. There had been part of him that had wanted to run from that piercing gaze, but a deeper part of him had needed someone who could see beyond the surface, and so, he had stayed. Her gaze and her silences had earned his trust, something not easily earned.
"I would call that a talent, if ever there was one. Too many people in this world live with dirty hands...hell, with..." he broke off for a moment. "It's hard to wash off some things. To be able to choose, it's a damn precious thing." His hands assuredly would never be clean. A swallow again and another deep gulp of his coffee. "Yeah, I wouldn't discount your ability to read people either. You somehow seem to read me like a book and according to my unit, I am about as forthcoming as a rock." Not that his lack of talking was their fault, Owen didn't want to put his bullshit on his team.
But with Nés, bullshit didn't seem as much like bullshit. She understood, for whatever reason. "It's funny how it isn't the big flashy stuff that sticks, isn't it? Memory can find the most trivial things and turn 'em into something while other stuff, the moments you think would stick seem to filter away." Things he couldn't remember, that he wished he could haunted him, hanging around the edges of his memory no matter how hard he tried to catch them.
"I just remember looking at my dad and how people looked at him in the Army and I thought that if I followed him that I would look like that, like I always knew what was happening and I'd be prepared for it. But I look out there at the streets, at the people running around and filling these troughs with devil-knows-what and I feel like I know jack about all of this." He shook his head and looked out the window at the bonfires lighting the streets. "I'll face a boar, no questions asked, but this...I feel like we're running blind."
she didn’t interrupt.
inés just watched him, like she was holding space for his words, not picking them apart or tucking them into boxes to analyze later. just listening, in the way no one ever really does anymore. it was her quiet gift, and it never asked anything in return.
his words landed between them like something fragile. she didn’t flinch. didn’t shift. just let the silence settle for a few long seconds after he stopped talking.
then—
“that’s the thing about dirty hands,” she said softly, thumb brushing the rim of her mug. “sometimes they stay that way no matter how hard you scrub.”
she didn’t say it like she was guessing. she said it like someone who knew. who had scrubbed until her skin split. who’d learned to live with the stain.
her gaze lifted again, steady on him—not sharp, not pitying, just true.
“but you still show up. and that says more than clean hands ever could.”
a pause.
“and for the record—you’re not a book, owen. you’re a map. one of those old, complicated ones with burned edges and places no one’s dared to chart yet.”
her mouth tugged into something just shy of a smile, dry and soft.
“i just read slow.”
she went quiet again, her own eyes drifting toward the diner window and the flickering glow of bonfires outside, casting long, distorted shadows.
“you’re not alone in feeling blind.”
the words came out quiet. not an admission. a confession.
“some days it feels like the whole world’s gone sideways, and we’re just trying to keep our people breathing long enough to see another sunrise.”
her fingers curled around the mug again.
“so if it helps, you’re not the only one who’s walking forward without knowing where the ground ends.”
she looked back at him, eyes soft now—warmer than they’d been all night. she let her hand reach forward a bit, her small fingers curling around his knuckles to give a gentle squeeze.
“you don’t have to know everything. you just have to keep going.”
overstimulation was a very real thing in tadgh's world. it's one of the major reasons he does not live inside the city, that and he'd never be able to live that far away from his hives. he needed to be close by should anything go wrong. usually it didn't bother him at the market but there were always exceptions and that day it felt like it was extra busy.
"they're probably tryin' their best but if it's 'erbs ye lookin' fer, remedy roots has a great selection." he suggested though he knew she wasn't talking to him directly. tadgh was starting to pack up, willing to be done for the day and move on to some place more peaceful. "if ye be interested in honey or one of the many other t'ings i got over here i'm willin' to give ye a wee look at it before i pack it all away and run for the hills." a large hand motioned over his selection of honey and beeswax creations, mead, some pottery, and some woodworking items he'd added. "can't speak for meself but my bees are anything but sloppy."
when tadgh’s voice cut in—low and calm, with just enough edge to let her know he was probably ready to bolt—her head tilted toward him.
not defensive. not surprised. just… curious.
her eyes flicked to his stall, taking in the jars, the honey, the handwork with quiet appreciation.
“remedy roots, huh? i’ll keep that in mind,” she said, tone even, a little softer than it had been a minute ago. “appreciate the tip.”
she moved a little closer, not crowding, just enough to properly glance at his setup. the beeswax, the pottery, the wood pieces—all crafted with the kind of care that didn’t scream for attention, but held it anyway.
“your bees have better work ethic than half the people out here,” she added, lips curving just slightly at the corners. “maybe we oughta start putting them on payroll.”
a pause. she looked back at him—noticing, but not prying.
“i won’t keep you long. but i wouldn’t mind taking a jar of the honey.”
it wasn’t just about the product. it was respect—spoken in her own quiet language. he did good work. she saw it. and she’d remember that.
It was hard for him to keep his sticky fingers to himself, but he knew that a lotta these people here didn't deserve getting their shit taken. He tried to at least show enough self-restraint to only do it to those who had it coming. "Gettin'?" He joked, looking around at the market. "I'm startin' to think that we gotta do everything ourselves. People got not competence 'round here lately."
her gaze didn’t move at first—still fixed on the vendor two stalls down who was trying to pass off stale jerky as fresh—but the sound of grant’s voice pulled a flicker of something like amusement across her face.
“generous of me, i know.”
she shifted the bag on her shoulder, the weight of her ledger pressing against her ribs like always.
“it’s like every time i walk through here, someone’s tryin’ to sell me rot at a premium.” she shook her head, brushing her thumb over the cracked seal on one of the jars she’d picked up. “like i don’t know what mold smells like.”
finally, she turned fully to him, her expression dry but calm—comfortable, in that way only jackals could get around each other.
“next time one of ‘em short-changes me, i might just let you handle it, grant.”
and there it was: the smallest curve of a smirk, tucked in the corner of her mouth.
who : inés tejada ( @runningroadsfm )
where : the fishery
when : april, dusk
❝ she's pretty, ain't she? ❞
judah fisher sits sprawled, a languid mess of limbs draped casually over a folding chair with his feet kicked up on the edge of a table fashioned out of tires and old scrap metal. there's a lukewarm beer in his right hand and a bit of amber liquid sloshes out of the mouth of the bottle and splatters onto a concrete floor as judah gestures with it toward a bike parked at a service bay across the garage. it's easily twice his age, but you'd never guess to look at it ; with a glittering coat of cherry red paint and polished chrome detailing, it's clear the dedication that has been put into maintaining it.
his gaze drifts over to inés and judah wears an easy grin as he tilts his head toward the table in a half-nod. an invitation. there's another beer on the table, unopened. a sociable creature with an undeniable lazy bone, he does this sometimes ― sits back, waits for company to find him. tonight it comes in the form of one jackals treasurer ; he wonders if she's here for business or simply for the pleasure of his conversation, but he doesn't bother to ask. if she needs something, he expects she'll be forthright with it. jackals aren't known for beating around the bush.
❝ the number of times i'd climb up on it as a kid ― shit, i couldn't even reach the goddamn throttle, but to hell if i didn't try. i remember one time ― i still don't know how i did it, scrawny as i was, but i knocked the damn thing over. chipped the paint, busted the mirror, whole shebang. ❞ judah lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. ❝ thought i was in for the ass-whoopin' of my life, but wouldn't y'know my uncle boyd, he just taught me how to fix it. made me do it, mind you, but he weren't even mad or nothin'. ❞ he takes a drag of the cigarette hanging from his free hand and tilts his chin up at her. ❝ patience of a saint, i tell you what. some kid did that shit to me? i'd be catchin' a charge. ❞
inés didn’t sit right away. she stood there for a beat, eyes on the bike while judah talked—quietly listening, like she was weighing the story against the machine itself. when he tilted his head in that lazy half-invite, she gave a small nod and finally took the open seat across from him, resting her hands around the unopened bottle without cracking it yet.
her eyes drifted back to the bike, the paint catching the low light just right.
“she’s real pretty,” she said softly, tone calm and easy. “looks like someone gave a damn.”
there was a respect in her voice—not just for the bike, but for the history she knew it carried. she listened without interrupting, just her fingertips brushing the rim of the bottle as he talked about being a kid, about knocking it over, about uncle boyd and the kind of patience most people didn’t come wired with.
when he finished, she let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, almost not.
“patience like that? that’s a damn gift.”
she glanced toward the bike again, then back to him. “not everyone gets taught how to fix the damage. sometimes all you learn is how to survive it.”
the words came without bitterness—just simple truth, said like someone who’d lived both sides of it.
then, like she didn’t want to let it sit too heavy in the air, she added, dryly—
“but yeah. kid drops my bike? we’re talkin’ full meltdown.”
she cracked the cap off the beer, held it up slightly in a loose toast. “to boyd. for not losing his shit.”
If Inés had been a different kind of woman, Owen might have offered to take care of the problem for her; he was the kind of guy who would protect someone. But he had learned quickly that his gallantry was unnecessary at best and, at worst, might have proved a hindrance to Inés' work. She was no damsel in distress; she was possibly the most competent woman he'd ever met. It was somewhat hard to square, the compassion that she showed while talking to him and the steel that she had to use while working. She didn't need him to help, but if she asked, he'd back her up in a heartbeat.
"Sometimes breaking a few noses can be a lot of fun. I've gotten challenged a couple times and had to get a hit in or two and sometimes it feels good to just give someone a good crack. I think that's probably why you do what you do and I do what I do...you've got more finesse than I could ever muster in a hundred years," Owen admitted, a smile flashing for a moment.
But what was it that he did anymore? He wouldn't tell Devan or the rest of his unit, but the kid's words held a certain amount of sense. Owen had never had a problem handling the mutated animals, the beasts, and the criminals; he'd never doubted the goal of the mission and his ability to carry it out. Lately, though, some of those they'd rounded up didn't seem to be monstrous at all. There were mutated people, but they were still people and, as far as it seemed to Owen, they'd committed no crimes. There was a sourness beginning in Owen, but he shoved it back down. These thoughts once again pulled his smile off his face and he looked into the inky liquid in front of him. The song on the jukebox filled the moments before he spoke.
"You know, I used to play this song for my dad when I had just learned to play. He wasn't much for me learning music -I was always going to be in the army and he thought it was a useless hobby- but he liked oldies so I learned how to play those for him." It wasn't where he was, but possibly an adjacent spot. After all, his father and the army were intertwined, wrapped around each other so completely that his brain rarely separated the two. "Sorry, off topic I know."
she listened, the way she always did—eyes on him, steady, open. no rush to speak. no need to fill the silence too quickly. inés let his words stretch out between them.
the mention of broken noses made her smile—not amused, exactly. more like… fond.
“finesse is just code for knowing when not to get your hands dirty,” she said gently, tapping her nail against the side of her mug. “i don’t always get that choice either. but most of the time, if i can avoid making a mess, i do.”
her eyes flicked to his, soft but knowing. she knew what he meant. not just about her, but about him. she’d watched him enough to understand that his violence wasn’t careless. it was pointed. deliberate. protective. but that didn’t mean it didn’t weigh on him.
“besides,” she added, quieter now, “you’ve got plenty of finesse. you just use it differently. i watch rooms. you read people. it’s the same thing, just… different languages.”
when he mentioned the song, her head tilted slightly, like something in her shifted at the edges. she glanced toward the jukebox, then back at him.
“that’s not off topic,” she said. “that’s… kind of everything, isn’t it?”
her voice was softer now, not sad, just thoughtful. she didn’t know much about his father, didn’t push to know—but there was something in the way he spoke about music that stuck with her. in a world that didn’t leave much room for softness, he’d still held onto something like that.
“my uncle used to hum this same song when he counted inventory. over and over, until it got stuck in my head. now when it plays… i don’t know. it feels like home. or maybe like memory.”
she looked at him then, the quiet kind of look that held more weight than her words ever could.
“you’re allowed to miss things, owen. even if they didn’t always make sense.”
Owen did not often take a night off; it seemed sacrilege to try to exist in peace when the rest of the world was hanging on by a thread. What would he know of peace anyway? He was a soldier, a man of war, built to fight and kill and protect. His last vestiges of peace had gone up in ashes years ago. No, leave did not bring him peace; it just let the memories get louder. But, even the army had limits on how long they would work a man without a night off, so every few weeks, Owen would be forced to face the images that flickered in his brain when he could not distract himself with the focus of an order. On those nights, he went for coffee.
The coffee was shit. It tasted a little like battery acid and it burned the whole way down, but sometimes a person wanted something to burn them. Sometimes the burn felt more real. He never would have admitted to going to the diner to see Inés, not out loud anyway, but her presence felt like aloe on a blistered summer shoulder. It made no sense to him, but it wasn't the only thing, so he quit trying to rationalize it and just let it happen.
He sat across from her and took the coffee with a grunted thanks before taking a long gulp. He let the heat radiate from the mug up his arms while he sat in silence for a moment or two. His brain ran through the events of the day, the thoughts so much quicker than his words could ever be. He settled on her; he liked to hear her talk. "How'd your day go? Last time you said some shitheads were trying to give you trouble. They come round?" He never asked for details, neither of them did, but he also did not like the thought of anyone giving her shit, so he asked.
inés didn’t say much when he sat down—just gave the smallest nod, her hands stayed around the mug, not for the coffee, but for the comfort of it. something solid. something warm.
his question caught her off guard—not because he asked, but because he remembered.
she glanced at him, one brow raised slightly. “yeah. they came sniffing around the market again. didn’t try anything, just loud—wanted attention more than trouble.”
she shifted slightly in her seat, tucking her leg up under the other, more relaxed now that he was here. “i didn’t entertain it. let ‘em see me writing names in my ledger. that usually does the trick.”
the corners of her mouth lifted just a little—not quite a smile, but close.
“no broken noses this time,” she added, glancing over the rim of her mug. “but there’s still time.”
a beat passed, quiet settling again. the diner buzzed softly around them—lights humming, some old track playing low on the jukebox.
“you okay?” she asked finally, looking at him. “you look like you’re somewhere else tonight.”
he carried things she’d never ask about. things written behind his eyes, in the way he held his jaw tight and scanned a room like he’d never quite stopped fighting. she didn’t want to add to the noise. she just wanted to be the silence that made it bearable.
she wouldn’t push. but she’d give him the space to tell her if he needed to. like always.
the market was loud today—louder than usual. voices overlapping, deals being shouted over the clatter of crates and boots on pavement. inés moved through it like she always did, quiet and steady, a satchel on her shoulder and her ledger peeking out from under her arm.
she stopped at a stall selling dried goods, picked up a bundle of herbs—rosemary, maybe, or something pretending to be—and rolled it between her fingers. it crumbled too easily. stale.
“you’re charging full for this?” she said, not unkind, just unimpressed.
she didn’t wait for an answer. just stepped aside, letting someone brush past her. her gaze lifted, scanning the crowd, not really looking for anyone—but not avoiding it either.
“place is getting sloppy,” she muttered, mostly to herself, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.
the coffee at red line diner wasn’t good, but it was hot—and inés would take what she could get. she sat tucked into the corner booth, jacket still on, hands wrapped around a mug that had probably seen better decades.
when the bell above the door chimed, she didn’t turn around. didn’t need to.
she just reached across the table and nudged the second mug forward, quiet and unspoken. not much, but it was something.
“figured you’d show up,” she said, voice low. not surprised, not smug. just a soft sort of knowing.
“you don’t have to talk. we can just sit.”
there wasn’t judgment in her eyes when she finally looked up—just that same steady warmth she always kept on reserve for him.
because whatever owen didn’t say tonight, inés already understood.
THE WILD & WONDERFUL APPALACHIA WELCOMES...
inés tejada as written by emma ( she / her ).
✱ affiliated with JACKALS ( TREASURER )
✱ working as JACKALS TREASURER
✱ has taken up residence in BURNINGTON
✱ born on JUNE 3RD ( 31 )
✱ identifying as CIS WOMAN ( SHE / HER )
✱ known to be EMOTIONALLY INTELLIGENT, DIPLOMATIC, GROUNDED, NURTURING, CALM
✱ also know to be AVOIDANT, WORKAHOLIC, GUARDED, TRUSTING
✱ portrayed by ANA DE ARMAS
DIGGING DEEPER.
TW: death, starvation, violence
inés was born into a moving trade caravan, raised by her uncle—a longtime jackal who handled the numbers behind the chaos. he taught her that survival wasn’t just about guns—it was about knowing what people need and when to give it.
when her uncle was killed in an ambush during a supply run, inés stepped up. not with violence, but with her ledger, her smile, and a plan. she restructured the club’s barter system, negotiated with rival camps, and quietly became the reason the jackals didn’t starve.
she’s the one making sure the ammo is stocked, the medical kits aren’t empty, and the club always has something to offer—or trade. if it has value, inés knows how to move it.
she’s warm, approachable, and often underestimated. but she’s survived famine, raiders, heartbreak—and once poisoned a man who tried to rip off the club. kindness and steel.
inés believes in second chances, in feeding your people, in keeping the lights on even when the world’s gone dark. she believes in the jackals—not because they’re perfect, but because they’re hers.
EXTRAS.
personality:
alignment: neutral good
enneagram: 2w1 – the helper
mbti: enfj
astrology: gemini sun, cancer moon, virgo rising
character inspo:
penelope garcia (criminal minds), rosie estrada (mayans mc), luz (the bad batch)
headcanons:
she can’t shoot for shit at long range but is deadly accurate with a pistol up close. she keeps one tucked into her waistband and another under the counter at her trade post.
she’s got a green thumb—keeps a small patch of herbs alive behind the club’s compound (basil, rosemary, lavender, even a little mint if she can find it). it’s her way of keeping a sliver of beauty in the wasteland.
her ledger is handwritten, color-coded, and marked with symbols no one else really understands. she’s the only one who knows how to fully read it. that’s by design.
she makes empanadas or fried dough for the boys after a hard run. the kitchen is always warm when she’s in it. flour on her fingers, tension in her shoulders, a knife within reach.
inés has burn scars across the back of her left shoulder and spine
from the night her caravan was set on fire by raiders. she never talks about it, but she dreams about it often.
never wears full black. always has a pop of gold or color—jewelry, a ribbon in her hair, nail polish. it’s her quiet rebellion against the grimness of the world.
she’s bilingual (spanish/english) and sometimes slips into spanish when she’s stressed or comforting someone. her accent softens when she’s tired.
sings quietly while she works—usually old boleros, folk songs her mother used to hum. it’s the only connection she has left to her.
she believes in luck—but not blind luck. the kind you earn through kindness, preparation, and holding your shit together even when your hands are shaking.
kids and dogs love her without question. raiders? not so much. she has a reputation in certain circles for “knowing the price of everything—including you.”
she keeps a rosary and a bullet in a tin box under her bed. the rosary belonged to her mother. the bullet is from the first man she ever had to kill.
when she’s mad, her voice doesn’t get loud—it gets quiet. deadly quiet. that’s how you know you’re fucked.
theartofmadeline
dededos
baratheonpilled
areudirty
titsay
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
