they HAVE saved people actually i’m 100% sure of that. i’ve learned about so many recalls i would’ve had no idea about otherwise !!!! from the bottom of all of our hearts thank you mamoru
when I was younger, I got food poisoning. I was supposed to recover from it, but I wound up with a bunch of nasty medical conditions instead. I never imagined I would become disabled from food.
so I am really glad I have been able to help spread the word every now and then about food safety and recalls, since it hopefully means a few less people going through what I have.
while I have your attention, I do not post every recall, even just for the US, so here are a few of the links I use!
recalls.gov/recent.html <- aggregate of official government recall links for the US! food, drugs, products, child safety seats, motor vehicles, and tires! (half the feeds are broken half the time, but hey, it works™! check the FDA enforcement reports for a more complete list of recalls, especially drug recalls!)
recalls for canada <- recalls for canada!
RASFF <- food recalls and safety alerts for the EU!
food safety news <- news about food safety in the US, canada, and around the world!
I was poisoned <- see where people have gotten food poisoning near you, and report your own! (worldwide!)
Below is an excerpt from the EJ x Reader novel I was writing. I'm scrapping the initial draft and altering it to better suit the characteristics of the protagonist and Jack, now that I've fleshed them out some more. But I didn't want this scene I wrote to wither away in the ether, so I hope you guys enjoy!
Coffee first. Strong, black, quiet.
You padded softly towards the kitchen, still carrying his scent on your skin. Sterile, metallic, and faintly sweet. The apartment felt different today. Less like a barricade, more like a shared den. The shadows, no longer intimidating, now reassuring.
Warm light spilled over the counters, painting the kitchen in a calm gold. Stainless steel appliances gleamed. The entire space felt… peaceful. Almost domestic, in its own strange way.
The familiar ritual of coffee soothed you: water, filter, grounds, button. The machine hissed and burbled as it brewed, filling the room with rich, earthy warmth.
The steam kissed your face, warming you, as you leaned against the counter. Thoughts drifted effortlessly to the night before. The cold slid of his hand around your wrist. His weight settling against you. The quiet, instinctive way he had buried his face in your neck, inhaling you.
A shiver curled up your spine.
The machine released one final hiss, completing the brew. You poured a mug, the steam rising in a fragrant cloud. You brought the cup to your lips, closing your eyes, ready to take the first sip of a perfect, safe morning.
Creak.
Your eyes snapped open. The cup hovered an inch from your mouth.
A single floorboard groaning under weight, real weight. Not the building settling – something heavier. Deliberate.
A boot, thick sole, heavy tread, pressing into wood. The quiet drag of thick fabric. Flannel, denim, layers meant for labor.
This wasn’t Jack.
The realization struck like electricity.
You spun around so fast, the coffee sloshed over the rim, scalding your skin. Pain bit into your hand, but you didn’t drop the mug. Your grip only tightened, ceramic creaking under the strain.
A figure stood in the archway between your living room and the kitchen.
Not a specter. Not a void. Something far more grounded and far more dangerous.
A man. Flesh and mass and danger.
He filled the space; broad shoulders stretching the worn plaid flannel across his frame, sleeves rolled tightly to reveal powerful forearms crisscrossed with old scars. His jeans were stiff and broken-in, scuffed with real dirt and old work. Mud clung to the edges of his boots, the heavy kind that could crush a skull if he stepped down hard enough.
He smelled of cold morning air. Of cigarettes smoked too early and too often. Of woodsy cologne – expensive, masculine, sharp – that shouldn’t fit him but somehow did.
His mask was the wrong kind of familiar. White plastic, with female features painted in black. The eyes and lips were stylized, unsettling, worn. Scratches clawed across it like something had tried to tear it off.
Masky.
Not lurking in shadows. Not slipping between worlds unseen.
He was standing in your home – brazenly, confidently – in full daylight, like he belonged there.
His head tilted slowly, deliberately, like he was sizing you up. The white mask caught the golden morning light, the painted lips glinting faintly.
“Ya didn’t listen.”
His voice was gravel dragged over concrete, low, rough, human in the worst way. The kind of voice that came from a man who yelled for a living, or who smoked through every break he’d ever taken. He didn’t ask for a response. Didn’t need one.
He flicked his gaze over you – your robe, your bare legs, your coffee-burnt hand still clutching the mug.
He stayed perfectly still, yet his presence surged closer, heavy as pressure on your ribs.
“I told ya to stop diggin'.”
The accusation wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
There was a tension around him, an unspoken threat in the set of his shoulders and the way his hands hung at his sides. His fingers flexed once – loose, ready, dangerous. Every line of his body said he could cross the kitchen in a single step if he wanted to.
And you both knew you wouldn’t make it to the door.
You felt the air tighten between you, the unspoken recognition of exactly what stood in your living room: Not just a warning. Not just a man.
A proxy.
And he had finally come to collect.
The air in your apartment changed before your mind caught up with the sound.
It wasn’t the creak anymore. Not the soft shift of fabric. Not even the presence of another body filling the space.
It was something smaller, subtler– a distortion in the atmosphere, like pressure shifting right before a storm rolls in. Your skin prickled. The tiny hair along your forearms lifted. Your breath caught without your consent.
The apartment felt wrong.
Not cold. Not supernatural. Wrong in a deeply human, deeply physical way.
You didn’t move at first. Just held the mug, the steam curling between you and the figure in the archway like a live wire.
Your heart thudded once. Hard, and painfully loud in your ears.
Masky didn’t speak again. He just stood there, letting the silence rot between you.
His shoulders rose slightly with a breath, a long inhale through the mask’s tiny vents. Then he shifted his weight by a fraction, enough that the old floorboards under his boots groaned in protest. The sound was sharp, deliberate, territorial.
His presence settled into the room fully now, heavy as a closing door.
You drew a single breath, careful not to let it tremble. “What are you doing here?” you asked, the words soft but steady.
He didn’t answer.
Just watched.
The painted black eyes of the mask made his stare feel flat, unblinking, like a predator trying to decide whether the thing in front of him was prey or a problem.
Finally, he lifted his chin a millimeter.
“Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to keep goin'.”
The voice came out low, scraped raw from smoke and anger. Rough in a way that made the air vibrate.
You straightened slightly, tightening your grip on the mug. “I wasn’t–”
“Don’t.” He cut you off, two fingers flexing at his side like he was resisting the urge to point at you. “Yer' not good at lyin'. And I don’t have the patience.”
His tone wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. Every word hit like a shove.
He dragged in another slow breath, chest broadening beneath the worn flannel. When he exhaled, it came out through the mask with a tired rasp, like he’d been having this argument with you for weeks – alone.
“You think yer' clever,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Ya think yer' movin' quiet. But yer' not. Every step ya take sends up sparks, like a goddamn flare.”
Your spine stiffened. “I’m not doing anyth–”
“Stop talkin'.” This time, the order cracked like snapped wood, sharp enough to make you flinch.
He raked a hand through his hair, fingers pushing back the messy, cigarette-rough strands. The gesture wasn’t dramatic. It was irritated, impatient, a man trying to contain something volatile under his ribs.
His boots shifted again. Another creak. Another reminder that he had mass, weight, power. And he was holding all of it back by inches.
“Ya got no idea what you walked into,” he said, voice low, taut, almost vibrating. “Ya don’t know the rules. Shit, ya don’t even know the players. Ya don’t know what the hell you’re pokin' at.”
You swallowed. “Then tell me.”
That stopped him. Not because he was surprised, but because he was annoyed that you dared to ask.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, pacing a single short line. Three heavy steps, then back. The boots were loud, purposeful. He wasn’t trying to scare you with supernatural silence.
He was trying to scare you by not hiding that he was a man who could break things.
He finally stopped, planting himself just inside the archway again.
“Here’s the part yer' not gettin'.” He stabbed a gloved finger vaguely in your direction. Not pointing, just indicating the mess that was you. “Ya think you’re observin'. Ya think you’re studyin'. But yer' in the middle of a war ya can’t even see.”
The word war sat heavy.
You lifted your chin a fraction. “You think I don’t see the danger? I do.”
A low, sharp scoff punched out of him.
“No. Ya don’t.” His shoulders tensed, fabric stretching across muscle. “Ya don’t see a goddamn thing. Ya see what you wanna see, and ya miss everythin' that matters.”
You opened your mouth, something hot and defensive forming–
He stepped forward one inch.
Just one.
But it hit your instincts like a gunshot.
Your pulse spiked. Your grip on the mug tightened. Your knees flexed without you telling them to – a runner’s ready stance.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
A rough exhale escaped him, this one edged with something like disappointment.
“Look'it 'cha,” he said quietly. “Finally startin' to feel it.”
He didn’t take another step. Didn’t need to. The distance between you remained just wide enough that if you sprinted, maybe – maybe – you could hit the door before he could cross the kitchen.
But only maybe.
Your throat tightened.
He tilted his head, voice dropping to something soft and dangerous.
“I told ya to stop diggin'.”
The words hung between you. Not a threat. A promise.
A countdown you hadn’t realized already started.
Masky didn’t move any further. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe loud enough to hear.
But something in the room shifted anyway. A tightening, a subtle coiling of the air itself, like every molecule braced for impact.
“Ya don’t listen,” he said, voice low enough that it almost blended with the hum of your refrigerator. “Ya don’t stop. Ya don’t think. Ya just run headfirst into things that kill people a hell lot smarter than you.”
You set the mug down slowly on the counter, letting the ceramic meet the surface with a muted click. Your hand trembled, not in fear, but in anger that was finally catching up to your confusion.
“That’s not fair,” you said, barely above a whisper.
“Fair?” A humorless scoff tore from him, sharp as gravel. “Ya think any of this is about fair?”
His boots scraped the floor again as he paced, a short, agitated stride, each step weighted, restrained. You could feel the frustration simmering off him, a heat that had nothing to do with the sun in your kitchen.
“Ya think yer' owed some kind of explanation?” he said, turning his head just slightly toward you. “You? A civilian who fell into somethin' way past yer' clearance?”
The word civilian hit like an insult. An intentional one.
Your jaw tightened. “I’m not helpless.”
“No,” he agreed. “But yer' naïve.” It wasn’t said unkindly. That made it worse.
“I am trying to protect myself. I am trying to protect him,” You took a breath, forcing the tremor out of your voice. “And I’m doing it blind. I can’t make the right choices if I don’t understand the danger.”
A beat.
Then his shoulders lifted with a slow, irritated inhale.
“That right there,” he muttered, gesturing at you with two sharp flicks of his fingers. “That’s exactly what I’m talkin' about. That tone. That logic. Ya think this is somethin' you can solve if someone just explains the variables.”
His head shook once, sharply. “Yer' brain wasn’t built for this.”
Your heart pounded hard enough to hurt.
“Then build it for me.”
Masky stopped mid-breath. The silence stretched thin.
Slowly – excruciatingly slowly – he turned fully toward you. His boots didn’t move, but his body squared with yours, shoulders broad, posture stiffening like you’d just said the one thing he’d hoped you wouldn’t.
“Ya want in?”
The words came out like a growl scraping through clenched teeth.
“Ya want ta' soak yer' hands in that thing’s world? You want to be useful in a place that destroys everythin' soft?”
Heat rose to your chest, your face, your throat, but your voice stayed steady. “I want the truth.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracked like a whip. “Ya want him. Ya want the thrill of dancin' with somethin' that should’ve gutted you on sight.”
Your breath caught.
He tilted his head, catching that reaction. His next inhale was long, through the mask vents, as if confirming something ugly he’d suspected.
“That’s what pisses me off,” he continued, tone sharpening, body going rigid. “Ya don’t even know how deep he’s got his claws in ya. Ya think you’re workin'. Studyin'. Helpin'. But yer' already compromised.”
You took a step back without realizing it. His spine straightened immediately – not to follow, but because he hated that you retreated.
“There it is,” he murmured. “That instinct. Still workin'. Good.”
“What do you want from me?” you asked.
He didn’t hesitate.
“For you to walk away.”
Air left your lungs in a small, involuntary sound.
His voice dropped lower, low enough that you had to strain to hear it.
“I’m givin' ya one chance,” he said. “One. To get out before somethin' under that Veil chews ya up 'n spits out what’s left.”
Your hands shook. “I can’t leave him.”
“That’s not loyalty, sweetheart,” he snapped. “That’s fuckin' contamination.”
Your stomach twisted.
His shoulders rose again – another breath, the kind pulled through clenched teeth as if he were trying not to hit something.
“Ya don’t belong in that world,” he said, quieter now, but no softer. “And if you keep pretendin' you can survive it, I’m gonna have to clean up what’s left of you.”
He let that land. Heavy. Final.
You swallowed hard, throat tight.
“So that’s it?” you asked. “You break into my home, threaten me, and expect me to walk away because you said so?”
He barked a sound, half sound, half outrage.
“Expect?”
His head shook, the motion a twitch of disbelief.
“No, I’m tellin' you what happens next. Ya keep going? You die. Maybe not today. Maybe not clean. But ya will.”
“That’s not your choice.”
Masky went very, very still. Then–
One step. Just one.
Heavy. Deliberate. Enough to make your survival instincts scream so loud you felt the echo in your bones.
He didn’t close the distance. But he made sure you knew he could.
“You should make up yer' mind,” he said quietly. “Before I change my mind.”
Your breath froze.
Time snapped.
Your body moved before the thought finished forming – legs coiling, muscle firing – and then you bolted.
You didn’t remember choosing to run. Your body just decided to, long before your mind caught up.
Your shoulder slammed into the apartment door hard enough to rattle the hinges, fingers fumbling across the lock, slippery with sweat. The metal felt too small, too smooth. You missed it once. Twice. Your breath stuttered in your chest, broken, high, animalistic.
The lock clicked.
A sound too loud in the quiet.
Your hand closed around the door handle, ready to wrench it open and hurl yourself into the hallway, when something in you forced your head to turn.
He hadn’t moved.
Masky stood exactly where he’d been, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides. No chase. No raised voice. No threats. Just a man built like violence packaged in a work flannel, standing still in the doorway of your living room like he had all the time in the world.
The white mask caught the morning light in a flat, matte gleam, its painted black eyes unreadable and its feminine lips frozen in a serene expression that contradicted the storm of violence you could feel lingering in the room like static.
His stillness vibrated with something worse than fury.
Then he spoke.
“Run then.”
Not yelled. Not growled. Said like he was giving you permission. Like the hunt hadn’t begun until he allowed it.
Your pulse tripped hard enough to blur your vision. You yanked the door open, the wood cracking against the wall like a gunshot, and bolted.
The hallway rushed around you in a smear of tan carpet and buzzing fluorescent lights. Your bare feet hit the floor in frantic, uneven impacts. You didn’t dare look back. You felt his stare behind you – hot, heavy, amused – but no footsteps.
That was worse.
The stairwell door slammed against the cinder block walls as you burst through it and took the steps two at a time. Your silk robe flared open behind you, catching on air, but you didn’t stop to fix it. You just clutched the fabric to your chest with one hand, sprinting down the steps. The air smelled of bleach and dust and stale cigarettes. Your free gripped the railing so hard your palm burned. You expected – hoped – to hear him follow.
But behind you, the building hummed with the same silence as a held breath.
He was letting you run.
You hit the bottom step hard enough to jolt your teeth. The exterior door flew open under your weight, and cold morning air punched into your lungs with a shock that burned.
Asphalt greeted your feet like punishment. Sharp, cold, unforgiving.
Pebbles embedded into your skin, the bite of cold pavement burning against your soles. Your knees almost buckled under the pain, but survival instinct yanked you upright. The parking lot blurred as you sprinted, silk robe flying behind you. Snapping, tearing, catching the wind.
You didn’t feel anything except the overwhelming, suffocating demand of your body to run.
And then–
A sound behind you.
One step. Just one.
Heavy. Deliberate. Too close.
You didn’t look back. Your lungs seized, adrenaline exploding through your chest so violently it almost lifted you off the ground. You sprinted harder. Faster. Air shredded your throat. Your vision tunneled into a narrow corridor of color and movement.
Half the apartment complex backed into the woods. That was your only chance.
The tree line loomed, jagged silhouettes rising like spires. Dark and twisted, swallowing the morning sun. The forest looked like a mouth waiting to close around you. And still, your body chose it.
Distance. Distance. Distance.
You veered toward the trees, feet screaming in pain with every step as you pounded across the rough asphalt. Gravel tore at your skin, slicing tiny red crescents into your soles. Your legs were already shaking from the cold and sudden exertion, but you pushed harder, breath breaking into sobs you couldn’t control.
The robe streamed behind you, silk snagging at your ankles, flaring like a wounded banner.
The moment your foot hit the forest floor, the world changed.
The lush carpet of home transitioned without mercy into the wild, uneven underbrush. Leaves slick with dew slid beneath your feet, sending you skidding forward. Your hands flew out, catching your balance against the nearest tree, bark scraping across your palm.
Behind you–
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voice. No breath.
A quietness meant to unnerve. To let you imagine him anywhere.
Branches whipped at your skin as you plunged deeper.
Thin twigs snapped against your cheeks, your arms, your collarbone. The silk robe, delicate and soft, was no match for the forest. Every low-hanging branch snagged the fabric, tearing small holes that widened as you ran.
Your breath turned into pained cries as thorns raked your calves and the hem of the robe shredded into uneven, dangling strips.
You barely registered the pain.
What you did register was the burn.
The black stain – so faint the night before it looked like nothing more than a shadow – ignited. It didn’t throb. It seared.
A sharp, acidic pain tore across your hand, radiating up your arm like wildfire as your lungs locked up mid-breath.
It felt like someone had pressed a hot wire to your skin. You cried out, the sound raw, involuntary, collapsing to one knee.
The forest swallowed the sound, echoing your scream through the trees, bouncing unpredictably off trunks and branches until you couldn’t tell where anything was coming from. The disorientation hit you hard, but you pushed yourself upright again, clinging to the nearest branch. Your feet were bleeding. Your legs shaking. Your robe half-hanging off your body. But you ran.
You ran until everything hurt. Until there was nothing left in your lungs. Until the forest blurred into streaks of brown and green.
Behind you–
A laugh.
Low. Short. Infuriatingly pleased.
Masky was enjoying this.
“C'mon,” his voice carried through the trees, gravel rough and amused. “You can do better than that.”
A sob tore itself from your throat, high and panicked. You didn’t recognize the sound as your own.
Tears blurred your vision as you stumbled through a thicket, the branches ripping another strip from your robe. Your hair snagged on a low branch, jerking your head back, but you yanked yourself free, leaving strands of hair tangled in the leaves.
The forest pressed in closer, darker, the light bleeding away as if the trees themselves conspired to disorient you. The more you ran, the deeper the shadows grew, until the world around you felt like it had folded inward.
Your hand burned. Your lungs burned. Your feet burned.
But you kept going.
Somewhere to the left, a soft sound. A rustle. A shift.
Not him. Too light. Too deliberate.
Your heart stuttered as the realization dawned on you. He was herding you.
Dread crawled up your spine like cold fingers. You veered right, gasping, tears blurring your vision further. You didn’t know where you were anymore. The forest looked wrong. Foreign. Every tree looked the same and none of them familiar.
The stain seared again.
Another cry clawed its way from your throat. You pushed harder, forcing your legs to keep moving despite the way they trembled beneath you. Each step sent another stab of pain through your feet. You could feel blood now, warm, slick, covering the cold skin of your feet. Leaves stuck to it. Dirt clung. Your body was a collection of sharp, fragmented sensations, each one harder to ignore than the last.
You stumbled through a patch of brambles, the thorns tearing into your shins and catching on the robe, ripping the delicate silk almost in half.
You didn’t even feel the cold anymore. Just the pain. The burn. The terror. And the crushing weight of knowing you were alone in this dark forest with something hunting you.
Your lungs gave a final, desperate heave– and you screamed again.
This time, the sound cracked in the middle, raw with fear and something deeper, something hopeless.
A shape moved ahead of you.
No– slid.
Peeling itself out of the darkness as if the shadows willingly let him go.
Tall. Black hood tight to his skull, a crude red frown painted across the face. The yellow hoodie, muted by grime, layered beneath a battered brown jacket.
Hoodie.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The tilt of his head was enough.
You staggered backward, only to hear something heavy crash down behind you.
A boot. One single step. Measured, slow. Final.
Masky had closed the gap without running. The white mask appeared through the branches, scuffed with dirt, flannel snagged and torn.
He looked like an executioner who had finally cornered his prey.
Your body reacted before your mind did. You shoved yourself forward, branches clawing at the remainder of silk clinging to your skin. Nothing about your movement was graceful. It was instinct, animalistic terror, all adrenaline and survival. The cold morning air slapped your bare legs, and the robe tore along the seam as a thorn snagged it.
The ground underfoot changed from soft earth to hard, uneven root systems.
Every step was agony – sharp rocks, splintered sticks, jagged bark biting into unprotected skin. Your soles shredded. Your lungs burned.
But none of it compared to the continued searing pain in your palm.
The faint smear that had once been a mark of connection now flared to life – a vicious burning pulse under your skin, like something inside you recognized danger before you could. It was a warning. A signal.
A distress beacon.
You choked on a sob as the burn intensified, your breath hitching in raw panic. You clutched your hand against your chest as you ran, the pain radiating up your arm, nearly dropping you to your knees.
Branches shredded the last intact piece of your robe as your feet slipped in the mud, skidding on wet leaves. You ran with your legs pumping, oxygen burning your lungs.
You ran until your body betrayed you. Your legs buckled. Hard.
You pitched forward, catching yourself with your palms. Dirt and needles embedded into raw skin. A sound tore out of you, half sob, half dry gasp.
You scrambled to push yourself up. You couldn’t. Muscles locking from exhaustion, your legs trembled violently. You dragged one knee under you–
A breath brushed your ear.
Warm. Slow. Hungry.
Then arms wrapped around your torso. Not squeezing, not crushing. Just closing like a cage, pinning your arms to your ribs. Hoodie lifted you effortlessly, your legs kicking uselessly in the air, nails scraping uselessly across his sleeves.
You screamed, voice cracking as what was left of your silk robe slid off your shoulders. Hoodie’s grip tightened with frightening precision. Not crushing, but absolute.
He leaned in close to your ear. His lips didn’t touch you, but you felt his smile in the way his breath curled against your neck, as if tasting your fear.
“Look'it you…” he murmured, voice low, lilting, delighted. “Shakin' already. Yer' pretty fast when yer' scared.”
A shiver convulsed down your spine, violent and uncontrollable.
The sound of boots crunching the ground beneath them approached.
Deliberate. Heavy. Infuriated.
Masky stepped into your blurred line of sight, shoulders rising and falling with contained fury. His head tipped slightly as he took in the sight of you – torn robe crumpled on the ground, the scrapes littering your legs, the blood slowly dripping from your dirtied feet.
You saw the moment he decided you weren’t worth the patience anymore.
“I changed my mind.”
Crack.
His hand stuck before you could inhale.
The slap echoed into the forest, a brutal, ringing blow that stole the world from you instantly. Your head snapped sideways, exploding your vision into white, knees buckling even within the Shadow’s grip.
Your ears rang, your vision still swimming as you tried to face him again. Brain still trying to catch up with your body, you spat out the faint taste of metal from your mouth at him.
The sound hung heavy in the air, before another crack across your face rang out.
Harder. Sharp enough to blur the world at the edges. Sharp enough to tear a sound from your throat that didn’t feel human.
The last thing you felt was Hoodie’s hold tightening, keeping you upright, keeping you from hitting the ground as your consciousness was dragged under. Not gently, but possessively.
The last thing you heard was Masky’s voice, close enough to taste the smoke on his breath:
“Ya should'a listened.”
Then everything went dark.
¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤•¤
The forest finally fell still after she went limp.
Hoodie adjusted his hold on the girl unsettlingly ease, her unconscious weight folding against his chest. He cradled her like a worn-out doll, her head lolling against his arm. Her nightgown had slipped off one shoulder, baring the delicate ridge of her collarbone. He didn’t fix it. Didn’t bother pretending modesty for prey.
He simply looked down at her, head tilting with a strange, quiet fascination. A hunter pleased that the chase played out exactly as expected.
“Pretty lil' thing,” he murmured, voice soft as breath through leaves. “Ran 'erself right into the ground.”
He shifted her weight again, almost thoughtfully. “She’s fast when she’s scared.”
Masky stood a few feet away, chest rising and falling with shallow, irritated breaths. His shoulders were still coiled tight with leftover adrenaline. His fists kept clenching and unclenching at his sides like he couldn’t divide whether to punch a tree or himself.
“Fast,” he muttered, voice growling. “Sure. Jus' not smart.”
He kicked a fallen branch hard enough to snap it in half, the pieces scattering across the leaves.
“We coulda’ grabbed her in the apartment.” His voice spiked, then flattened again. “Coulda’ had her in seconds.”
Hoodie hummed low, a note of agreement shaped like disbelief.
“Coulda’,” he said quietly. “But ya didn’t.”
Masky’s head lifted a fraction. Not denial. Not anger. A warning.
Hoodie didn’t flinch. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the girl, brushing a stray leaf from her hair with the absent-minded gentleness of someone handling something breakable.
“Why’d ya let 'er run?” he asked, tone almost curious. “Ya don’t usually give ‘em a head start.”
Masky’s jaw tightened under the mask. He turned away, kicking a fallen branch from his path. It skittered across the forest floor.
“I didn’t ‘let’ her do anythin',” he growled. “She bolted.”
The Shadow’s silence held the weight of skepticism.
Masky huffed, irritated not at the question, but at the answer he didn’t want to say out loud. Finally, through gritted teeth, “She looked at me like she might make it.” A rough scoff. “Thought it’d be funny to prove her wrong.”
Hoodie’s low chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. “Knew it,” he murmured. “You do like the chase.”
Masky didn’t reply, but the way he rolled his shoulders, tension loosening as he walked, said enough. He jerked his chin toward the deeper woods. “Let’s move.”
They carved through the forest like a pair of apex predators returning from a successful hunt. Masky leading with purposeful strides, Hoodie following in near silence despite carrying another human being.
“She surprised ya,” Hoodie said after a while, voice quiet but cutting. “Didn’t think she had it in her.”
Masky stopped walking. Just for a moment. Then he snorted, dismissive. “She lasted five minutes.” A pause. “She shocked herself more than she shocked me.”
Hoodie nudged her leg lightly with his elbow, as if indicating the state she was in. “She ran hard,” he noted. “Most don’t. Not that far.”
“Most don’t got a monster whisperin’ in their ear,” Masky shot back. His voice dropped low, tense. “Four months we tried steerin' her off this path. Four. And she still picked him.”
Hoodie didn’t disagree. He shifted her weight again, bringing her slightly closer to his chest. He paused, his masked face dipping toward her neck, near the pulse point where her hair was matted with sweat.
“She smells like him,” he murmured.
Masky turned sharply, boots grinding in the dirt. “What?”
“She’s marked.” Hoodie’s eyes, hidden behind the black-hooded mask, drifted down her neck, her collarbone, the faint trace of a black burn along her wrist. “Not jus' physically. The Veil sticks to 'er. Like she’s been… close.”
Masky’s posture went rigid.
Jack.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked loud in the quiet clearing.
“That’s a problem,” he said flatly.
Hoodie’s tone didn’t change, but the air around him did. Heavy. Serious. “Killin' her now would be stupid.”
Masky’s head snapped toward him, mask turning sharp. “Everythin' about this is stupid. She shouldn’ta been in it to begin with.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Hoodie replied, simple and final. “If we put her down, he’ll tear through whatever’s left 'a the Veil to find us.”
That landed between them like a dropped weapon.
Masky swore under his breath, kicking at the dirt. “He already crossed the damn line lettin' her that close.”
“He always crosses lines,” Hoodie said. “Only difference now is… she crosses them too.”
They stared at each other. Two predators weighing a threat greater than either wanted to name.
Finally, Masky jerked his chin toward the path again, urgency replacing the irritation. “Let’s move. Before he picks up her trail.”
Hoodie nodded once and followed.
They kept walking until the forest thinned and rusted chain-link fencing emerged between the trees. A condemned utility building slumped ahead, its sagging sign half-swallowed by vines.
Masky pushed the door with the heel of his boot. It groaned open on warped hinges, the hollow echo of the interior swallowing the sound.
Stale air. Old bleach. Dust thick as skin.
Hoodie stepped past him, carrying her deeper, silent and precise. Masky just lingered at the entrance, mask tilted down at the ground as a long, irritated breath left his chest.
“Coulda’ saved us hours,” he muttered, voice rough with lingering frustration, and something darker beneath it. “But hell. Guess she wanted to run.”
He paused, the shape of a grin audible even through the mask.
“Wasn’t half bad to watch.”
Hoodie’s faint laugh drifted back from the hallway. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just knowing.
They disappeared into the dark interior of the condemned building.
And the forest, now empty, finally breathed again.
I am rewriting my EJ novel from scratch kinda, but I have a GREAT part where protag is being chased down by Tim & Brian, and sadly i cannot use it without there being copyright issues if published so i'm currently coming up with a different type of antagonist
BUUUUTT, would yall like to see this excerpt? Tim is all business, no softness in this so he won't be like Tim from Weight of Water, but kinda leaning towards how dirtyl0ver characterizes him ! does that sound kewl with yall? if so, i'll drop it maybe later tn < 3
Okay, so, I mentioned in a comment that I'm working on a novel rn, and it's about EJ, but not exactly the same as the usual crp backstory? I've done a little twist (still keeping the fact there's a ritual but not like the Nyras backstory), and it's pitched to start as horror mystery which turns into dark romance
Would this be something that y'all would be actually interested in? Like, book-in-hand type story. I have a rough draft of 50 chapters (maybe more, I have details I want to change and add onto) idk pls let me know
The Weight of Water (Tim Wright / Masky x F!Reader)
Chapter 5: Better Days
Word Count: 16.2k || CW: drinking, sexual content, stalking, violence
The lock clicked into place with a heavy, final thud.
The sound seemed to echo louder than it should have in the quiet of the apartment, and you felt it settle somewhere low in your chest. Not fear, not exactly. Just awareness. A sudden, undeniable understanding that Tim was inside your space now. Inside the clean lines and careful choices. Inside the place you retreated to when the world asked too much of you.
Your apartment looked the same as it always did. Calm. Intentional.
The overhead lights were low and warm, casting a honeyed glow across pale walls and clean surfaces. Furniture sat where it was meant to, nothing cluttered, nothing accidental. The couch was angled to face the window and television, the rug beneath it patterned but muted, chosen for texture more than statement. Shelving along one wall held neatly arranged books, ceramics, a few small framed prints you'd collected over the years. Everything had a purpose. Everything made sense.
You designed it that way.
Tim stood just inside the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, boots planted on the entry mat like he wasn't quite ready to move yet. He didn't say anything at first. His gaze drifted, slow and unhurried, taking in the space with a quiet attentiveness that made your skin prickle.
He wasn't staring like a guest admiring decor. He was cataloging.
He seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room. His presence was a dark, heavy contrast to the carefully curated lightness of your space. His boots looked too large for your shoe rack; his broad shoulders seemed to crowd the entryway. He was a force of nature - rugged, dirt-stained, and smelling of smoke - standing in a room designed for peace.
The liquid courage from the margaritas, which had felt so potent in the truck just minutes ago, suddenly evaporated.
The memory of what you had done, your hand boldly dragging his hand across your body, the mocking kiss you had blown him, hit you with the force of a physical blow. The reality of it crashed into the present moment. He wasn't just the flirtatious guy in the truck, someone who walked you during your commute. He was a man. In your home. Behind a locked door.
Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, nerves overriding the buzz of alcohol. You clutched your purse strap, suddenly not knowing what to do with your hands.
Clearing your throat, the sound coming out louder than you intended, you started, "Um, can I..." You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "Do you want a drink? I have whiskey. Or... water?"
Tim turned from the door, dark eyes landing on you, focus snapping into place like a lock turning. The corner of his mouth quirked up, slow and easy.
"Yeah," he said easily. "If you're offerin'. Whiskey sounds just fine, darlin'."
You nodded, grateful for the excuse to move, to put a few steps between your body and the heat of his presence. The kitchen was open to the living room, clean countertops catching the light. You reached for a glass, your hands steadying you as you moved through familiar motions. Pour. Ice. You grabbed another glass and poured wine for yourself. Not because you needed the alcohol, but because you needed something to hold.
Behind you, you could feel him moving. Not crowding. Just... present. The faint scuff of his boots against the floor as he stepped further inside. The subtle shift of air when he shrugged out of his jacket and set it over the back of one of the dining chairs.
When you turned back, drinks in hand, he was no longer by the door. He stood near the edge of the living room now, gaze lifting to the large window, then dipping briefly to the hallway that led deeper into the apartment.
You handed him the glass, fingers brushing. The contact was brief, but it sent a small, traitorous spark up your arm.
"Thanks," he murmured.
You moved to the couch, perching on one end with your drink balanced carefully in both hands. Tim followed a moment later, settling beside you, cushions sinking under his weight. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his thigh through the fabric of your skirt, but not so close that it felt presumptuous.
Silence settled over the room, thick and charged.
Tim took a sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. He didn't look at you immediately. Instead, his gaze traveled around the room. He wasn't just looking; he was assessing. His eyes tracked the line of the windows, the placement of the doors, the hallway leading to your bedroom. It was a sharp, tactical observation, a habit of a man who always needed to know his exits, even in a high-rise apartment.
You, on the other hand, couldn't stop looking at him.
You sipped your drink, eyes fixed on him now, openly, unguarded. There was something about seeing him here, framed by your furniture, your choices, your quiet, that made it hard to look away. In the soft, recessed lighting of your living room, stripped of the harsh shadows of the street, the details of his face were arresting. You traced the sharp line of his jaw, the heavy set of his brow, the way his dark hair fell messily over his forehead. You looked at the exhaustion etched into the skin around his eyes, and the barely-there scar on his cheek that you wanted to run your finger over.
He felt so solid. So real.
Tim noticed.
He shifted slightly, glancing sideways at you as he lowered his glass to his knee. A teasing, lop-sided grin stretched across his face.
"Y'know," he drawled, voice light but amused, "if ya keep starin' at me like that there, I'm startin' t' think I'm gonna end up with holes in me."
Heat rushed to your face, instant and scorching. You blinked, realizing how intense your gaze must have been.
"Oh-- God, I'm sorry," you blurted, looking away, mortified. "I didn't mean to- That- That was so rude of-"
His chuckle cut you off, the sound warm, forgiving, devoid of mockery. He waved it off with a small shake of his head.
"Hey, now. Don't go apologizin'," he said. "I'm flattered, I am."
He shifted closer then. Just a few inches. Enough that his arm brushed yours, solid and warm. Enough that the air between you felt thinned.
You swallowed, heart thudding.
The silence stretched again, but this time it felt weighted. Not awkward. Expectant.
Tim took a slow sip of his drink, eyes drifting back around the apartment, as if seeing it differently now that he was seated inside it. He leaned back into the couch, one arm stretching along the top cushion behind you. Not touching you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, though. Like a presence hovering just at the edge of contact.
"Ya got a nice place," he said after a moment. "Clean. Thoughtful."
You smiled faintly, fingers tightening around your glass. "Occupational hazard."
"Mm," he hummed. "Figures."
His gaze slid back to you, lingering this time. Not hungry. Not yet. Curious in a way that made your stomach do flips.
"Don't invite folks in much, do ya?"
The question landed softly, but it struck somewhere tender.
You shrugged, trying for casual. "Not really. I like my space."
"Yeah," he responded. "I can tell."
He turned his body toward you then, shifting his weight so he was angled in, forearm resting along the back of the couch behind your shoulders. Still not touching. Still giving you the illusion of room.
But the bubble had shrunk.
You looked up, trapped by his dark gaze. His eyes were searching yours, heavy with intent.
"So, tell me," he continued, voice lower now, less teasing. "Why'd ya invite me in, sweetheart? Hm?"
Your breath caught, eyes shifting toward your glass.
You stared as the condensation slid down the side of your glass, watching it pool at the base before answering. The alcohol buzz had dulled, replaced by nerves sharp enough to make your fingers tingle.
You could lie. You could say you wanted to talk. You could say you were just being polite. But the way he was looking at you, like he already knew the answer, made lying impossible.
"I just..." You exhaled slowly. "I didn't want it to end yet."
You risked a glance at him.
He was watching you closely now. Not smiling, not frowning. Just listening.
"I didn't want you to walk me to my door and disappear again," you added, quieter. "Not tonight."
Tim hummed, a deep resonant sound of acknowledgement that vibrated through his chest and into your shoulder. He held your gaze, and something shifted in his expression. Not triumph. Not relief. Something more contemplative, as if he were weighing the shape of your words in his hands.
"Fair enough," he murmured, nodding.
He took another sip, then set his glass down on the coffee table with deliberate care. The sound of it meeting the wood felt louder than it should have.
Tim leaned back slightly, studying you.
"Well, ya got me," he breathed, voice calm, almost gentle. "And now that ya got me 'ere..."
Your pulse jumped.
"...what d'ya wanna do?"
The question was simple. Open-ended. Dangerous.
You could feel your thoughts scatter, fluttering uselessly for a moment. Your eyes dipped to his mouth. His hands. The broad span of his chest rising and falling steadily. Your mind raced through a dozen different answers, most of them involving the way his hand felt against your skin. But the nerves were still there, warring with the alcohol, and you needed a bridge to cross the distance.
You licked your lips, then a small smile tugged at your lips.
"How about," you suggested, your voice playful, "one of those terrible movies you like so much?"
For a split second, he looked genuinely surprised. Then his face lit up. A half-smile spread slow and bright across his mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners like you'd just handed him something precious.
"Seriously?" he asked, a note of boyish delight sneaking into his voice.
You nodded. "Seriously."
"Well, I'll be," he said. "You're full of good ideas tonight. But careful what'cha wish for, darlin'. I know some real stinkers."
As the TV flickered to life, the glow washing over the room, he shifted again, closer this time. Not accidental. His thigh pressed against yours, his arm settled more firmly along the back of the couch. An easy, protective curve that made it feel natural to lean in.
And you did.
‧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
An hour later, the apartment was filled with the sounds of screeching synthesizers and bad dialogue.
Tim hadn't been lying. The movie was a disaster, something about radioactive swamp creatures attacking a frat house, the plot growing increasingly incoherent, but it was perfect. The tension from the hallway had dissolved into a warm, domestic bubble of laughter and commentary. You found yourself laughing at things that weren't meant to be funny, pointing out continuity errors, groaning theatrically at the dialogue.
You had moved through another round of drinks. Tim had switched to beer after the whiskey, pacing himself with the steady tolerance of a man who drank to forget, but you had leaned into the wine. Your glass had been refilled more than once, and somewhere between the second act of the movie and the third drink you poured for yourself, the edges of the evening began to blur.
You were floating.
"Oh, come on," you scoffed as a clearly papier-mache monster staggered into frame. "That's just a guy in a suit."
Tim let out a low laugh beside you, shaking his head. "Hey, watch yer mouth there, missy. That's cinema history right there."
You snorted, lifting your glass in mock apology before taking another sip.
By the time the movie hit its final stretch, you'd shifted without thinking.
At first it was just your shoulder brushing his chest when you laughed. Then you leaned in a little more, drawn by the steady warmth of him. Eventually, you tucked yourself closer, curling slightly, knees pulling up and drifting across his lap as if they'd always belonged there.
Tim stilled.
He didn't pull away, or tense up. Instead, he adjusted, subtly, accomodating your weight with a quiet ease that made it feel natural. One arm came to rest more securely along the back of the couch, the other settling near your legs, not touching, but close enough that you were acutely aware of it.
On the screen, a rubber monster exploded into a cloud of green smoke. You burst out laughing, the sound uninhibited and loud.
"Oh my god!" you wheezed, throwing your head back against the cushions. "That's.. That's like the worst thing I have ever seen!"
"Yeah," Tim murmured.
But he wasn't looking at the television. His gaze was fixed on you.
On the way your face lit up when you laughed. On the flush spreading across your cheeks. On the way your eyes shone just a little too bright now, glassy at the edges. He watched the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt when you shifted, the way you leaned into him like it was instinct instead of choice.
Quiet adoration softened his features.
He barely reacted to the movie anymore. The jokes, the climactic showdown, the truimphant music swelling in the background all faded into noise. What mattered was the way you fit against him, warm and unguarded, trusting enough to relax fully into his space.
You adjusted yourself, knees pressing more firmly across his lap now, your body angled toward him. You didn't notice the way his breath changed, just slightly. You were too busy grinning at the screen, lifting your glass in a lazy salute as the credits began to roll.
"Well," you said, voice a little thick, pleased and amused. "That was... certainly a movie."
Tim smiled, slow and fond. "Sure was."
The credits continued, a blur of white text and music, ignored.
You shifted slightly, the movement slow and unsteady, and finally turned to look at him. Not just glance, but really look at him.
The soft amusement he'd worn earlier was gone. In its place was something quieter, more intent. His eyes were darker now, focused on you with a depth that made your breath catch. Like he'd been holding himself still on purpose.
"Hey," you murmured, brows knitting together. "You okay?"
You leaned forward as you spoke.
Too far.
At the exact same moment, Tim shifted too, turning toward you to answer. The timing was off by a fraction of a second, just enough. Your noses bumped awkwardly, lips brushed. Not a kiss, not really. A clumsy collision of mouths and breath and surprise.
You both froze.
For half a heartbeat, neither of you moved. You could feel his breath against your lips, warm and shallow. The room seemed to hold its breath with you.
Tim didn't move away. He stayed close, face inches from yours. He looked bashful, a sudden shyness overtaking his features that seemed at odds with the heavy hand still barely brushing against you. He ducked his chin slightly, a flush rising beneath his stubble.
"Well," he muttered, voice low with a hint of embarrassment coloring his words. "That ain't the way I'd meant for that t' go."
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
The alcohol surged then, not blurring, but sharpening. Heat rushed through you, lighting up your skin from the inside out. Your blood hummed, loud and insistent, drowning out the quiet buzz of the apartment.
You stared at him. At the faint crease between his brows. At the way he was clearly waiting. Letting you decide.
"Then..." Your voice came out softer than you intended. Steadier than you felt. "Try again."
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise flickered there, quick and genuine, before melting into something slower. He reached towards the coffee table, settling his drink carefully, then turned fully toward you.
His hand came up to your cheek. It was warm. Solid. He didn't grip, just cupped, his thumb brushing over your skin with a tenderness that made your breath hitch.
He didn't rush. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, before he pressed his lips to yours. This time, the kiss landed right.
Gentle. Unhurried. His lips pressed to yours with a softness that made your chest ache. A testing of the waters, a question asked in the silence of the apartment. You kissed back instinctively, a soft sigh escaping you as your lips parted. You were overwhelmed by the sensory reality of him. Faint cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. Alcohol. Something unmistakably him underneath it all, warm and grounding.
The kiss deepened gradually, like a conversation finding its rhythm. His thumb brushed your cheek, barely there. You shifted closer without thinking, your body angling toward his.
He responded immediately.
His grip on your face tightened. His mouth opened, slanting over yours, deepening the contact until it wasn't a question anymore - it was a claim. He shifted his weight, pressing you back against the arm of the couch. You went willingly, sinking into the plush cushions as his heavy loomed over you.
He settled between your legs, one of his heavy thighs pressing firmly between your knees. The denim was rough against your skin, but the pressure against your core was electric. A moan bubbled up in your throat, and Tim swallowed it whole, groaning into your mouth as he ground down, just once, hard enough to arch your back.
He pulled away slowly, a thin, silver string of saliva connecting your lips before it broke.
Tim hovered there for a second, his chest heaving against yours, his dark eyes blown wide and hazy with lust. He let out a rough, ragged breath, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear the static.
"Damn," he breathed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. "You taste sweet. Like sugar 'n trouble."
He didn't give you time to respond. He dipped his head, pressing open-mouthed, hot kisses along your jawline, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your neck.
"I been thinkin' 'bout this all night," he murmured against your throat, his hands sliding down your sides to grip your hips. "Watchin' you in that skirt... drivin' me crazy."
He moved lower. His mouth trailed fire down your stomach while his large hands went to work on the fabric. He bunched the material of your skirt, pushing it up your thighs with a deliberate, heavy friction.
"Lift up for me, darlin'," he commanded softly.
You obeyed instinctively, arching your hips to let him shove the fabric up until it ws gathered at your waist, leaving you exposed to the cool air and his burning gaze.
Tim paused. He pulled back just enough to look at what he had uncovered. His eyes traced the pale skin of your thighs, the curve of your hips, and the lace of your panties that was already darkened with your need.
He let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"Jesus," he whispered, the sound thick with reverence. "Look at 'cha. You're beautiful."
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core.
"And you're soaked," he noted, his voice dropping to a teasing, honeyed drawl. "Look'it that. Were you thinkin' 'bout this in the truck? Were ya wet for me while we were eatin' dinner?"
You whined, turning your head into the cushion, overwhelmed by his attention and teasing.
Tim clicked his tongue, a soft, scolding sound. He reached up, one hand gripping your chin to turn your face back toward him.
"Hey now," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. "Don't ya hide from me. I want to see you. I want to see how much ya want this."
He lowered his head again, pressing his mouth against the fabric of your panties. He inhaled deeply, the sound ragged in the quiet room, his nose nuzzling firmly against your clit through the thin lace.
You whimpered, your hips bucking instinctively at the friction.
"That's it," he praised, his voice muffled against you. "Ya sensitive there? Yeah? You gonna fall apart for me?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He reached out, one large finger hooking the edge of the lace. He slid the panties to th side, baring you completely.
"So pretty," he groaned, seeing the slick shine of your arousal. "Gonna take real good care 'a ya, baby. Just relax."
He extended his tongue, tentatively brushing it against your core. It was reverence, a soft, wet stroke that sent a violent shiver through your entire body.
"Tim," you breathed, a broken, needy sound.
"I got ya," he whispered against your skin, the vibration sending another jolt through you. "I'm right 'ere."
The reverence disappeared, replaced by a starving, desperate hunger. He groaned, a low, animalistic rumble in his chest, and dove in. It wasn't gentle anymore. It was as if this was the last meal he would ever have, and he intended to consume every part of it. He grabbed your legs, hooking his hands under your knees, and shifted them up over his broad shoulders to open you wider.
"Open up," he growled. "Give it t' me."
He plunged his tongue inside of you, forceful and rhythmic. He lapped at you with a feral intensity, his nose buried deep, sucking and licking with a chaotic, uncoordinated passion.
You were mewling, your hands tangling in his messy hair, pulling him closer as the tension in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter.
"That's a good girl," he mumbled against your wetness, sensing you getting close. "You taste so good. Don't hold back. You let go for me, ya hear?"
And just like that, the tension snapped.
You cried out, your body bowing off the couch as the orgasm ripped through you. You shuddered violently, releasing everything, your thighs clamping around his head.
Tim didn't pull back. He pressed closer, groaning in gratification as he drank you up, swallowing your release with a possessive, starving greed, refusing to let a single bit of you escape him.
As the tremors in your thighs from the aftershocks of your orgasm faded to faint, involuntary twitches, Tim lingered for a moment longer. Slow drags of his tongue, starting from the bottom of your cunt until he reached to the overstimulated bud of your clit. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he pulled back.
He sat back on his haunches, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His chest heaved, hair a wild mess, and his eyes dark pools of hunger. He looked like he wanted to climb up on top of you and devour the rest of you whole.
You laid there, utterly unraveled. Your skirt was still bunched at your waist, your chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps as you tried to catch your breath. The flush on your cheeks had deepened, spreading down your neck, a mix of the alcohol and the heat he had just wrung out of you. Your hair was splayed across the couch cushions like a halo.
You fluttered your eyes open, finding him watching you. You felt boneless, dazed, and desperate for him to come back.
"Tim," you hummed, the sound soft and needy.
You reached for him, your hands seeking purchase. He leaned down immediately, allowing your fingers to curl into his flannel. You pulled weakly, trying to bring him down to you.
He pressed a kiss to your lips, soft, sweet, and maddeningly brief.
"I know, darlin'," he murmured against your mouth, his voice rough with his own restraint. "I know."
He pulled back just an inch, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
"But I'ma stop right there," he whispered. "I want t' do this properly. I want t'a be inside ya, but I want 'cha sober when I do it. I want 'cha to remember every second of it."
A whine left your throat, a high, frustrated sound. You tried to sit up, chasing his lips, needing the contact, needing the weight of him. But the moment you lifted your head, gravity shifted. The room tiled violently to the left, the alcohol and the adrenaline crashing together in a dizzying wave. You swayed, gripping his shirt tighter to keep from falling.
Tim was there instantly. His large hands clamped onto your shoulders, steadying you before you could tip over.
"Whoa there," he chuckled softly, though his grip was firm. "See? What'd I say?"
He shook his head, looking at you with that fond, exasperated affection. "You're spinnin', baby. Let's get ya to bed."
He didn't wait for an argument. He slid one arm behind your back and the under your knees, scooping you up into his arms as easily as if you weighed nothing.
You instinctively curled into him, pressing your face against the solid warmth of his chest. You could hear his heart thumping, a heavy, steady rhythm that grounded you as the room continued to swim. His had rested possessively on your hip, holding you close as he turned and walked down the hallway.
He moved slowly, navigating the dark apartment with sure-footed confidence. He carried you across the threshold of your bedroom, the air cooler in here, lit only by the soft spill of light from the city glow filtering in through the curtains, and walked to the bed.
Tim set you carefully down on the edge of the bed, hands steady at your waist as if you were something fragile. The mattress dipped beneath you, soft and familiar, and suddenly the weight of the night caught up all at once. The alcohol, the adrenaline, the emotional whiplash of closeness all settled behind your eyes in a dull throb.
"Easy," he muttered, kneeling briefly in front of you to steady your balance. His voice was gentle, but there was something firm underneath it now. Grounded.
You nodded, blinking at him, embarrassed heat crawling up your neck. "'m okay," you insisted, your words starting to slightly slur. The room tilted just a fraction as you tried to hold his gaze.
"I know," he said. "Still."
He straightened up, standing by the edge of the bed, hands tucking into his pockets as he looked down at you. His eyes roamed slowly, giving you a slow, thorough once-over, his gaze lingering on the way your skirt was twisted and your blouse was unbuttoned, before meeting your eyes again.
"You should get changed, sug'," he murmured, his voice low in the quiet room. "Put on somethin' soft. Sleep this off."
He shifted his weight, taking a half-step back toward the door. "I can head out," he offered, though the words sounded heavy, like he didn't want to say them. "Let you get some rest."
You watched him for a momet. The broad line of his shoulders. The way he stood there, hands flexing once at his sides, restraint written into the set of his jaw. It made something warm and achey bloom in your chest, and when his words fully cut through the haze of alcohol, panic flared through you. You didn't want the emptiness to come back. Without fully thinking, you reached out quickly, fingers snagging his hand before he could turn away.
Tim froze, looking down at where your hand gripped his.
You looked up at him, a pout tugging at your lips, eyes sharp with pleading. You didn't want to be alone. Not tonight. Not after the way he made you come undone just in the next room.
"You can..." you started, then stopped, searching for the words. "You don't have to leave."
Your grip loosened, sliding slowly from his palm, before you pulled your hand back. Nervous fingers started toying with the seam of your skirt, tracing it down, then up, then down again.
Tim glanced back at you, expression unreadable. "I ain't," he said quietly. "Not if ya want me 'ere."
You swallowed. The bed creaked softly as you shifted, fingers finding the hem of your skirt. The nerves were louder now than the alcohol, but you pushed through them anyway.
"I just want to sleep," you said. Honest. Simple. "With you. If that's okay."
His breath left him slowly through his nose. "Yeah" he rumbled. "That's okay."
You stood unsteadily, turning your back to him. "You can... turn around. If you want."
Tim didn't answer right away. Then you heard the soft rustle of fabric as he did exactly that, facing the far wall without comment.
You didn't rush.
As much as you wanted to be in the bed already, the room was still spinning. Carefully, you unzipped the side of your skirt, letting the fabric slide down your legs and stepping out. The blouse followed, then the bra, placed neatly on the dresser out of habit more than modesty. You were left in your panties, bare skin cooling in the quiet room.
"You don't have to," he said behind you, voice low. Not in an accusatory way, but just offering an out.
"I know," you replied, your voice barely audible.
You climbed back onto the bed and slipped beneath the covers. The sheets were cool against your skin, grounding. Peering out from the covers, your eyes tracked his silhouette in the dim light of the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back still turned, head bowed slightly.
"Tim?" you murmured.
He turned back at the sound of his name.
You patted the empty space beside you. "Stay."
He hesitated, looking at the mattress, then at you, his posture rigid for a heartbeat. Then he stood, tension bleeding out of his frame as he toed off his boots, and shed his jacket and shirt, leaving himself in jeans and a worn undershirt. He moved with care, as if afraid of startling you, before easing onto the bed beside you, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight.
He lay on his side, facing you, close but not crowding. Instinct took over, the need for an anchor overriding everything else. You scooted forward, closing the gap until your body collided softly with his. You pressed your forehead against the broad expanse of his chest, letting out a long, contented sigh as his heat enveloped you.
Tim didn't flinch. His arm came around you immediately, slow, sure, and heavy. He pulled you flush against him, his hand settling on your back, rubbing gentle soothing circles into your spine.
"There she is," he whispered into the darkness, his chin resting on the top of your head. "You did good tonight, sugar. So good. You're perfect."
You hummed sleepily against his chest, the vibration of his deep voice lulling you. You weren't sure if he was talking about what happened on the couch, or if he was just talking to hear himself say it, but you didn't care. It felt nice. It felt like being held by a bear, something dangerous that had decided to be soft just for you.
"Goodnight, Tim," you whispered, your words slurring slightly as sleep began to drag you down.
Tim shifted, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. "G'night, darlin'."
Your eyes slipped shut. As the darkness took you, a faint, high-pitched ringing started in the back of your ears. A thin, needle-like whine of static.
But then Tim shifted again, pulling you tighter, and the heavy, rhythmic thump-thump of his heartbeat against your ear grew louder. It was steady. It was real. It drowned out the ringing, pushing the noise away until there was nothing left but him, lulling you into a deep, dreamless sleep.
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You woke to a dull, insistent ache pulsing behind your eyes.
It dragged you out of sleep slowly, like the surf pulling at your ankles. Your mouth felt dry, your head heavy, the vague penalty of too much tequila and wine, and too little water making itself known. You groaned softly, squeezing your eyes shut against the morning light filtering through the curtains, trying to will the pounding to stop.
You tried to roll over to escape, but you couldn't move. You were pinned.
As the fog of sleep finally lifted, the sensation of pain was replaced by a suffocating, heavy warmth. There was a weight draped over your waist, a heavy, muscular arm, and your legs were hopelessly tangled with a pair of much larger, rougher limbs. Hot breath fanned against your neck in steady, rhythmic puffs, carrying the faintest hint of whiskey and sleep.
You cracked one eye open, peering over your shoulder.
Tim was out cold.
A heap of messy hair and slack features, his mouth hung slightly open, a soft, vibrating snore rumbling in his chest with every exhale. And there, glistening at the corner of his lip, was a tiny, traitorous drop of drool threatening to escape onto your pillow.
You clapped a hand over your mouth. Your shoulders shook with silent laughter, careful not to make a sound as amusement bubbled up uncontrollably. This was not the intense, brooding man from the night before. This was... this. Soft. Unaware. Endearingly human.
The movement disturbed the beast.
Your stifled laughter, vibrating the mattress, jostled him just enough that he snorted, his snoring cut off abruptly. His brow furrowed, and he let out a rough, sleepy grunt, shifting slightly as his eyes squinted through the morning haze.
"What's..." he groaned, a sound like gravel shifting.
You froze, caught mid-laugh.
His gaze slowly focused on your face, still lit with barely-contained amusement. It took a second for recognition to settle in. Then his expression softened, eyes narrowing fondly. "Mmph, should'a known," he grumbled, his voice thick with sleep and deeper than the Marianas Trench. "Why ya gotta be so silly... first thing in the mornin'?"
Before you could respond, his arm tightened around you, tugging you closer until your forehead pressed against his chest again. He nuzzled down instinctively, burying his face briefly in your hair.
"Too early," he mumbled. "Go back t'sleep."
"Tim," you protested, weak with laughter and the hangover. You pushed feebly against his chest, which felt like an immovable object. "I need to get up."
"Mmh," he hummed, clearly unconvinced. His grip held firm. "S'still mornin'."
"My head's killing me," you added, attempting to push against him again. "I need water. Or coffee. Or painkillers. Or all three."
He groaned, long and dramatic, forehead pressing lightly to the side of your head as if weighing his options. For a moment, you thought he might ignore you entirely and drag you back under the covers.
Suddenly, he squeezed you tight in a bear hug that pushed the air out of your lungs, then finally, begrudgingly, loosened his grip.
"Fine," he huffed, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. "Abandon me. See if I care."
You chuckled, rolling out of his grasp and sitting up. The room spun slightly, but you managed to get your feet on the floor, shivering slightly as the cool air nipped at your bare skin. Behind you, Tim shifted, already drifting back toward sleep, one arm still resting in the empty space you'd left behind as if expecting you to return.
You slid off the mattress, moving with the slow, deliberate caution of someone trying not to rattle their own brain. Your feet soak up the chill of the hardwood floor, sending a shiver up your spine. You wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing your bare arms as your eyes scanned the room for cover, the dull throb causing you to squint.
They landed on the floor at the foot of your bed. His flannel shirt lay there in a crumpled heap, a relic from the night before.
You crossed the room and picked it up, sliding your arms into the sleeves. The fabric was soft from wear and heavy, swallowing your frame completely. The cuffs hung past your fingertips, and the hem hit mid-thigh. It smelled like him, an intoxicating blend of stale tobacco, Old Spice, and the specific, warm musk of his skin, the scent making your stomach flutter despite the ache in your head. You didn't bother with the buttons; you just pulled it tight around you like a blanket and padded quietly out of the room, leaving the snoring lump in your bed behind.
The kitchen was bright, too bright. You squinted against the morning sun as you hunted down the bottle of ibuprofen. You popped two pills into your mouth, washing them down with a frantic gulp of tap water, praying for them to kick in quickly.
Relief promised, you turned your attention to the coffee maker. You set up a mug for yourself, then paused, grabbing a second mug from the cabinet. You set a second coffee pod on the counter next to the machine, a dark roast, and pressed the brew button. The machine hissed to life, filling the quiet apartment with the rich, grounding scent of coffee.
As you waited for the first cup to finish, you heard movement behind you. Soft footfalls of bare feet on hardwood. A low, sleepy exhale.
You turned, leaning back against the counter as the coffee brewed. Tim was shuffling out of the hallway, rubbing a hand over his face, hair still a mess from sleep.
He looked... sinful.
The undershirt he had slept in clung to his frame like a second skin, worn and thin. It left nothing to the imagination - outlining his broad shoulders, the solid plane of his chest, and the ripple of muscle in his abdomen as he stretched, arms reaching up towards the ceiling. His pants sat lower on his hips than they had the night before, unbuttoned and loosened by sleep, the waistband dipping just enough to make you swallow.
He looked rough, sleep-rumpled, and incredibly masculine.
Your eyes betrayed you. They traveled from his messy hair down the column of his throat, lingering on the expanse of his chest before drifting lower to where his jeans clung loosely to his hips. You were drinking him in, unabashedly.
Tim lowered his arms, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He caught you mid-stare.
A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face. He didn't cover up; he shifted his weight, cocking a hip and letting his gaze drop to your legs, bare beneath his oversized shirt.
"See somethin' ya like, darlin'?" he drawled, his voice rasping from sleep. "Lookin' at me like I'm breakfast."
Heat flared in your cheeks, hotter than the coffee behind you. You realized you had been caught ogling him in your own kitchen.
"I was not," you lied poorly, whipping your head around to stare intently at the coffee machine. "I- I was just-"
He chuckled, low and pleased, the sound vibrating through the room. "Easy," he said. "Ain't complainin'."
He walked over, the sound of his footsteps heavy and sure, until he was standing right beside you. He leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over that distractingly tight shirt, and just watched you. One brow lifted, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
You busied yourself with the mugs, reaching for the creamer just to have something to do with your hands. "You were.. standing there," you muttered. "It's hard not to notice."
"Mmh," he hummed, clearly entertained. "S'that so?"
He shifted closer, not crowding, just settling in at the counter beside you. Close enough that you could feel his warmth again. He rested his hip against the edge, eyes following your movements as the machine finished its cycle.
"You make coffee like you mean it," he added lightly.
You slid the first mug aside, swapping in the second pod. "I take it seriously," you said. "Especially after last night."
"Smart lady," he said.
He watched as you finished preparing both cups, quiet now, content to observe. There was something in his gaze that felt steady. Grounded. Like he belonged here, leaning against your counter, waiting patiently while you took care of the both of you.
You slid the second mug toward him, steam curling lazily into the air. "Cream?" you offered, gesturing to the carton of half-and-half. "Or sugar? I think I have some vanilla syrup somewhere if you want to make it drinkable."
Tim shook his head, wrapping his hand around the cup. "Nah. I'm good." He took a sip immediately, unfazed by the heat, swallowing it down like it was nothing.
You watched him, brow furrowing. "I don't know how you could possibly drink that stuff black," you said, nose wrinkling as you poured cream into your own cup. "It tastes like regret."
He choked back a laugh, lowering the mug before he spilled it. "That's how ya know it's workin'!" He licked a drop of coffee from his lips, shooting you a grin. "C'mon, it's fuel, darlin', not dessert. Besides, sweetness is what I have you for."
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't fight the smile fighting its way onto your face. "Cheesy. You're incredibly cheesy in the morning."
"And you love it," he countered effortlessly.
You added sugar to your mug, stirred, and took a cautious sip. The coffee was strong, grounding, already beginning to dull the ache behind your eyes. You sighed softly in relief.
You stood there for a quiet moment, sipping your coffees in the sun-drenched kitchen. It felt domestic. Easy. The kind of Saturday morning you saw in commericals but never actually experienced.
As Tim drained the last of his mug, he set it down on the counter with a satisfied sign. He turned to you, his eyes heavy-lidded and warm.
"Alright," he started, stepping into your personal space and hooking a finger in the belt look of his jeans. "Coffee's done. I say we go back to bed. Get another hour or two of shut-eye before the world wakes up."
He leaned down, dropping a kiss to your temple, clearly intending to shepherd you back toward the bedroom.
You hesitated, though the idea was tempting. "You don't need to get back, do you?" you asked, looking up at him. "Brian probably wants his truck back eventually. I feel like we sort of... kidnapped it."
"Brian's fine," he scoffed lightly. "He ain't doin' nothin' today that requires the Silverado. I'll get it back to him later. Right now, I-"
Bzzzzzt.
The vibration was sudden and loud against the countertop.
Tim froze. The playful light in his eyes didn't vanish, but rather paused. He sighed, annoyed, and reached into the pocket of his jeans to fish out his phone.
He glanced at the screen, and his jaw tightened.
"Damn," he muttered, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Speak 'a the devil."
He thumbed the side button, silencing the call and shoving the phone back into his pocket without answering. But when he looked back at you, the lazy, affectionate warmth was gone. His expression had hardened, the line around his mouth deepening as the reality of his "work" crashed back into the kitchen.
You watched him closely. The shift was subtle, but unmistakable. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," He glanced back up, the familiar warmth settling back over his features like a practiced mask. "Everythin's fine."
Tim looked at you, and the cold calculation in his eyes fractured, replaced by a forced, apologetic softness. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh.
"Sorry, I... I gotta take that." He shoved the phone deeper into his pocket. "Probably kept the poor guy waitin' too long."
You could see the lie, or at least, the omission, lingering in the guarded distance of his gaze. The relaxed, lazy lover from ten seconds ago had been replaced by a man on a mission. But you didn't push. You just shook your head, offering his a small, understanding smile.
"It's alright, Tim," you said softly. "I really appreciate you staying the night. I know you didn't plan on it, but it really meant a lot to me."
That seemed to land somewhere deep.
He nodded once, then turned and headed back toward the bedroom. You heard the muted rustle of fabric, the dull thud of his boots. When he returned, his jacket was slung over one shoulder, the weight of leaving already settling into his posture.
He stopped in front of you.
Up close, he smelled like coffee and sleep and something steady. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there just a second longer than politeness required.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For the coffee. And for... everything. Last night was wonderful." His thumb brushed your temple, affectionate and restrained. "I'm sorry I gotta run out on ya like this."
Your chest tightened, but you nodded, accepting it. "I understand."
He stepped back, turning toward the door.
"Tim," you called softly.
He paused mid-step and turned back, brows lifting in question.
You slipped the flannel off your shoulders, the fabric reluctantly leaving your skin. It slid down your arms and pooled in your hands, leaving you standing in the cool kitchen air dressed in nothing but your panties.
For a moment, you just held it, fingers curling into the worn cotton. Then you extended it toward him, shy, a little reluctant. "Here," you said. "You forgot this."
Tim's breath hitched, a sharp audible inhale that seemed to suck all the air out of the room.
His eyes locked onto your nearly naked form, his pupils blowing wide until the irises were almost swallowed by black. Restraint sat on him like a visible thing, taut as a wire pulled too tight.
He didn't just stand there. He crossed the distance between you in two heavy strides.
He reached out, one hand taking the flannel from your grasp and bunching it tightly in his fist. At the same moment, his other hand came up, his rough fingers capturing your chin and tilting your head back to meet his eyes with a firmness that bordered on rough.
There was nothing gentle in his gaze now. Nothing careless either. He didn't say a word, just crashed his mouth down onto yours.
It was a controlled kiss, but barely. It was hungry, searing, and possessive. It tasted of frustration and a desperate need to stay. His lips moved against yours with a weight that made your knees threaten to buckle, his thumb steady beneath your jaw as if reminding you both to stay right there. To not tip too far.
You let out a soft sound, leaning into him, your hands fluttering up to weakly clutch at the worn fabric covering his chest, trying to anchor him there.
He groaned into your mouth, deepening the contact for one heart-stopping second, before he forced himself to pull away. He huffed, a ragged exhale of air leaving his nose as he rested his forehead against yours for a brief moment, eyes squeezed shut.
"Jesus," he muttered, his voice a low growl. You could feel the tremor in him. "You don't make this easy."
He pulled back, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you shiver. The desire was still there, but it was overlaid now with a sharp, paranoid seriousness.
"Lock that deadbolt," he commanded, the drawl gone, replaced by a cold, hard order. "Right now. And don't you open it for anyone but me. Ya hear?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned on his heel, grabbed the doorknob, and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.
The deadbolt slid home with a soft, definitive thud.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
You leaned your forehead briefly against the door, exhaling a long breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding as your shoulders slumped. The emptiness rushed back in instantly, flooding the space where his large, warm presence had just been. Your apartment, usually so cozy and perfectly proportioned, suddenly felt cavernous. It was too quiet. Too clean. Too cold.
You hugged your arms around your chest, shivering in your underwear. You figured you might as well take his advice. The ibuprofen hadn't fully kicked in yet, and the allure of escaping back into sleep was strong.
You padded back to the bedroom. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, and the pillow he had used was still depressed from the weight of his head. You climbed back in, burying your face in that pillow, inhaling the fading scent of him.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
The noise cut through the silence, vibrating against the nightstand.
You groaned, rolling onto your side. A couple more buzzes followed, insistent. You reached out blindly, fingers closing around your phone, and bringing it up to your face. You squinted, tapping the glass to wake it up.
Notifications stacked across the display. You swiped down the notification center just as another text slid in at the top.
Luca: good mooooooorning, sunshine! how did it go?
Luca: was it fancy? did he take you to that cute place a few blocks over? shit, whats its name..
Luca: anyways!! I need the deets. like. now. gimme.
Luca: I know ur awake!! dnt leave me hanging here
Luca: DETAILS WOMAN DID HE KISS YOU??????
A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.
You rolled onto your back, propping the phone above you face as you unlocked the phone, opening the chat thread. The memories from the night before washed over you. The laughter. The drive. The way he looked at you in the truck. The way he had held you on the couch. The feeling of his mouth on you.
You bit your lip, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you started to type, the headache momentarily forgotten in the rush of giddy recollection.
Girl, you have no idea...
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The rest of the morning slipped by in fragments.
You stayed in bed longer than you meant to, propped against your pillow with your phone hovering over your face, thumbs moving as you tried to type everything out for Luca. The details came easily at first. Dinner. The movie. His stupidly charming smile when you teased him. The way he looked at you like you were something precious and dangerous all at once.
You got maybe a third of the way through before the screen changed.
Incoming Call: Luca
You stared at the screen for a second, then laughed as you answered.
"I was getting there," you protested as soon as Luca's voice flooded your ear, bright and breathless.
"I couldn't wait," she cut in. "You're typing like you're writing a novel and I am dying. Did he stay? Did you sleep with him? Start from the beginning!"
So you did. You spent the next hour curled up under your blankets, sunlight spilling across the bed as you talked. You recounted the night in pieces, skipping over the parts you didn't quite know how to explain yet. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The feeling of his hands roaming your skin. The kiss that turned into him making you come undone on he couch. Luca squealed at the appropriate moments, demanding clarification, teasing you mercilessly.
"And then he left?" she asked, incredulous.
"He had to," you said, automatically, even though the words felt thin. "Work stuff, you know? His buddy Brian called."
"Mhmm," Luca hummed. "Well, I'm happy for you. Truly. But you sound... weird."
You rolled over, frowning up at the ceiling. "Weird how?"
"Like you lost something you only just got," she said gently.
The line went quiet after that. You changed the subject. Luca let you. When the call ended, the apartment settled back into silence.
The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of muted colors.
You went through the motions of your typical routine, steps you had danced a thousand times before, but the rhythm was off. It felt like walking through water.
You did your laundry. You folded your blouses and paired your socks, placing them neatly into your drawers. But as you smoothed out the sheets on your bed, the scent of him wafted up from the fabric. Faint tobacco and spice. It stopped you dead in your tracks. You stood there for a long moment, gripping the cotton, an ache hollowing out your chest that had nothing to do with a hangover.
You went grovery shopping. You walked the aisles of the local market, grabbing the same staples, pausing longer than necessary in front of nothing at all. You found yourselt standing in the meat section, staring at the thick-cut ribeyes, remembering the way he had devoured his meal with such unbridled enjoyment. You almost reached for a six-pack of Miller Lite before remembering you were only shopping for one.
You put the beer back.
You exercised. You went for a run along your usual path, your sneakers pounding the pavement in a steady cadence. Usually, this was your time to clear your head, to reset for the week ahead. But today, the endorphins didn't hit. You felt distracted, your eyes scanning the passing cars for a faded green truck that never appeared.
Everything felt hollow.
Your perfectly curated, functional life suddenly felt like a stage set. Clean, pretty, and completely empty. It was missing the chaos. It was missing the weight. It was missing him.
In between everything, you checked your phone.
It became a reflex. Automatic. Thumb swiping the screen awake without you quite realizing you had done it. While the washing machine churned. While you waited in line at the grocery store. While you drank water in between laps, heart rate settling back into something calm.
Notifications popped on your phone through the day, yet not what you wanted to see. You scrolled past them all.
Still nothing from Tim.
When his name did appear, it was brief. Sparse.
Tim: Busy today. Talk later, darlin'.
Later stretched.
You watched the timestamp beneath his messages grow stale, minutes turning into hours. You told yourself not to read into it, not to invent meaning where there didn't need to be any. People got busy. He'd said as much. His work wasn't exactly nine-to-five, either.
Still, your phone stayed close.
Sunday evening found you on the couch, knees pulled up, television on for noise more than entertainment. Your phone rested in your hand, screen dark. You tapped it awake. Nothing new.
You set it face-down beside you and immediately picked it back up again.
By the time night settled in and you finally plugged your phone in beside your bed, you told yourself you were being dramatic. That you'd see him soon. That his hollow feeling was temporary, a side effect of proximity and newness and want.
You turned onto your side, staring at the darkened room. Your phone remained silent.
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Brian's call hadn't come at a convenient time.
It never did.
Tim had been halfway down the hall from your apartmen when his phone buzzed in his pocket again, the vibration sharp and insistent against his thigh. He'd known before he even looked. Some instincts didn't need confirmation.
Brian. No emojis. No preamble.
He answered anyway.
"What," Tim said, already slowing his steps.
There was a pause on the other end. Not hesitation. Calculation.
"We got a problem," Brian said finally. His voice was flat, resigned in that way Tim had learned to recognize as serious. "Loose end from that job back'n late spring. Remember the warehouse outside Red Hook?"
Tim stopped walking altogether.
Yeah. He remembered.
The job had gone sideways in the kind of way that didn't show up in reports. Too much noise. Too many variables. They'd cleaned it up as best as they could, but there had been a moment. A gap. Someone who'd slipped through when they shouldn't have.
"He's alive?" Tim asked.
"Alive and curious," Brian replied. "Been pokin' around places he shouldn't. Askin' the wrong questions. And from what I can tell... he's been trackin' you."
That did it.
Something cold and percise settled into Tim's chest, snapping everything else into alignment. The warmth of your apartment. The weight of you curled against him. The way you'd handed him his flannel like it meant something.
All of it went behind glass.
"How close?"
Brian exhaled slowly. "Pretty damn close. I think he clocked yer' routine. Might not know who you are yet, but he knows of you."
Tim closed his eyes.
"Then we don't wait," he said. "We find him."
“That’s the plan,” Brian agreed. “But it means layin’ low for a bit. No patterns. No tellin’ anyone where you are or who you’re with.”
Tim’s jaw tightened.
He thought of your phone lighting up in your hand. Of your messages going unanswered longer than usual. Of the way you’d rationalize it without ever knowing the truth.
“Yeah,” Tim said quietly. “I know.”
“You sure?” Brian pressed. “This one’s messy. Guy’s paranoid. Might bolt if he feels heat.”
“I said I know,” Tim snapped, then reined it back in. “I’ll handle it.”
The line went quiet for a moment.
“Tim,” Brian added, softer now. “You did the right thing leavin’ when you did.”
Tim didn’t answer.
Because the truth was, every instinct he had screamed to go back. To be there. To keep you in his line of sight where nothing could touch you.
But that was exactly why he couldn’t.
“Send me what you’ve got,” Tim said instead.
The call ended shortly after.
Tim stood there for a long moment, phone still in his hand, the city noise bleeding back in around him. He typed out a message to you. Deleted it. Tried again. Settled on something bland. Something safe.
Tim: Busy today. Talk later, darlin’.
He hit send and hated himself for how empty it sounded.
Because the distance wasn’t disinterest. It wasn’t doubt. It was damage control.
And if keeping you safe meant letting you feel the hollow he’d left behind, then Tim would carry that weight alone.
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Monday arrived with the jarring shriek of an alarm clock, dragging you back into the grey reality of the work week.
The distraction of the office usually helped. There were emails to answer, mood boards to assemble, and contractors to wrangle. But today, the distraction wasn't working.
Your phone sat face-up on your desk, a black monolith that demanded your attention every few minutes.
Buzz.
Your heart jumped. Reaching for it, your thumb hovered over the screen.
GMail: Your statement for your checking account, ending in...
You let out a huff of breath, setting it back down.
Ten minutes later, it lit up again.
NewsBreak: New farm-to-table bistro opening in downtown Hiawassee this Friday! Click to read more.
You swiped the notification away with an aggressive flick of your finger.
Throughout the day, you sent him a few texts, breezy, casual things. A picture of a particularly ugly tile sample. A question about how his day was going.
His replies then they finally came, were painfully slow.
Three hours later: "Lol. Ugly."
Two hours later. "Busy. Long day."
There were no jokes. No "darlin'." No warmth. Just functional, clipped responses that felt like they were being sent from a million miles away.
You chewed on your lower lip, staring at the grey bubbles on the screen. He's just busy, you told yourself, forcing the rationalization to take root. He works manual labor. He can't exactly text while pouring concrete or knocking down a wall.
Maybe something last-second had popped up at the site. Maybe Brian needed help with a complicated fix on that ancient truck that he finally wanted to get around to. Maybe he was just exhausted from the insomnia he had confessed to on Friday night.
It made sense. It was logical.
You clung to that logic, soothing your insecurity with the reasonable explanation that Tim was just a hard-working man having a chaotic Monday.
You had no way of knowing that for Tim, the "chaos" had nothing to do with concrete or drywall.
You couldn't know that. You couldn't know that while you were formatting spreadsheets, Tim and Brian sat in the idling truck in a shadowed alleyway three towns over. You couldn't see the blood on his knuckles, or the way they were methodically tracking a "loose end," a target who had seen too much and was threatening the fragile safety of their existence.
You couldn't know that his silence wasn't disinterest; it was the laser-focus of a predator on the hunt, protecting the very life you were currently living so mundanely.
You just saw the empty screen. And while Tim disappeared into that controlled, violent orbit, your Monday stretched on without explanation.
By midafternoon, the clarity you had been so grateful to return the day before from your hangover that finally loosened its grip was replaced by something far worse.
A headache bloomed at the base of your skull.
Not sharp. Not constant. Just a slow, pulsing pressure that came and went without warning, like someone pressing their thumb into the back of your head and then letting go. You chalked it up to dehydration, too much screen time, the emotional whiplash of the weekend.
But it didn’t explain the unease.
It settled in quietly, slipping between thoughts when you weren’t paying attention. A sense of wrongness you couldn’t quite put a name to. You caught yourself glancing up from your monitor more often than usual, eyes flicking toward reflections in darkened glass, toward movement in your peripheral vision that never amounted to anything.
Just stress, you told yourself, rubbing your temples. Just a lack of sleep.
You tried to focus on your work, but the feeling wouldn't shake. It felt like the static from your dream was bleeding into your waking hours, a low-level hum of danger that you couldn't identify but couldn't ignore. The silence from your phone only made the ringing in your ears louder.
When five o’clock finally came, relief should have followed.
Instead, as you stepped out of the office building and into the cool gray of early evening, the feeling sharpened.
You slowed on the sidewalk, keys already threaded between your fingers out of habit you hadn’t needed in years. The street looked the same as it always did. Clean. Busy enough to feel safe, quiet enough to breathe. This was why you’d chosen this neighborhood in the first place. Low crime. Good lighting. Predictable foot traffic.
Nothing had changed. So why did it feel like something had?
You glanced over your shoulder once, then again, scanning faces without really seeing them. No one lingered. No one stared. Just commuters heading home, heads down, minds elsewhere.
You exhaled, annoyed with yourself. You’re tired, you thought. That’s all.
A strange weekend. Too much alcohol. Too little sleep. Tim being busy. Brian needing him. It all added up to a perfectly reasonable explanation.
You tucked your chin down and quickened your pace, heels clicking against the pavement as you made your way home. The headache throbbed once more and then eased, fading into the background as you focused on getting inside, locking the door, returning to the familiar quiet of your apartment.
You didn’t see the way a man across the street slowed when you did.
And by the time you finally relaxed, safe behind your door, the unease had already decided to stay.
Didn’t notice the pause.
Didn’t feel the eyes that followed you until you disappeared through your building’s entrance.
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Tuesday arrived in a blur of grey clouds and deadlines, finally culminating in the sharp chime of the elevator reaching the lobby.
As the doors slid open, you stepped out, bypassing the slow-moving crowd of tired coworkers and making a brisk line for the glass exit doors. A small, fluttering hope beat against your ribs, a stubborn optimism that, despite his no-show yesterday, today would be different. Today, things would snap back to normal. You just wanted your daily walk. You just wanted to see him.
You pushed through the doors and stepped onto the cold concrete of the sidewalk.
You stopped. Scanning the immediate area, your eyes darted to the spot where he usually leaned, cigarette in hand, waiting for you.
Nothing. The space was empty.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, your gaze shifting desperately to the road. Maybe he drove, you reasoned. Maybe he brought the truck again.
You walked to the edge of the curb, your eyes sweeping down the line of parked vehicles. You were looking for age. You were looking for that specific, faded, matte green that stuck out like a sore thumb in the city.
But there was no hint of green.
There were no trucks at all. The curb was dominated by the sleek, silent shape of expensive electric vehicles and polished black sedans, the uniform of the corporate world. There was no rough-edged Silverado to break up the monotony.
Your shoulders slumped.
Slowly, dragging your feet slightly, you moved out of the flow of foot traffic and made your way over to the brick wall of the building. You leaned back against the rough surface, crossing your arms over your chest to ward off the chill.
He's just running late, you told yourself, the excuse feeling thinner than it had yesterday. Traffic is bad. The construction site is probably a mess. If I just wait a bit, he'll be here.
You reached into your bag, pulling out your phone with a trembling hand. Surely he had tried to reach out. Surely there was a message explaining the delay, a quick "OMW" or "Running late, sugar."
You tapped the screen to wake it up.
The lock screen stared back at you, cold and empty.
No text. No call. Just the time, ticking forward, mocking you with every minute that passed without him.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.
The heavy stone of disappointment settled deep in the pit of your stomach, dragging your mood down with it. A sharp, stinging twinge of worry began to fray the edges of your patience, but you forced it down.
You wanted to reach for your phone again. You wanted to call him, to text him, to ask where he was. But you stopped yourself, your hand hovering over your bag. You wanted to be the cool girl. The one who didn't hover. Didn't double-text. Didn't make assumptions or demands. The one who understood that people had lives, responsibilities, complications.
But the bitter thought followed immediately, tasting like ash in your mouth. Who am I to even nag?
It was one date.
Technically, that's all it was. One dinner. One movie. One night. Sure, he had slept in your bed, held you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and kissed you goodbye with a terrifying intensity. But you weren't "official." You didn't have a label. You didn't have a claim on him. Maybe to him, that's all it was. A weekend fling that was now fading into the reality of the work week.
The thought made your chest ache.
Your thoughts began to spiral, turning in on themselves with a nervous momentum you couldn't quite stop. Where did you actual stand with him? Were you someone he saw out of habit, convenience? Someone pleasant to pass the time with when it fit neatly into his schedule?
Or had you simply misread the weight of things entirely?
The questions crowded your chest, each one pressing closer than the last. "Fine," you whispered to the empty air, the word feeling small and pathetic.
You pushed yourself off the brick wall. You decided you were done waiting. You were a grown woman; you had made this walk home countless times on your own before Tim ever showed up with his cigarettes and his shadows. Why should it matter so much that he wasn't here today? You didn't need a chaperone.
You turned your collar up against the wind and started walking, your heels clicing a solitary rhythm on the pavement.
But as you moved through the city, you couldn't stop the thoughts from racing through your mind, a chaotic loop of anxiety.
Is he okay?
The question surfaced unbidden, slipping past your defenses before you could stop it. It lodged there, stubborn and persistent.
Suddenly, the worry grew louder than the insecurity. What if something happened at the site? Construction was dangerous. What if a beam fell? What if the truck broke in the middle of nowhere and he had no service? What if the job just ran late and he was stuck there, frustrated, unable to let you know?
You walked faster, staring at the pavement, your mind spinning scenarios that ranged from the mundane to the catastrophic.
As your mind churned with images of construction accidents and broken-down trucks, you didn't hear the scuff of shoes against the pavement behind you. You didn't notice the figure slipping out of a doorway, falling into step about twenty feet back, matching your pace with an erratic, twitchy rhythm.
You were too busy worrying about a man who wasn't there to notice the one who was.
Your pace slowly slightly as you frowned at the ground, chewing on your lip. Please just be okay, you thought, the plea silent and fervent. Please just have a dead battery or a late shift.
Plip.
A cold, wet sensation startled you, landing right on your cheekbone.
You blinked, looking up at the sky. The heavy slate clouds had finally decided to give up their burden. Another droplet hit your forehead, then another on right beneath your eye.
"Great," you huffed, the sound sharp in the quiet air. "Just great."
Overcast had been annoying enough. Rain felt like an unnecessary escalation.
You shifted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, ducking your head against the impending drizzle. You picked up your pace, your heels clicking faster now, driven by the urge to get home before the sky opened up completely.
The rain pulled you out of your spiral, forcing you to pay attention to your surroundings for the first time in blocks. You looked left, then right.
A frown creased your forehead.
Normally during this time of the late afternoon, the sidewalks were a thoroughfare. There should have been at least a handful of other commuters. A jogger with earbuds in. A couple arguing quietly. A group of commuters cuting through side streets to shave time off their walk home.
But today, the sidewalks were unnervingly empty, stretched long bare in both directions, slick with the start of the rain.
Storefronts reflected only your own movement. Parked cars sat dark and silent, their windows black mirrors. The hum of the city felt muted, distant, as if someone had turned the volume down a notch without warning.
A heavy, hollow feeling washed over you. It was one thing to feel lonely because the guy you liked hadn't shown up. It was another thing entirely to be the only living soul walking down a deserted street in the rain.
Don't be dramatic, you told yourself, swallowing. You felt ridiculous. You felt exposed. And beneath the annoyance, a small, cold seed of unease began to take room.
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Meanwhile, three blocks over, the air smelled of wet asphalt and ozone.
Tim stood in the doorway of a dilapidated squatter's den, his boots crunching on broken glass. He looked out at the darkening sky as the first heavy drops of rain began to splatter against the hood of the Silverado parked in the alley.
His jaw tightened as he checked his watch. 5:40 PM.
You should be walking home right now. Probably stuck on that long stretch of concrete near the warehouses, shivering in your work clothes. Guilt, sharp and familiar, pricked at his chest. He should be there. He shouldn't be standing in a rat-infested hole hunting a ghost, he should have been leaning against the brick wall, waiting for you, holding a damn umbrella or something to keep the rain off your hair.
Brian, who was sifting through a pile of trashing on a makeshift table in the corner, paused. He didn't look up, but his voice cut through the gloom, flat and knowing.
"Focus, Tim."
Tim didn't turn around. He just lit a cigarette, cupping his hand against the wind, the lighter flaring briefly to illuminate the hard lines of his face.
Brian finally looked up, his eyes scanning Tim's tense posture. He exhaled a long breath, shaking his head slightly.
"Just a little longer," Brian murmured, his tone devoid of judgement but heavy with reality. "We take this guy out, clear the board... and then you can go back to it. Go back to your little carved-out bit of life."
Tim let out a sharp, barking laugh. It was a dry, humorless laugh. Smoke curled from his lips as he shook his head. "Yeah," he rasped, staring at the rain. "Just a lil' longer."
The silence stretched, filled only by the soft drumming of rain and the rustle of Brian moving papers.
Then the rustling stopped.
The silence changed. It wasn't the quiet of a lull; it was the suden, pressurized silence of a predator spotting a tripwire.
Brian's demeanor went ice cold. He froze, his hand hovering over a spread of papers taped to a piece of cardboard. He didn't speak. Just made a soft knocking sound on the table with his gloved knuckles. Knock-knock.
Tim turned instantly, the cigarette forgotten. He crossed the room in a few strides.
"What?" Tim demanded.
Brian stepped back, allowing Tim to see.
It was a collage of obsession. Grainy, low-light photographs were scattered across the surface. They weren't just random shots of the city.
There was a photo of a street corner, your street corner. There was a photo of the long stretch of sidewalk near the warehouses. And there, pinned to the center, were photos of Tim. He was standing at the Mediterranean food cart, head thrown back ina laugh, holding an order of shawarma. In the corner of the frame, blurred but unmistakable, was the curve of your shoulder.
The "loose end" wasn't running. He was hunting. And he had learned Tim's pattern by tracking you.
Tim felt the blood drain from his face, replaced instantly by a surge of adrenaline so potent it tasted like copper.
He looked up. Brian met his gaze.
There was no need for words. The silent understanding passed between them like an electrical current: He knows where you are. He knows when you walk.
"Go," Brian snapped.
They moved as one. They burst out of the squat, sprinting through the rain toward the truck. Tim vaulted into the passenger seat as Brian threw himself behind the wheel, turning the key before the door was even closed.
The engine roared to life, a feral snarl that matched the panic rising in Tim's chest.
As the Silverado peeled out of the alley, tires screaming for traction on the wet pavement, Tim gripped the dashboard until his knuckles whitened. His mind was a singular, screaming loop of prayer.
Please be safe, he thought, watching the rain blur the windshield. Please, God, don't let him be there. Don't let him touch her.
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Scuff.
The sound broke through the rhythm of your feels and the falling rain. Just a hair too slow to be yours. Not an echo. Not a coincidence. Off-beat.
You kept walking.
Another step followed, just slightly out of time with your own pace. A heavy, dragging step that didn't belong to a casual walker.
Your shoulders tightened before you even understood why. Probably just someone else heading home, you told yourself, forcing your pace to remain steady. Cities were full of overlapping rhythms. Footsteps drifted in and out all the time. She didn't need to-
Scuff.
Too close.
Your heart gave a sharp, ugly kick. You turned your head, just enough to glance over your shoulder.
A man was there, closer than you realized, maybe fifteen or twenty feet back. He didn't look... right.
He wore a dark, stained sweatshirt, the hood pulled low. Despite the hood shadowing his face, you still noticed the restless motion beneath. He was twitching, head snapping side to side, vibrating with a frantic, erratic energy.
You noticed he moved like a live wire stretched too tight. Shoulders twitching, steps uneven, body jerking slightly as if he couldn't keep still inside his own skin. Even from this distance, the air around him seemed to carry a scent of sour sweat and copper, the smell of desperation.
Rain darkened the fabric of his sweatshirt, plastering it to his frame. When he lifted his head, your eyes met for half a second, and something in his gaze made your stomach drop.
There was no hunger. No interest.
Recognition.
Your pulse began to race.
You turned forward immediately, your grip on your bag tightening until your knuckles turned white, and walked faster. Just get home, you told yourself, the panic rising in your throat. Just get to the door.
The rain picked up, a thin hiss against the pavement, but you barely noticed it now. Your apartment building was only a block away. You could see the familiar brick facade of your building just past the mouth of the narrow alleyway.
One more stretch of sidewalk. One more intersection.
I'm just being paranoid, you told yourself. I just imagined it. How would a person I never met know me?
His pace quickened.
Your breath came faster, shallow and sharp in your chest. You picked up your own pace, walking faster, breaking into a near-run. Just as you passed the darkened mouth of the alley, the footsteps behind you exploded into a sprint.
Before you could react, a hand clamped onto your upper arm. Hard.
You gasped, the sound ripping out of you as you were jerked back with shocking force, spinning around so violently that your feet tangled. Pain flared where the fingers dug in, bruising already.
"Hey--!" you cried, stumbling, but the hand didn't let go.
You were dragged toward the shadowed stretch of the alley, forced back until your spine hit the brick with a bone-jarring thud. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, a sharp oof tearing out from you as your head snapped back against the wall.
The man stepped in close, face inches from yours. Up close, he was terrifying. Eyes bloodshot and wide, pupils pinned, skin grey and clammy.
"Where is he?" he hissed, his voice wet and raspy.
You stared at him, your mind going blank with terror. "What? Take my purse- I don't have cash-"
"I don't want your money!" he shouted, shaking you. His grip tightened, fingers biting deeper into your arm as rain streaked down his sleeve. "The guy! The guy in the jacket! Where is he? Is he watching? Is he here?"
"I don't- I don't know who-" you choked, panic crashing through you as you tried to shove him away. Your palms slipped uselesly against his chest.
"Don't lie to me!" he cut you off, words tumbling over each other. "I saw you with him! You think I didn't see it? You think I didn't notice you?" His questions came in a barrage, aggressive and terrified, not leaving space to answer. "Where is he hiding, huh? The big guy! Did he send you? Is this a trap?"
"Please!" you cried, trying to wrench your arm free. "I don't know what you're talking about!" Your voice cracked as you struggled, terror sharp and blinding now. Your shoulder scraped painfully against the brick as you tried to twist away. "Let go of me!"
As you put some distance between you and the crazed man, the panic in his eyes flared into violence. He shoved you backwards, putting his entire body weight into the motion.
You stumbled back, heels skidding on the wet pavement, and slammed hard into the rough brick wall of the building once again. The sound echoed too loudly in the narrow space as your bag slipped, thudding to the ground. The world narrowed to rain, brick, and the iron grip clenched around your arms.
"TELL ME!" he screamed.
You screamed, the sound tearing from your throat, raw and desperate, cutting through the rain-soaked street.
A low, mechanical roar tore through the rain, cutting clean through your scream and the man's frantic breathing. Headlights flared white against brick and wet pavement as a truck surged into view. You flinched, instinctively throwing your hands up to shield your face as a massive, dark shape barreled toward you.
The faded green Chevy Silverado didn't stop at the street. It jumped the curb, suspension groaning and tires shrieking as the rubber screamed in protest, gravel and water spraying out in an arc. The engine stayed alive, a deep, rumbling snarl that vibrated through your bones.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, you caught a glimpse of the driver: Brian. He wore a dark hooded sweatshirt that obscured most of his face, but you recalled the image of his figure from the very night you met Tim, and the few of silly photos he showed you of his friend. Brian's posture was terrifyingly calm as he shifted the truck into park with smooth, practiced efficiency. The engine stayed alive, a deep, rumbling snarl, his foot hovering over the gas, ready to bolt.
The truck hadn't even fully stopped rocking on its shocks when the passenger door flew open, Tim launching himself out of the cab.
There was no mask, but the man who hit the pavement wasn't the charming, gentle construction worker you knew. Whatever restraint usually lived behind his eyes was gone, stripped away by raw momentum and fury. He was a force of nature. He moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man of his size, boots hitting the pavement hard as he crossed the distance, a blur of flannel and pure, feral violence.
There was no warming, no shouted threat, no hesitation. He just collided.
Tim slammed into your attacker with the force of a freight train, his shoulder driving into the man's midsection with a sickening crunch. The impact lifted the man off his feet, tearing him away from you as if he weighed nothing.
They hit the wet pavement hard, rolling in a tangle of limbs, but Tim was already on top. He was a weapon, moving with a scary, focused brutality that froze the blood in your veins.
This was not a fight. It was an execution. And it was ugly.
Tim didn't hesitate, didn't pause to assess. He drove his fist down into the man's face with a sound that made your stomach twist. Bone gave way with a wet, unmistakable crack. The man screamed, the sound sharp and animalistic, but it was cut off just as quickly when Tim hit him again.
And again.
Blood sprayed across the pavement, mixing with the rain.
Tim straddled him, one knee grinding into the man's ribs, his weight pinning him helplessly to the slick pavement. Rain plastered Tim's hair to his forehead, ran in dark streaks down his jaw, but he didn't slow. His fist rose and fell with brutal precision, his movements efficient, practiced, horrifyingly controlled.
"You touch her?" Tim roared, the sound guttural and unrecognizable. He didn't wait for an answer. He struck again, and again. "You think you can follow her? You think you can touch her?"
The attacker screamed, gargling on his own blood, thrashing wildly beneath him. His arm came up instinctively, a weak attempt to shield his face, but Tim caught it.
With a terrifyingly precise movement, Tim wrenched the arm back. There was a sharp, sickening snap as he wrenched it sideways, the sound cutting through the rain like a gunshot. The man howled, his body spasming in shock as your stomach turned.
Tim didn't stop. Words tore out of him, raw and furious, but they sounded like nonsense to you. They blurred together, swallowed by the ringing in your ears and the pounding of your heart. His voice didn't sound human. It sounded like something dragged up from deep inside his chest, something feral and unfiltered.
"Who talked? Who gave you the drop? I'll kill you! I'll rip it out of you!"
You stood there, frozen. Unable to look away. Unable to move.
Tim raised his fist again, aiming for the temple. He was going to kill him. Right here. Right in front of you.
"TIM!"
The voice cut through the rain, sharp and commanding. Brian was leaning across the bench seat of the truck, hanging halfway out the open passenger door. His face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, but his voice was cold steel.
"Stand down! Not here! We got eyes!"
Tim's fist froze inches from the man's pulped face. His chest was heaving, his entire body vibrating with the effort to stop. He stayed there for a split second, a statue of pure violence, before he snarled and shoved himself off the man.
"Run," Tim growled, the word dripping with promise. "Before I change my mind."
The man didn't need to be told twice. Taking the opportunity, he rolled clumsily out from under him, sobbing, broken, clutching his ruined arm to his chest. He scrambled away on hands and knees, slipping in the rain, leaving smears of blood on the pavement as he fled down the alley, his terrified gasps dissolving into the night.
For a moment, Tim just stood there.
His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had split, blood streaming down his hands to drip onto the concrete. His chest heaved violently, breath dragging in and out like he was drowning on dry land. His shoulders shook, not with fear, but with the effort of stopping himself from giving chase.
Rain washed over him, cooling the heat of violence just enough to keep it contained, but not gone.
Slowly, terrifyingly, Tim turned to face you.
He moved like he was pushing through heavy liquid, like his body hadn't quite caught up to the moment yet. Rain streaked down his face, cutting paths through the blood smeared across his face and knuckles. His hands were still clenched, tendons standing out sharp and white beneath skin split raw.
But it was his eyes that froze you.
His eyes were wide, wild, and blown so black with adrenaline that the iris was gone. Stripped bare of the warmth you knew, the careful charm and soft humor. Just the cold, calculating stare of a preadator assessing its next move.
This was the version of him that didn't belong in bars or booths or kitchens lit by amber bulbs. This was something older, sharper. A thing built to end threats.
He took a step toward you, and he looked scary. Truly, deeply scary. And for a suspended, terrifying heartbeat, you understood that this was what everyone else saw.
But then you saw his hands. Shaking.
The tremors were so violent, rattling through his entire frame. Beneath the rage and violence, he was vibrating with a panic so profound it looked painful.
The fear of him evaporated, replaced instantly by a crushing, desperate fear for him.
"Tim!"
You ran to him, heels sliding on the wet pavement. Closing the distance, you crashed into his chest, arms thrown around his waist. You buried your face in his chest, rain-soaked flannel and heat and blood and all of it, clutching onto the fabric as if he were the only solid thing left in he world.
He froze for a heartbeat, his body rigid as stone.
Then he broke.
He made a sound, a choked, desperate noise, and wrapped his arms around you. He didn't just hold you; he crushed you. His arms banded around your ribcage, squeezing tight enough to drive the breath from your lungs, lifting you slightly off the wet pavement. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling sharply, shaking against you.
"Got ya," he gasped, his voice ragged. "I got ya."
He held you for a long, suffocating moment, before he suddenly realized what he was doing and pulled back sharply. Hands shifted from your waist to your shoulders, then your arms, gripping you at arm's length as his gaze tore over you with frantic intensity. His hands shook as he checked you, fingers brushing over your sleeves, wrists, shoulders. He turned you slightly, scanning like he expected to find blood he hadn't seen yet.
"Are you hurt? You- Christ-" he asked, his voice cracking as he stumbled through his words. He didn't wait for an answer. His bloody hands moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, turning your head side to side. "Did he hit you? Did he cut you? Look at me- are you bleeding?"
He patted you down, checking your ribs, his touch frantic and rough with adrenaline. He was checking for broken bones, for stab wounds, for damage he couldn't see.
"I'm okay," you sobbed, trying to catch his hands. "Tim, I'm okay!"
He didn't seem to hear you. His chest was still heaving, breath ragged and uneven. He was muttering under his breath, a stream of panicked consciouness that spilled out of him like blood.
"I knew it," he rasped under his breath, more to himself than you. "I knew it wasn't safe. I should've been there. I should've-"
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
"Should've been more careful," he continued, eyes darting from your face to the alleyway and back. "Shouldn't have let you walk alone. I- I knew he was close. I should've been here.."
His gaze flicked down to his hands, still smeared with blood, and something dark and furious passed over his face before he dragged in a sharp breath through his nose, forcing himself back into his body. Just as Tim went to say something again-
HONK.
The sharp aggressive blast of the horn cut through the rain, snapping Tim out of his spiral.
He flinched, his head whipping toward the truck. Brian was leaning on the steering wheel, his face grim in the dashboard lights. He jerked hs head toward the backseta, a silent, urgent command: Move.
Tim didn't hesitate. He swept his arm behind your knees and scooped you up into his arms, bridal style, pulling you tight against his chest. He wasn't gentle, but it wasn't like he was being careless either. It was efficient. Protective. He carried you to the truck in long, determined strides, rain slicking your hair against his chest.
You were shoved into the backseat of the Silverado before you could even process the movement. Hands lingered just long enough to make sure you were steady before the door slammed shut. It sealed you inside the cab where the air smelled of stale cigarettes, old leather, and now, the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Tim dove into the front passenger seat. "Go," he barked.
The truck lurched forward, tires spinning on the wet asphalt before finding traction. Brian didn't speed recklessly; he drove with terrifying, calculated precision. He swung the heavy vehicle around the corner and gunning it down the single block to your building's parking garage.
The parking garage yawned open ahead of the truck, concrete swallowing the sound of rain and city alike. Tires squealed faintly as Brian guided the truck down the ramp into te dim, echoing structure, headlights flaring briefly against numbered pillars. He slowled only once fully inside, scanning the mirrors before pulling into a spot tucked between concrete supports.
Fora second, there was silence.
You looked up, catching Brian's eyes in the rearview mirror. His face was still shadowed by his hood, but his gaze was sharp, intelligent, and devoid of fear. He looked at you, shivering, wet, and traumatized in his backseat, and gave you a single, solemn nod.
It wasn't a greeting. It was an acknowledgement. You're safe.
The passenger door flew open. Tim hopped out, boots hitting the concrete with a heavy thud. Wrenching the back door open, the interior light flooded the garage as he leaned down to meet your eye level.
"Hey," he said quietly, voice rough but steadier. "C'mon. I got'cha."
Your legs felt like rubber as you slid out. The adrenaline that had carried you through the street finally began to drain, leaving behind shaking limbs and a hollow, nauseating fear that settled deep in your chest. You swayed, and Tim caught you instantly, pulling you into his side. Clinging to him, your fingers dug into the wet flannel, burying your face in his shoulder to hide from the harsh fluorescent lights. As the heat of his body began to seep into your frame, the reality of what almost happened crashed down all at once.
He held you there, one arm locked tight around your shoulders, the other braced at your back, grounding you there until the tremors eased just enough for you to breathe.
"Easy," he murmured next to your ear. "You're alright. It'll pass, I'm here."
You nodded shakily, unable to form words yet.
Tim leaned past you slightly, keeping one firm around you as he looked back toward the truck. "Thanks, Bri," he called out, voice carrying in the concrete cavern.
Brian lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in response. Then the truck rolled away.
The tires squealed faintly Brian pulled out, the engine noise echoing briefly through the garage before disappearing up the ramp and back into the city. The sound faded quickly, swallowed by concrete and distance.
The rushing sound of your own blood pumping in your ears was louder, enough to drown out everything else, the fading engine, the rain, and the world outside. All you could hear was the thump-thump-thump of your own terror, and the steady, answering rhythm of Tim's heart as he held you close.
But it wasn't for long.
Tim pulled back slightly, enough to look down at your trembling frame, leaning back in towards him. "How about we get ya inside now, hm?"
You blinked up at him, the words taking a moment to register before you slowly nodded. It was a good idea, getting back to your sanctuary, getting out of these wet clothes, sink into safety.
He guided you toward the elevator, hand never leaving your back, posture angled just enough to keep you shielded as you moved. The walk to your apartment passed in a blur of motion and breath and the steady pressure of his presence behind you.
The heavy click of the deadbolt sliding home sounded like a gunshot in your quiet apartment.
Tim didn't stop moving. The moment the door was secured, he was in motoin, driven by a frantic need to fix what had been broken. He steered you down the hall, one hand firm on your bac, the other checking locks out of habit before abandoning them entirely. His focus snapped back to you, sharp and singular, as if the rest of the world had gone dim.
"Hey," he cooed to you, his voice low but urgent. "C'mon. Let's get you warm."
He guided you into the bedroom and helped you out of your damp clothes with careful efficiency, fingers steady despite the faint tremor still running through hum. He didn't linger, didn't make it strange. He treated you like something fragile that had survived a fall. He pulled soft pajamas from your dresser, ones you liked to wear on a day spent in lesiure, and handed them to you.
You changed slowly, limbs still heavy, still buzzing. Everything around you felt so surreal, so strangely normal. As if the events from the last half hour never really happened.
As you straightened out the clothes, Tim was already at work. He snagged a hand towel from the bathroom andgently dried your hair, blotting instead of rubbing, careful not to tug. When he wrapped the blanket around your shoulders, he checked it first, eyes flicking to his knuckles, making sure the fabric stayed clean. No red. No smears. Only you.
"Sit," he said softly, guiding you to the edge of the bed. You obeyed without tinking.
The kitchen clinked faintly as he moved again. A kettle. A mug. The muted sounds of someone who needed to do something before his hands shook apart. He returned with a cup of tea, steam curling upward, and pressed it into your hands.
"Small sips," he said. "It'll help."
Only then did he turn away from you.
Tim leaned over the bathroom sink and twisted the faucet on, water rushing loud in the quiet apartment. He scrubbed his hands under the stream, red spiraling down the drain in diluted ribbons. Blood stained the porcelain briefly before disappearing entirely, as if it had never been there at all.
You watched him. Not the way you had before, not with warmth, or curiosity, or desire.
With clarity.
The apartment around you was calm again. Clean lines. Soft lighting. Carefully chosen furniture. A space designed to be safe, intentional, controlled. Your sanctuary. And yet, only a short time ago, that safety had meant nothing at all.
The outside world didn't care how thoughtful you were. How careful. How independent.
It was sharp and hungry and waiting.
And Tim stood at the sink, shoulders squared, water running over bruised knuckles, jaw tight with restraint rather than remorse. He looked like a man built to stand between things. Between danger and what it wanted. Between wolves and whatever they set their eyes upon.
A chill settled deep in your chest, not with fear, but understanding.
The world was dangerous.
And Tim was the only thing that had stopped it from taking you.
The Weight of Water (Tim Wright / Masky x F!Reader)
Chapter 4: Pure Love Unrehearsed
You woke up before your alarm. Usually, the morning was a battle of attrition, a series of snoozed warnings and a groggy drag toward the coffee pot. But today, your eyes snapped open, and the world felt instantly, vibrantly awake.
There was no mental fog. There was only a voice, low and gravelly, replaying on a loop in the quiet of your bedroom.
Wear somethin' cute.
The command hung in the air like dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a polite suggestion. It was an instruction, and the memory of it sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your veins that was stronger than caffeine.
You threw the covers back and swung your legs out of bed, your feet hitting the floor with a purpose that felt foreign on a Friday morning. You moved through the apartment with a hum of nervous energy, the anticipation of 5:00 PM already vibrating under your skin.
The shower felt different today. You scrubbed harder, exfoliating until your skin was soft and pink, using your expensive body wash that was usually reserved for special occasions. You weren't just getting clean for work; you were preparing a canvas.
Then came the closet.
You stood in front of the open doors, towel wrapped around you, staring at the rows of hangers. Usually, you grabbed whatever was clean and comfortable. Today, every piece of fabric was weighed, measured, and judged against a single criteria:
Would he like it?
You pulled out a gray slack suit. Too stiff. You pulled out a floral sundress. Too childish.
You needed something that walked the razor's edge, something that would pass under the fluorescent lights of the design firm but would look entirely different in the dim light of a bar. Something that said "professional" to your boss, but "yours" to him.
Your hand landed on a pencil skirt, a deep, charcoal fabric that hugged your hips just enough to be dangerous. You paired it with a silk blouse in a soft cream color. The neckline was modest, but the material had a way of draping, of hinting at the shape beneath without giving it away.
You dressed slowly, smoothing the fabric over your skin, imagining his eyes tracing the lines the way they had yesterday. The thought made your breath hitch.
Next was the mirror.
You leaned in close, the bathroom lights bright and unforgiving. You took your time with your mascara, coating your lashes until they were dark and sweeping, framing your eyes to look wide and attentive. You added a touch of blush, mimicking the flush he managed to coax out of you so easily.
Finally, the perfume. You spritzed it on your wrists, then dabbed a little behind your ears and at the base of your throat. Pulse points. Places where his breath had lingered last night.
You stepped back, taking in the full picture. The woman in the mirror looked polished. She looked professional. But there was something else in her eyes. A glitter, a hunger, a softness that hadn't been there weeks ago.
You pressed a hand to your stomach, feeling the flutter there. It wasn't anxiety. It wasn't fear. It was the electric, intoxicating thrill of being summoned.
He had told you what to do. And you had listened.
You grabbed your bag, the one he would carry for you, and headed for the door, walking out into the morning sun with the secret weight of the evening already pulling you forward.
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The office was designed to be a sanctuary of flow, a balance between privacy and collaboration that likely cost more than your rent for a year.
The firm believed that creativity required oxygen, so the entire fourth floor was a sprawling, breathless expanse of white oak and floor-to-ceiling glass. The sunlight poured in, unfiltered and bleaching everything it touched - the ergonomic mesh chairs, the polished concrete floors, the mid-century modern lounge areas that looked more like art installations than places to sit.
There were no stifling gray cubicles here. Instead, the floor plan was organized into vast "islands" of blonde wood, separated by sleek, waist-high partitions of frosted acrylic and matte acoustic felt.
They were stylish, sculptural dividers, low enough to keep the room feeling breathless and airy, but just high enough to offer a semblance of boundaries. Of course, as you knew too well from Drew, they were also the perfect height for someone to lean their elbows on while lingering too long at your desk.
Despite that, the office was a temple of curated calm. The air smelled faintly of expensive espresso and filtered ozone. It was quiet, too, a hushed acoustic-dampened silence where the only sounds were the soft thud-click of heavy architectural mice and the low murmur of collaboration.
But today, you were a glitch in the aesthetic, your carefully curated workspace feeling too small to contain you.
You sat at your workstation, perched on an ergonomic stool that definitely cost more than your rent, a swatch books of linens spread out on the blonde wood of your desk, feeling like a live wire sputtering on a pristine surface.
You couldn't find your rhythm. You arranged your Copic markers in a perfect gradient, then messed them up. You opened a file, then minimized it. Your leg was bouncing under the table, a frantic, kinetic rhythm that shook the monitor just enough to be annoying.
You checked the time on the corner of your screen. 9:03 AM. You adjusted the silk of your blouse, checking your reflection in the dark screen of your phone. You checked the time again. 9:05 AM.
Every time the elevator dinged, your heart jumped, even though you knew you wouldn't be leaving for another eight hours. You were vibrating with a frequency that was impossible to hide.
"You're going to vibrate right out of that chair if you're not careful."
The voice floated over the top of your dual monitors.
You looked up to see Luca leaning on her elbows from her station across the "island." She held a ceramic mug with both hands, her dark curls falling over a crisp linen blazer. In a room designed for neutrality, Luca always had a way of looking sharp.
She took a slow sip of coffee, her eyes narrowed in playful assessment.
"You have checked the time four times in the last two minutes," she noted, raising an eyebrow. "And you're tapping your pen against that swatch book so hard I can hear it through my noise-cancelling headphones."
You froze, the pen still hovering over a sample of 'Dove Grey' velvet. You hadn't even realized you were doing it.
Luca lowered her mug as she used her feet to push her chair away from her desk, turning her whole body towards you. Her gaze traveled over you, taking in the way the cream silk blouse draped perfectly against your collarbone, the extra effort in your blowout, the flushed brightness of your skin that stood out against the sterile white of the office.
A slow, knowing grin spread across her face.
"And look at you," she teased, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried easily across the open space. "The good blouse? The hair? You're practically glowing. And it is definitely not the ambient lighting."
You felt the heat rush to your face, burning pleasant and bright. You bit your lop, glancing around the open floor to make sure no one else was tuning in, but the energy bubbling in your chest was too strong to suppress.
You spun your chair slightly to face her, unable to keep the secret locked behind your teeth. "Is it that obvious?" you whispered, breathless.
"Honey, you're buzzing," Luca laughed softly, leaning in to meet you in the middle. Her eyes sparkled. "So? Spill. Who is he? Is it that mystery guy you mentioned?"
You looked down at the blonde wood grain, feigning shyness, but the smile broke through, wide and undeniable.
"Maybe," you admitted. You looked back up at her, the secret thrilling to say out loud. "He... he told me to dress up. For tonight."
"A date!" Luca squealed, though she kept her volume checked to a polite 'library' level. She clapped her hands together silently. "Finally! I knew someone had to be putting that look on your face. Where is he taking you?"
"I don't know," you admitted, gripping the edge of your desk. "He didn't say where."
"A surprise? Oh, I love a man with a plan," Luca swooned, shaking her head. "You have to tell me everything tomorrow. Every detail. Do not leave out a single-"
"Ladies."
The dry, baritone voice of Mr. Hendon cut through the aesthetic atmosphere like a jagged line on a blueprint.
You both jumped, spinning toward the central walkway. Your supervisor was strolling past, an iPad tucked under his arm, looking every bit the part of chic, unbothered architect. He didn't stop walking, but he shot a pointed look over his rimless glasses as he passed by the two of you.
"As much as I love to encourage open collaboration," he drawled, his voice carrying in the acoustically perfect room, "I would also love it if we could get some rendering done today. The client isn't paying for social hour."
Luca stifled a laugh behind her hand, sinking back into her ergonomic chair.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," she chirped.
She shot you one last wink before pulling her headphones back up.
"Work now," she mouthed exaggeratedly. "Juicy details later."
You sank back into your seat, your face burning with a mix of embarrassment and giddiness. You grabbed your mouse, staring at the perfect, high-resolution rendering on your screen. The room was calm. The light was perfect. The design was flawless.
But none of it mattered. Because in seven hours, you were going to be in the dark with him. And the thought alone was enough to make the pristine office feel like nothing more than a waiting room.
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The subway station was a hollow echo chamber of screeching metal and fluorescent hum.
Drew stepped off the train, the doors hissing shut behind him, cutting off the stale, recycled air of the car. He adjusted his messenger bag, his mind halfway between the project renders he'd left at the office and the leftover takeout waiting in his fridge. He didn't pay attention to the few other commuters shuffling toward the turnstiles. He didn't notice the flickering light at the end of the platform. And he certainly didn't notice the shadow that detached itself from a pillar near the rear of the train, slipping silently into his wake.
Pushing through the turnstiles, he jogged up the concrete stairs, bursting out into the cool, humid night air. The city noise was duller out here, near the edge of the residential district, where the sidewalk pavement gave way to older, cracked concrete and the streetlights were spaced further apart.
Drew loosened his tie, exhaling a long breath as he started the trek home.
It was a walk he had done a hundred times. He knew where the sidewalk heaved from tree roots. He knew which streetlamp buzzed. But tonight, about two blocks in, the air on the back of his neck went cold.
It was a primal itch. The biological alarm that rings when a gazelle realizes the grass has gone too quiet.
Drew frowned, slowing his pace. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the empty street. Nothing but parked cars and long, stretching shadows.
You're tired, he told himself, shaking his head. Too much caffeine. Too much staring at screens. He turned back around and kept walking.
Scuff. Scuff.
The sound was faint, but it was there. A second pair of footsteps, slightly heavier than his own, falling just out of sync with his rhythm.
Drew stopped. The footsteps stopped.
His heart kicked against his ribs. He whipped around this time, fully turning, his eyes darting frantically across the dark street. "Hello?" he called out. His voice sounded thin and pathetic in the open air.
Silence. Just the wind rustling the overgrown hedges of a nearby lot. There was no one there. The street was empty.
Drew let out a shaky, jagged sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, get a grip," he muttered to himself. He turned back around, ready to speed-walk the rest of the way home-
He walked straight into a wall.
It wasn't brick or concrete. It was warm, solid, and unyielding muscle.
Drew bounced off the impact, stumbling back a step, disoriented. "Whoa, hey-"
He looked up. And up.
The apology died in his throat. The man standing in front of him was huge, a silhouette carved out of the darkness. He wore a heavy, brown bomber jacket that looked worn to the threads. But it wasn't the jacket that froze the blood in Drew's veins.
It was the face. Or lack of one.
A white mask, stark and bone-pale in the gloom, stared down at him. Black, painted feminine features - lips, eyes, eyebrows - were frozen in a permanent, expressionless gaze. It was eerie, artificial, and terrifyingly blank.
"Watch where you're-" Drew started, the instinct to be defensive kicking in before his brain could process the danger.
He never finished the sentence.
The figure moved with a speed that defied his size. A gloved hand shot out, seizing Drew by the front of his shirt. The fabric tore, and suddenly Drew's feet were leaving the ground. He was hauled up, weightless, before being swung violently to the side.
"Hey!"
Drew went flying. He cleared the sidewalk and crashed into the darkness of the sparse treeline that bordered the undeveloped lot next to the road. He hit the dirt hard, rolling over roots and dead leaves, slamming his shoulder against the trunk of a pine tree with a dull, sickening thud.
"What the hell, man..." Drew groaned, scrambling backwards, leaves sticking to his sweat-dampened palms.
The figure didn't speak. He just stepped off the sidewalk and into the dirt, stalking toward Drew with a heavy, deliberate gait. He didn't rush. He didn't need to.
Drew tried to scramble up, raising his hands. "Look, I don't have any cash, just take the-"
The figure reached down, grabbing Drew by the collar and slamming him back against the pine tree. The impact knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping like a fish on dry land.
Then the first blow landed.
It was a fist to the stomach, hard, precise, and professional. It wasn't a wild swing; it was a piston firing. Drew doubled over, retching, but the hand on his collar hauled him back up.
Thud. A strike to the ribs. Drew felt something crack, a sharp, white-hot line of agony shooting up his side.
Thud. Another to the gut.
The figure was careful. He avoided the face. He avoided the nose. He was painting him in bruises that would be hidden by a button-down shirt. He was breaking him, but leaving the facade intact.
Drew tried to fight back initially, flailing his arms, trying to scratch at the jacket, at the mask. But it was like fighting a landslide. His energy drained away with every agonizing blow to his torso, until all he could focus on was the desperate need to stay conscious.
Finally, the figure stopped.
He didn't let go. He pinned Drew against the rough bark of the tree, leaning in close. The plastic mask was inches from Drew's sweating, terrified face. Drew could hear the man breathing, heavy, ragged breaths that sounded like they were being filtered through grit.
"You listen," the man whispered.
The voice was distorted, low and garbled, but the menace was crystal clear.
"You stay at your desk."
Drew wheezed, tears leaking from his eyes.
"You don't look at her," the figure hissed, tightening his grip until Drew choked. "You don't speak to her. You don't even breathe in her direction."
Drew didn't need a name. He knew in the hazy, pain-filled panic of his mind, he saw the girl from the office. The one he had been trying to impress.
"Do you understand?" The man growled, shaking him once.
Weakly, frantically, Drew nodded. "Yes," he choked out. "Yes. I swear."
The figure held him for a second longer, the black painted eyes staring into Drew's soul. Then, he let go.
Drew crumpled to the ground, curling into a ball in the dirt, clutching his ribs and gasping for air that refused to fill his lungs.
Above him, he heard the click of a lighter. Schk-fzzzzt. Through the haze of pain, Drew looked up.
The figure had turned his back. He was walking away, back toward the street light. He stopped for a moment, shoulders rising and falling. A cloud of gray smoke drifted over his shoulder, curling around the edges of the white mask, illuminated by the orange flare of the ember.
He didn't look back. He just kept walking, fading into the night as if he were nothing more than a bad dream, leaving Drew broken in the dirt.
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Lunch was a solitary affair today.
Tim didn't text or call you, but for once, the absence didn't sting. It felt like a prelude. A necessary pause before the main event. You sat in the break room, picking at the remnants of a salad, pushing around the wilted pieces of arugula and the soggy croutons you always hated, your mind drifting happily toward 5:00 PM.
The break room was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. You were scraping the last decent bit of feta onto your fork when the door opened.
You glanced up instinctively, expecting Luca coming in for a refill, but the fork paused halfway to your mouth.
It was Drew. But it didn't look like Drew.
The usually well-groomed, overly confident marketing guy looked like he had aged ten years overnight. His skin was the color of paste, a sickly, grayish white that made the dark circles under his eyes stand out in stark relief. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, despite the aggressive air conditioning of the office.
He didn't strut in. He shuffled.
He moved with a stiff, fragile caution, holding his torso rigid as if his spine was made of glass. He made his way to the nearest chair and lowered himself into it slowly, agonizingly. As his weight settled, his face contorted - a sharp, sucked-in breath hissed through his teeth, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wincing as if something inside him had just pulled tight.
You stared, fork lowered, genuinely taken aback.
After a moment, the spasm of pain seemed to pass. Drew opened his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath, and looked up. His gaze locked onto yours across the room.
You expected the usual routine. The lopsided grin, the wave, the attempt at a joke.
Instead, you saw pure, unadulterated panic.
His eyes widened, the pupils contracting as if he'd just realized he had walked into a cage with a tiger. The color drained even further from his face.
"Oh," he breathed, the word barely a whisper.
Quickly, or as quickly as his battered body would allow, he scrambled back up. He grimaced, clutching the edge of the table for support, his knuckles turning white. He didn't head for the coffee pot. He didn't head for the counter. He headed straight for you.
You stiffened, leaning back slightly in your chair, wondering if he was about to pass out on you.
"Hey," he blurted out, his voice thin and strained. "I-I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm just... leaving."
He rushed the words, stumbling over them in his haste. He moved past your table, giving you a wide berth, and reached for the break room door handle. He pulled it open and held it there, standing stiffly against the wall, eyes fixed on the floor.
"I'm sorry," he muttered to the linoleum, his voice trembling slightly. "For... everything. I won't bother you again."
You blinked, utterly confused by the sudden, frantic apology. "Uh... Okay?" you murmured. You stood up, grabbing your salad container. "Thanks, Drew."
You walked past him, noting the way he flinched slightly as you got close, pressing himself flatter against the door frame to give you maximum space. The smell of stale sweat and fear rolled off him in waves.
You stepped out into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind you almost instantly. Weird, you thought to yourself, frowning as you walked back to your desk. Was it the flu? He looked feverish enough. Or maybe he had finally joined that intense CrossFit gym he was always bragging about and pulled a muscle. He looked like he had been hit by a truck, or at least fallen down a flight of stairs.
For a second, a flicker of concern tried to take root. But then you looked at the clock on the wall.
1:15 PM.
Less than four hours to go.
The concern evaporated, pushed aside by the returning flutter of excitement in your stomach. Whatever was wrong with Drew was his problem. You had a date to get ready for.
The rest of the afternoon dissolved in a blur of productivity. Mr. Hendon had swung by your desk at 1:30 PM, looking almost disappointed that he couldn't critique your work. You sent out the approval email, and within minutes, the client had approved the final retouches. The project was closed. A clean, undeniable win. He had dropped a new file on your desk, a commercial lobby renovation, but even the looming workload couldn't dampen the hum in your veins.
You watched the digital clock in the corner of your monitor like a hawk.
4:58.
4:59.
5:00.
You were out of your chair before the minute changed.
You swept your belongings into your bag in record time, shutting down your computer with a decisive click.
"Whoa, fire drill?" Luca teased, leaning back in her chair as you practically sprinted past her partition. She grinned, waving her phone at you. "Go and have fun! But I expect my phone to be buzzing with juicy details by the time I wake up Saturday morning. Do not disappoint me."
"I promise!" you called back, already halfway down the central aisle. "Have a good weekend, Luca!"
You hit the elevator button with a little more force than necessary, tapping your foot against the polished concrete. Come on, come on...
When the doors finally slid open, you squeezed in, pressing the button for the lobby. You stared at the floor number, as if your gaze could physically will the car to move faster.
But of course, the universe had a sense of humor.
Ding. Floor Three. Two guys from the firm below shuffled in, talking loudly about sports.
Ding. Floor Two. A group of women from HR squeezed in, excitedly chatting about leaving spreadsheets behind and heading to happy hour, oblivious to the fact that you were vibrating out of your skin.
You stood in the back, clutching your bag, mentally screaming at the machine to just drop. As the doors slid shut on the second floor, trapping you in the mirrored box, you caught your own reflection.
Hair still voluminous? Check. Lipstick still crisp? Check. Outfit? It looked good. It looked ready.
Ding. Lobby.
The doors opened, and you surged out ahead of the pack.
"Have a good night, Sarah! See you Monday, George!" you called out to the receptionist and the security guard, not breaking stride as you pushed through the heavy revolving doors.
The city air hit you. Humid, loud, smelling of exhaust and freedom.
You stepped onto the sidewalk, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as your eyes immediately sought the familiar spot on the wall where he always waited. The spot where the smoke usually curled, marking his territory.
Empty.
You blinked, your momentum faltering. You scanned the crowd of navy suits and commuters pouring out of the building behind you, looking for the flannel shirt, the height, the dark hair. You looked left toward the bodega. You looked right down the block.
Nothing.
A cold wash of panic mixed with a sharp pang of disappointment swept through you, instantly dousing your excitement. Your stomach dropped. Maybe he's running behind? you thought, checking your phone. No texts. Maybe... Maybe you had misunderstood? But he was the one who suggested this. He was the one who called it a date.
You stood there, buffeted by the stream of people trying to get home, feeling suddenly very small and very foolish in your outfit. You clutched your bag tighter, stepping closer to the curb to get out of the way, your heart sinking.
Slam.
The heavy, metallic sound of a door shutting cut through the traffic noise right in front of you.
"Hey!"
The voice was familiar, rough, projecting over the noise of the street. You turned toward the street.
Parked right in front of the building, idling with a low, throaty rumble, was a truck. It was a Chevrolet Silverado, mid-2000s model. It was a beast of a vehicle, boxy and broad, painted a dark forest green that had faded under the sun to a matte finish. Despite the age, it was pristine; the chrome bumper shone under the streetlights, and the tires looked scrubbed clean.
Standing by the driver's side door, one hand resting of the roof of the cab, was Tim. He flashed you a smile that made every bit of disappointment vanish in an instant.
He rounded the front of the truck, moving with a heaviness that was new.
Usually, Tim moved easily - fluid, silent, and controlled. But today, his boots scuffed slightly against the asphalt. As he stepped up onto the curb to meet you, the late afternoon sun hit his face, and your breath caught in your throat.
He looked wrecked.
The shadows under his eyes weren't just dark; they were bruised, purplish hollows that stood out starkly against the pallid, gray cast of his skin. His stubble was thicker than it had been last night, rough and unshaven, shadowing a jaw that was set tight with tension. He exuded a bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that comes from fighting a war you're losing.
But when he saw you, the corner of his mouth twitched up, his expression softening instantly into something fond and relieved.
You tried to mask the shock, forcing a smile as you gestured to the massive vehicle behind him. "It's beautiful," you said, your hand brushing the faded green metal of the fender. "I didn't know you drove a tank. Is it yours?"
Tim chuckled, a low, warm rumble that vibrated in the air between you. He shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair.
"Nah," he drawled. "It's Brian's. Asked t' borrow it since he wasn't usin' it tonight. My ride's... in the shop."
Tim leaned against the truck, his posture slumping slightly as if the truck was the only thing holding him up. He offered you a tired but easy grin.
You couldn't help yourself, concern overriding shyness. You reached up, your hand cupping his jaw. Your thumb brushed against his cheek, the stubble scratching gently against your skin. He didn't pull away; he leaned into the touch, turning his face slightly into your palm. His eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second, as if your cool hand was the first relief he had felt all day.
"Tim," you murmured, searching his face. "You look... exhausted. Did you sleep at all?"
He opened his eyes, and for a moment, you saw the static behind them. The dull, glazed look of a man barely holding it together. Then, he blinked, and the expression melted into a reassuring softness. He covered your hand with his own large, warm palm, giving it a squeeze before gently pulling it away to press a kiss to your knuckles.
"Just a long night, darlin'," he said, his voice rough. "Don't you go worryin' that pretty head 'a yours. I'm upright, ain't I?" He winked, a slow, lazy gesture, and straightened up, pushing off from the truck. "C'mon. Hop in. Let's get you off this sidewalk."
He turned and yanked the passenger door open for you. The hinges groaned in protest.
You stepped up onto the running board, grabbing the handle to hoist yourself into the high cab. As you moved, you felt his eyes on you. He wasn't looking at the truck. He was looking at your skirt. The silk blouse. The way your clothes hugged your frame.
You paused halfway in, looking back at him.
You could see the way his eyes were drinking you in, his gaze traveling from your heels to your eyes with a slow, appreciative heat that made you forget all about his tired face. He nodded slowly, a genuine, prideful smirk cutting through the exhaustion.
"Damn, darlin'," he murmured, his voice low and vibrating with approval. "Prettiest thing I've seen all day. Real cute."
Your cheeks flushed hot, the compliment landing exactly where he meant it to. You ducked your head, smiling as you climbed the rest of the way in and settled onto the bench seat.
Thud.
He shut the door firmly, sealing you inside.
The cab smelled of pine air freshener, old fabric, and faint cigarette smoke, a masculine, enclosed world. You watched through the windshield as Tim jogged around the front of the truck. He moved a little faster now, as if seeing you had given him a second wind.
He climbed into the driver's side, the truck shifting under his weight, and slammed his door shut. The silence of the cab wrapped around you both, intimate and sudden.
"Ya ready?" he asked, glancing over at you as he threw the gearshift into drive.
"Ready," you nodded, clutching your bag on your lap.
You expected him to pull a U-turn, to head toward the trendy downtown district with its rows of bistros and bars.
But Tim didn't turn around. He pulled out into traffic and merged left, heading toward the highway on-ramp. Toward the exit signs that led away from the skyscrapers and the noise.
He was taking you out of the city.
The cab of the truck felt like a separate world, sealed off from the rest of the universe by glass and steel.
It was quieter than you expected, the roar of the engine dampened to a steady, rhythmic thrum that vibrated up through the bench seat. You took a moment to look around, absorbing the details of the space. The leather beneath you was cracked in spiderweb patterns, worn smooth and soft from years of use, but it was clean.
Your gaze drifted down to the foot wells. The rubber mats were stained with dry earth, a caked layer of dark brown mud mixed with streaks of a deep, rusty red. Clay, you assumed. Or dirt from a demolition site. It spoke of hard labor, of boots stomping off the grime of a long day. It felt masculine and rugged, fitting perfectly with the man driving beside you.
You looked out the window, watching the skyline unravel. The towering glass structures of the business district gave way to the lower, grittier silhouettes of the industrial outskirts, which in turn softened into tree-lined roads of the suburbs. The city was loosening its grip, fading into the rearview mirror.
"Brian woulda loved hearin' that, by the way," Tim said suddenly, his voice cutting through the hum of the tires.
You turned to look at him. He was driving with one hand draped lazily over the top of the steering wheel, looking relaxed in a way he hadn't on the sidewalk.
"Hearing what?"
"That you think his truck's beautiful," Tim chuckled, glancing at the dashboard with a fond shake of his head. "He treats this thing better than he treats himself most days. Calls it his girl."
You smiled, resting your head back against the seat. "Well, you can pass it on for me. Tell him I have excellent taste in vehicles."
Tim nodded, a small, genuine smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I'll do that."
Silence settled between you again, but it wasn't the awkward silence of a first date. It was comfortable. Companionable. The enclosed space of the cab forced a kind of intimacy that felt safe, like being inside a moving cocoon.
"So," Tim asked, his eyes flicking to the side mirrors before returning to the road. "How was the rest of your day, sug'? You get out on time without Hendon breathin' down your neck?"
You let out a breathy laugh, the tension of the workday finally bleeding out of your shoulders.
"Actually, yes! The client approved the retouches right after lunch, so I was basically free and clear by two. I even managed to start the mood board for the next project."
You launched into a ramble, your hands moving as you talked, filling the quiet space with stories about color palettes and indecisive clients. Tim listened, nodding at the right intervals, humming in agreement, glancing over with that attentive look that you've grown used to that made you feel like the most interesting person in the world.
"And the weirdest thing happened," you added, almost as an afterthought. "Drew actually came up to me in the breakroom."
Tim didn't look at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the road, but his head tilted ever so slightly toward you. "Oh yeah?" he asked, his voice even.
"Yeah, he like, he looked so terrible. Honestly, I thought he had something, like the flu, or... I don't know, maybe fell down some stairs? He was moving so stiffly." You shook your head, remembering the fear in the marketing guy's eyes. "But he apologized, actually apologized for bothering me. Even said it won't be happening again."
You waited for Tim to say something, maybe a sarcastic comment, or a joke.
But he didn't speak.
He just nodded. It was a slow, deliberate movement, his chin dipping once. He didn't smile, not outwardly. But there was a shift in his expression - a subtle smoothing of the tension in his forehead, a darkening of his eyes that had nothing to do with the setting sun.
A look of dark, quiet satisfaction settled over his features. Good boy, he thought. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel, the corner of his mouth twitching with a secret victory.
"Well," Tim said finally, his voice rich with approval. "Sounds like he finally learned some manners." He glanced over at you, the darkness in his eyes receding into that familiar, charming warmth. "I'm glad, darlin'. You don't need distractions like that. Just want you havin' peace."
You smiled back, feeling a warm glow in your chest. He was right. You didn't need distractions.
The transition from the highway to the back roads was gradual, the smooth asphalt eventually giving way to a surface that hummed with a different, coarser texture beneath the heavy tires of the Chevy. The streetlights became sparse, replaced by the encroaching shadows of the treeline that hugged the road, until finally, a beacon of neon red and blue cut through the twilight ahead.
It was a low, sprawling building that looked like it had grown out of the gravel lot it sat upon. A classic roadside establishment, part bar, part grill, part local landmark that probably hadn't changed its siding since the 90s. A flickering neon sign buzzed with an audible electric hum, spelling out 'THE HIDEOUT,' with the bottom half of the 'E' missing.
It looked rough around the edges, the kind of place you might speed past if you didn't know better, but the parking lot was surprisingly full of pickup trucks and motorcycles.
Tim slowed the truck, the gravel crunching loudly under the wheels as he pulled off the main road. The cab rocked gently as he navigated the uneven surface, bypassing the rows of vehicles near the back to pull into a spot right near the heavy wooden entrance door.
He threw the truck into park and killed the engine. The silence that rushed back in was sudden, ringing in your ears after the steady roar of the drive.
You reached for the door handle, ready to hop out, but Tim's voice stopped you. "Wait," he commanded softly.
You froze, hand hovering over the latch.
He pulled the keys from the ignition, pocketing them in one fluid motion, and opened his own door. He stepped out, his boots hitting the gravel with a heavy thud, and slammed the driver's door shut. You watched through the windshield as he walked around the front of the massive hood, his silhouette backlit by the neon sign. He moved with that tired, heavy grace, checking the ground as he walked, scanning the environment out of habit.
He reached your side and yanked the door open.
"Watch your step," he murmured, offering a hand up to you.
You slid toward the edge of the seat, looking down. The ground was a sea of loose, jagged gravel, a nightmare for the heels you had carefully selected that morning. You hesitated, gauging the drop.
Tim didn't rush you. He stepped in closer, invading your personal space in the best way possible, blocking the wind. His hand remained steady, palm up, waiting.
You placed your hand in his. His grip closed around your fingers instantly - warm, rough, and completely secure. It wasn't just a polite gesture; he was taking your weight.
"I've got ya," he said, his voice low and soothing. "Ain't gonna let 'cha fall."
You slid off the seat, putting your trust in his grip. As your heels touched the uneven stones, you wobbled slightly, your ankle threatening to roll, but Tim's other hand was there in a flash, catching your elbow to steady you. He didn't let go even when you found your footing. He kept his hand firmly on your arm, guiding you over the treacherous terrain toward the entrance as if you were made of glass.
"Thank you," you breathed, looking up at him.
He just nodded, giving your arm a gentle squeeze, his eyes scanning the parking lot one last time before he pulled the heavy wooden door open for you.
The atmosphere inside was a stark contrast to the humid, quiet night. A wall of cool air, scented with frying grease, old wood, and beer, washed over you. Classic rock played from a jukebox in the corner, something by Pearl Jam, and the low hum of conversation filled the room. It was dimmer inside, lit by hanging pendant lamps with amber bulbs that cast a warm, golden glow over the wooden booths and the long, polished bar.
It wasn't fancy, but it felt alive. It felt authentic.
"Sit anywhere!" a bartender called out from across the room. He was wiping down a glass, barely looking up from his work.
You started to move toward an empty table near the window, but Tim's hand on the small of your back exerted a gentle, steering pressure.
"Back here," he murmured into your ear.
He guided you past the noisy main floor, past the pool tables where a cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air, toward the rear of the restaurant. Here, the booths here higher, the lighting dimmer, and the noise of the bar dampened by the distance. It felt secluded. Private.
He stopped at a corner booth upholstered in deep red vinyl that looked worm but comfortable. He slid into one side, and you took the other.
The vinyl squeaked slightly as you sat, the material cool against the back of your legs. Tim shifted, his long legs bumping against yours under the table before he adjusted, settling into the corner to give himself a view of the entire room. It was a subtle movement, one you were started to recognize: he always positioned himself to see the door.
He reached out and adjusted the scratched wooden table, centering the small candle holder and the laminated menus between you.
"So," you said, looking around the cozy space. "This is a bit of a hidden gem. The smell is... amazing."
Your stomach gave a traitorous growl, reminding you that you hadn't eaten since your salad at lunch.
Tim chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. He picked up the menu, though he didn't open it.
"Best steaks in the county," he drawled, leaning back against the booth, one arm draping comfortably over top of the seat. "And the fries are cut fresh. None of that frozen stuff."
You picked up your own menu, scanning the options. It was standard bar fare, burgers, wings, steaks, loaded nachos, but if Tim's endorsement was anything to go by, it was going to be better than it looked on paper.
"What do you recommend?" you asked, peering at him over the top of the plastic sheet. "Besides the steak?"
"Sampler platter," he said without hesitation. "Mozzarella sticks, onion rings, jalapeño poppers. It's terrible for you, but it's so good. It heals the soul."
You smiled, lowering the menu. You watched him for a moment, the way he seemed to fit into this space so effortlessly. He didn't look like a stranger here; he looked like part of the woodwork.
"How did you find this place?" you asked. "It's so far out of the way."
Tim's gaze drifted from your face to the room around. He looked at the scuffed floorboards, the flickering beer signs, the old jukebox in the corner. For a second, the mask of the charming, tired construction working slipped, revealing a deep, aching well of nostalgia. His eyes softened, turning distant, as if he were seeing ghosts sitting in the empty booths.
A small, sad smile touched his lips.
"Me and Brian used to close this place down back in college," he said quietly. "We'd come here after classes, or... after long nights. Before everything got complicated."
That sentence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. Complicated. It was such a small word for what looked like a lifetime of weight on his shoulders. You didn't know who Brian was to him - a brother? A best friend? - but the way he said the name made it sound like an anchor.
You nodded slowly, sensing that this was a rare glimpse behind the curtain.
"He sounds like he's really important to you," you said softly.
"He is," Tim said, his voice rough. He blinked, the distant look vanishing as he refocused his dark eyes on you, warmer now.
You took the opportunity to study him again in the amber light. The exhaustion was still there, undeniable now that you were sitting across from him. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises in this lighting, and the lines around his mouth were etched deep with tension.
You couldn't help it. The caregiver in you flared up.
"Tim," you said, leaning forward slightly, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you sure you're okay? You look... you really look like you hadn't slept in days. Is the insomnia bad again?"
He stiffened slightly, just for a second, before waving his hand dismissively. Not brushing you off, but just trying to soothe you.
"I'm fine, darlin'," he lied, the drawl thickening as he tried to cover the crack in the armor. "Just a li'l headache. Nothin' some grease and a beer won't fix."
Before you could press him further, a shadow fell over the table.
"Evening, folks," a waitress chirped. She was an older woman with tired eyes and a kind smile, pulling a notepad from her apron. "What can I get you started with to drink?"
Tim sat up straighter, the exhaustion momentarily pushed aside by his practiced charm. "I'll take a Miller Lite, draft," he said easily. He glanced at you. "And the lady will have..."
He trailed off, raising an eyebrow at you.
"Oh! Um," you scrambled, glancing at the drink menu. "Do you have a margarita?"
"Best in town, hon," the waitress winked. "Frozen or on the rocks?"
"On the rocks, please. With salt."
"You got it," the waitress scribbled on her pad. "And are we lookin' at appetizers, or do you need a minute?"
You opened your mouth to ask for a minute, but Tim beat you to it. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, taking command of the interaction with an ease that made your heart flutter.
"We're ready," he stated. "We'll take the sampler platter to start, gotta get some food in 'er before she faints on me. And then bring us two rib eyes. Medium rare. Loaded baked potato for me, fries for her."
He didn't ask you. He didn't check if you wanted the steak. He just ordered it with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what the best thing on the menu was and wanted you to have it.
The waitress didn't even blink. She just wrote it down. "You got it. Comin' right up."
A flush rose to your cheeks at the sheer audacity, and the thrill of being taken care of so completely. "Medium rare?" you teased. "You didn't even ask if I eat red meat."
"Trust me," he drawled, that slow, lopsided grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. "You're gonna thank me later. I'd bet my last dollar on it."
The waitress gave the two of you a small smile and a wink before bustling off toward the bar, leaving you alone in the amber glow of the booth.
You shook your head, fighting a smile. "You're awfully confident, aren't you?"
"Ain't arrogance if I'm right, sugar," he chuckled. The sound was low and warm, vibrating through the table like a purr. He leaned back against the red vinyl, looking entirely at ease, one arm draped along the back of the booth as if he were holding court in his own living room.
As the noise of the bar hummed around you, you decided to seize the moment. Up until now, your conversations had been stolen in transit, fragments of sentences exchanged on windy sidewalks or over the roar of traffic. You knew he walked you home. You knew he hated your coworker. But you didn't know him.
"So," you started, leaning your elbows on the table, chin resting in your hands. "Since you've taken the liberty of ordering my dinner, I think it's only fair I get to grill you a little. Pun intended."
Tim raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "Is that right? Well, shoot. Go easy on me, doll. I bruise like a peach."
You laughed, the sound bubbling up easily. He had a way of disarming you, of making the air between you feel soft and fuzzy.
"I highly doubt that," you teased, glancing at the broad shoulders beneath his flannel. "Okay, easy questions first. What does a guy like you do for fun? When you aren't working or... rescuing damsels from their commute?"
Tim hummed, reaching for a coaster and flipping it idly between his fingers.
"Fun?" he mused, looking up at the ceiling as if searching for the answer. "Well, I tinker mostly. Fixin' up that truck with Bri takes a good chunk of my time. He's got an old radio I'm tryin' to coax back t' life. And I reckon I watch a fair bit of bad movies. The kind with terrible effects and worse acting."
"Really?" you smiled. "You're a B-movie fan?"
"Oh, the worse the better," he grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. "If the monster doesn't look like a guy in a rubber suit, I ain't interested."
Just then, the waitress returned, sliding two frosted mugs onto the table, followed immediately by a massive, plastic lined basket overflowing with fried gold.
"Here we go," she chirped. "Sampler platter. Ranch and marinara are on the side. Steaks'll be out in a bit."
She vanished again, and Tim sat up, his eyes lighting up with boyish delight.
"Now we're talkin'," he said, rubbing his hands together. He nudged the basket toward the center of the table. It was a grease-laden masterpiece: golden mozzarella sticks, thick-cut onion rings, and jalapeño poppers bursting at the seams.
He picked up a mozzarella stick, the breading crunching audibly as he broke it in half to check the temperature.
"Go on," he urged, gesturing with the cheese stick. "You gotta try the poppers before they get cold. They've got a kick, though, so don't say I didn't warn ya."
You reached for an onion ring, dipping it in the ranch. It was hot, salty, and perfect. You hummed in appreciation, and Tim watched you, that look of total, focused adoration returning. It was heavy, grounding, like a warm blanket being draped over your shoulders.
"Okay," you started, wiping a crumb from your lip. "Next question. How did you get into... whatever it is you do? Construction? Demolition?"
Tim didn't answer immediately. He popped the half of the mozzarella stick into his mouth, chewing slowly. He then reached for his beer, his large hand engulfing the glass. He took a long, slow swig, his throat working as he swallowed, his eyes never leaving yours.
He set the glass down with a soft clink. The playful light in his eyes dimmed just a fraction, replaced by something more thoughtful. He looked at you, really looked at you, as if trying to decide how much of the truth you could handle without shattering.
The silence stretched, not awkward, but thick. You shifted slightly, holding a jalapeño popper, suddenly wondering if you'd overstepped.
"Tim?" you murmured.
He blinked, the mask of the charming gentleman sliding back into place, though his smile was a little tighter around the edges now.
"It's not an excitin' story, darlin'," he said softly. He ran a thumb over the condensation on his glass. "Me and Brian... we just kinda fell into it. Life has a funny way of makin' choices for ya sometimes. Started out just needin' the cash, doin' the heavy lifting nobody else wanted t' do. Then..."
He paused, his gaze dropping to the basket of food between you. For a second, he almost looked guilty. Like he was ashamed of the dirt under his fingernails in the presence of something as clean as you.
"Then it just took on a life of its own," he finished quietly. "It's messy work. Loud. But it keeps the lights on."
He looked back up, his eyes pleading with you to not dig deeper, to just be okay with the surface he was offering.
"I try to leave it at the door," he added, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Especially when I'm with you. Don't want t' bring that dust into your world if I can help it."
You felt a pang in your chest, sympathy for a burden you couldn't see but could clearly feel radiating off him. You nodded, offering him a soft smile.
"Okay," you whispered. "No shop talk."
"Deal," he breathed, the tension melting out of his shoulders.
He reached into the basket, grabbing a jalapeño popper and holding it out toward you with a smirk, the heavy mood evaporating instantly.
"Here," he teased, his drawl thick and sweet. "Eat up. You're gonna need some strength for that steak."
The conversation flowed easily as the alcohol. You traded stories between bites of appetizers, silly things, mostly. He asked if you'd ever been camping (no), and you asked if he'd ever traveled outside the state (rarely). He teased you about your city shoes; you teased him about his B-rated movie taste.
Just as you swiped the last mozzarella stick through the marinara, the waitress returned, the smell of seared beef announcing her arrival before she even set the plates down.
"Careful, plates are hot," she warned, sliding two massive, sizzling ribeyes onto the scratched wood. They were masterpieces of char and juice, taking up almost the entire surface area of the table.
Tim sat up straighter, his eyes widening with genuine, unbridled anticipation. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning, if that kid was a nearly six-foot-tall man with bruised eyes and a flannel shirt.
"Now that," he declared, picking up his steak knife and pointing it at the meat, "is what I call a balanced breakfast."
You laughed, the sound bright and a little loud in the cozy booth. "It's eight o'clock at night, Tim!"
"Time's just a construct of human perception," he winked, slicing into the beef. "Dig in."
The food was incredible, just as he promised. For a while, the conversation died down, replaced by satisfied hums and the clinking of silverware. Tim ate with a focused, efficient hunger, clearing his plate with impressive speed. By the time you were slowing down, feeling the heavy, pleasant weight of the meal, his plate was spotless save for the bone.
You sighed, pushing your plate away. You had managed about three-quarters of the steak and half the fries, but you were defeated. You slumped back against the vinyl, shaking your head at him in disbelief.
"How?" you asked, gesturing to his empty plate. "Where do you even put it all?"
Tim chuckled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He looked relaxed, the food seemingly having revived him a bit. He eyed your plate, then looked up at you through his lashes, a coy, playful smirk tugging at his lips.
"You gonna finish that?" he drawled. "Hate to see good food go to waste. Want some help?"
You rolled your eyes, pushing the plate toward him. "Be my guest, garbage disposal."
He didn't hesitate. He pulled your plate over and went to work on the rest of your steak, stealing a fry here and there in between bites of steak as you bantered back and forth. You ordered another round of drinks for the both of you, and the evening stretched out, warm and golden.
By the time the glasses were empty again, the alcohol had settled into your system, leaving you feeling loose, brave, and incredibly happy. Your cheeks felt hot, and you found yourself leaning across the table, mesmerized by the way the amber light caught the stubble on his jaw.
Tim noticed the flush high on your cheekbones. Checking his watch, he then looked at you with a smile. "Alright," he said, sliding out of the booth. "Think that's enough tequila for a school night. Let's get you home."
He threw a couple of bills onto the table and held out his hand to help you up. You took it, letting him pull you out of the booth. You stumbled slightly, the room tilting a fraction, but his arm was instantly around your waist, steadying you.
"I gotcha," he murmured, guiding you toward the door.
The night air outside felt cooler now. You walked back to the truck, the gravel crunching loudly in the quiet lot. When you reached the passenger side, Tim opened the door, turning to help you up.
Maybe it was the margarita. Maybe it was the way he looked in the moonlight, rugged and capable and entirely yours. But as you stepped up onto the running board, you felt a surge of liquid courage.
Tim's hand was on your waist to hoist you up. As you climbed in, you reached back. Your hand found his, and instead of letting go, you dragged his palm slowly, deliberately, along the curve of your ass before you let go and settled into the bench seat.
You heard his breath hitch.
You turned in the seat, leaning your head against the headrest, and stared down at him. Then, slowly, you blew him a mocking kiss.
Tim stood frozen by the open door for a split second, his dark eyes wide, pupils blown. Then, he let out a short, incredulous huff of laughter. He shook his head, looking down at the ground and then back up at you, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.
"You're trouble," he muttered, the affection in his voice thick enough to chew on.
He slammed the door shut and jogged around to the driver's side.
✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
The drive back was quieter. The buzz of the alcohol and the fullness of the meal made you sleepy, and you watched the road slip by in a hypnotic blur.
Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. The silence wasn't empty, though. It was heavy with the earlier intimacy, with the ghost of his hand on you.
After a few miles, Tim cleared his throat. The sound was rough, breaking the quiet.
"The eyes," he said suddenly, staring straight ahead at the highway. "And the... lookin' like hell."
You turned your head to look at him. He was gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.
"It's just... the migraines," he lied. The words came out smooth, practiced, but laced with enough grit to sound painful. "The insomnia triggers 'em. Gets so bad sometimes I can't see straight. Feels like my head's splittin' open."
He didn't mention the static that roared like a chainsaw. He didn't mention the blackouts, the hours lost to the Operator's influence, or the way his body ached right now because he'd spent last night breaking another man's ribs.
He just let out a heavy sigh, flexing his fingers on the wheel.
"Makes me feel weak," he admitted quietly, glancing at you for a fraction of a second. "Hate for you to see me like that. All worn down."
He was giving you a piece of his "weakness," handing it to you like a gift.
It worked.
A surge of empathy welled up inside you, so strong it almost hurt. You looked at his profile, rugged, stoic, pained, and saw a man who was fighting a silent battle every single day, yet still showed up to drive you to dinner. Still showed up to hold your hand.
You didn't want to run away. You wanted to fix it.
You reached out across the space between you, and placed your hand on his forearm, fingers curling around thick muscle. "You're not weak, Tim," you whispered, fierce and soft.
You began to rub slow, soothing circles with your thumb against his skin, feeling the tension there. He relaxed into your touch almost instantly, his shoulders dropping an inch.
You watched him, feeling a profound sense of clarity. He hurts, you thought. He hurts, and he hides it, but he let me see it.
You decided, right then and there, in the dark cab of a borrowed truck, that understanding his pain was the key to loving him. And you were going to learn every inch of it.
For the rest of the drive, you didn't move your hand.
You kept your palm resting against the warm, solid muscle of his forearm, your thumb tracing lazy, soothing patterns against his skin. It felt like you were grounding him, like your touch was the only thing keeping the pain he had described from overtaking him again. And Tim, for his part, seemed to lean into it. He drove with a quiet, steady focus, but every time you shifted, his arm tensed slightly, as if checking to make sure you were still there.
The city lights returned, casting rhythmic shadows across the dashboard as Tim turned into the entrance of your apartment complex. He slowed the truck, his blinker clicking steadily. He began to pull toward the circular drive in front of the lobby, the designated zone for drop-offs and fifteen-minute idling.
"No," you said softly.
Tim's foot hovered over the brake. He glanced at you, confused, the truck idling in the middle of the lane. "What's wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "You forget somethin'?"
"No," you said again, this time gesturing with your free hand toward the gated ramp on the left. "Go park in the garage. There are guest spots on the second level. It's safer."
He paused, looking at the garage entrance, then back at you. The implication hung in the air. Guest spots weren't for fifteen-minute goodbyes, guest spots were for staying.
He didn't ask. He didn't joke with you. He just nodded, a slow, solemn dip of his chin.
"Alright," he said.
He swung the truck around, guiding the massive vehicle into the concrete cavern of the parking garage. The tires squealed faintly on the polished floor as he navigated to the guest level, backing into a spot between a sedan and a concrete pillar with practiced precision.
He killed the engine. The silence that rushed in was sudden, amplifying the beating of your own heart.
Tim was out his door before you could reach for your handle. He rounded the truck, opening your door and offering his hand. As you slid down, his other hand settled instinctively at the small of your back, a warm, wide brand that steadied you as your heels hit the concrete.
"Gotcha," he murmured.
He didn't move his hand. As you walked toward the elevator bank, his palm stayed pressed against your lower back, guiding you, shielding you. It felt possessive. It felt safe.
The walk to your apartment was silent, but the air between you was thick. The confession in the truck, his admission of pain and weakness, still lingered, vibrating in the space between your bodies. You felt hyper-aware of him. The smell of his cologne. The heavy thud of his boots. The heat radiating from his side.
When you reached your door, you stopped.
You leaned your shoulder slightly against the door frame, clutching your bag with both hands. You looked down at the hallway carpet, sudden nerves overtaking your earlier liquid courage, making it impossible to meet his eyes. You weren't ready for him to walk away. You weren't ready to step into your clean, quiet, empty apartment and let the silence swallow you up again.
Tim stood before you, close enough that you could feel his body heat. He looked ready to leave, shifting his weight back on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets, but he didn't move. His gaze was heavy, lingering on your mouth, then drifting up to your downcast eyes.
"You have a good time?" he asked low and rough.
You hesitated, fingers tightening around your bag. "I did," you confirmed after a long pause, voice quiet. "I... I really enjoyed getting to know you better. The real you."
You trailed off, the silence stretching out again.
Tim stepped closer. He reached out, his rough fingers sliding under your chin. Gently, but with undeniable firmness, he tilted your head up until you had no choice but to look at him.
His eyes were dark pools, searching yours. The exhaustion was still there, etched into the lines of his face, but beneath it burned a steady, intense fire.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You swallowed hard, your throat tightening for a brief moment.
"Tim?" you whispered.
"Yeah, darlin'?"
"Do you..." You took a shaky breath, the liquid courage from the margaritas warring with you nerves. You didn't realize how hard it was to get the words out. "Do you want to come in?"
Tim froze.
For a second, the mask slipped completely. His eyebrows lifted, his lips parting slightly in genuine surprise, as if he hadn't expected you to open the gate this wide, this soon. As if he had been prepared to walk away and wait another week, only to find the door unlocked.
Then, the surprise melted.
His eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide until they were almost black. The softness remained, but underneath it, something sharper woke up. A look of profound, hungry possession settled over his features. He didn't look like a guest being invited in. He looked like a man being welcomed home.
He didn't speak. He just nodded, once.
You turned, your hands shaking slightly as you unlocked the door. You pushed it open, revealing the warm, vanilla-scented sanctuary of your living room.
You stepped inside. Tim followed, crossing the threshold without hesitation.
The door clicked shut, swallowing you both.
A/N: So sorry this one took longer to get out! Work had been crazy the last couple of weeks, and home has been just a huge clutter. Still is, planning to finally unpack the rest of my office space and then I can write without distractions >:} But as always, thank you so much for reading! Please leave any thoughts or critiques
That was all it took for Tim to shift from a stranger in a bar to the axis upon which your daily life spun.
It happened slowly, then all at once, settling into a rhythm that felt less like a routine and more like gravity. You stopped checking your phone for his texts because you knew he wouldn't send them. Tim wasn't a digital ghost; he was a physical weight. He didn't care much for screens or long, typing-bubble conversations. He preferred to be there, in the flesh, taking up the air in the room.
Lunch was a hit or miss. Some days he would call you down, leaning against the grey stone of your office building with a burger or coffee in hand, looking like a rough sketch drawn on top of a corporate photograph. Other days, your phone stayed silent, and you ate a salad at your desk, feeling a strange, hollow pang of absence.
But 5:00 PM? That was his.
He was the punctuation mark at the end of every sentence your workday wrote.
Most days, he was already there when you pushed through the revolving doors, leaning against the brick wall of the bodega across the street, cigarette glowing softly in the dusk, posture loose like he'd been standing there for hours or only just arrived. He never made a show of it. Never waved or called out your name. Just simply would push off the wall the moment he saw you, falling into step beside you before you could even wave. Other times, he was walking up the block just as you emerged, timing his arrival with a military precision that you mistook for luck.
On the rare occasions he was late, caught in the city traffic or delayed by whatever mysterious work occupied his daylight hours, you found yourself lingering by the entrance, scanning the crowd with a tightening chest. You told yourself it was just impatience to get home, but deep down, you knew it was something else. You needed the anchor. You needed the heavy, grounding sound of his boots on the pavement to signal that the day was actually over.
And when he did appear, emerging from the throng of commuters with that easy, loping stride, the relief that washed over you was almost embarrassing in its intensity.
"Sorry, darlin'," he'd drawl, slipping your heavy bag off your shoulder without asking, just like he did that first day. "Job ran long. Had a stubborn wall that didn't wanna come down."
He spoke of his work in fragments, tossing you crumbs that you eagerly pecked at to build a picture of him. He mentioned "contracts" and "sites." He talked about "clearing out old structures" and "hauling debris."
In your mind, you built a life for him: a contractor, or maybe demolition. It made sense. It explained the calluses on his palms, the perpetual scent of dust and sawdust that mixed with his cologne, the way his flannel shirts were always worn soft at the elbows. It explained the physical power of him, the way he moved, like someone used to breaking things apart with his hands.
You never asked for specifics, and he never offered them.
"Just messy work," he'd say, lighting a cigarette as you turned the corner toward your street. "Nothin' a pretty thing like you needs to worry her head about."
But it wasn't just the work. It was the other things. The cracks in the armor he let you see.
Some evenings, the shadows under his eyes were bruised and dark, his skin possessing a sickly, greyish pallor. On those walks, he was quieter, his jaw locked tight as if he were holding something back.
"Insomnia," he muttered one night when you asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Had it for years. Some nights the brain just... won't shut off. Keeps runnin' circles."
"Is it stress?" you asked, your voice soft with concern.
"Somethin' like that," he answered, his voice rough. "Just a condition I gotta live with. Comes and goes."
He never mentioned the pills. He never mentioned the static in his head or the gaps in his memory. He just let you see the exhaustion, and it worked. It triggered a fierce, nurturing instinct in you. You found yourself walking slower on those days, talking softer, wanting to smooth the lines from his foreheads. You felt special for seeing him like this, raw and unguarded, not realizing that his vulnerability was just another hook.
And then, there were the touches.
They had started small, slipping into the routine so naturally you barely noticed the escalation.
It was the way he'd casually drape his arm across your shoulders when the wind picked up, pulling you into the side of his heavy frame. "You're shiverin'," he'd say, and before you could protest, his jacket would be around your shoulders, swallowing you in his scent and his warmth.
It was the way he'd stop at a crosswalk, his hand resting flat and heavy on the small of your back, guiding you, steering you.
It was the way he lingered at your apartment door now. He didn't just hand over the bag and leave. He would stand there, staring down at you with those dark, unreadable eyes, and press a kiss to your forehead.
It wasn't a chaste peck. It was a lingering pressure, his lips warm against your skin, his hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you in place. It felt protective. It felt sweet.
"Get inside," he'd murmur against your skin, his breath ghosting over your face. "Lock it up tight."
You felt like you knew him. You felt like you were peeling back the layers of a complicated, damaged, hardworking man.
You poured yourself out to him on those walks. You told him about your childhood, your fears, the petty dramas of the office, the layout of your apartment, your schedule for the week. You gave him the blueprints to your life because he listened so intently. He never interrupted. He absorbed every word, his eyes fixed on you, nodding slowly.
You thought he was being a good friend, someone who took his time courting a love interest. You thought he was captivated. That this was what dating looked like when it was quiet and intentional.
You didn't realize he was taking inventory.
Today, he was waiting right by the entrance.
The late afternoon sun was filtering through the high-rises, casting the street in a hazy, golden glow. Tim stood near the curb, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like a fixture of the city itself. His attention lifted the second he saw you, gaze locking on with his usual unerring accuracy.
The familiarity of it sent a warm flush through your chest, a comfort that had become addictive.
"Hey," you said, stopping in front of him.
"Hey yourself," he replied, stepping in close as he lifted the bag from your shoulder without asking. The weight shifted instantly, like it had been waiting to move. "Long day?"
"Not bad," you said, shifting your weight nervously before he could turn toward your usual route. "Actually... I was thinking."
His brow lifted slightly. "Dangerous."
You laughed. "I wanted to take a different route tonight. Change things up a little."
You pointed down the adjacent avenue, a busier street lined with vendors and shops, away from the quiet residential shortcut you usually took. You waited for his reaction without meaning to, breath held just enough to notice.
Tim paused, and for a split second, something unreadable flickered across his face. He looked down the street, then back at you, as a slow, crooked grin spread across his face. The expression softened the hard angles of his jaw, making him look younger, lighter.
"Oh, we're goin' off the map today, are we?" he teased, his voice thick with amusement. He adjusted the strap of your bag, then he stepped back and swept his arm out in a grand, theatrical gesture, bowing slightly at the waist. "By all means," he drawled, eyes twinkling. "Lead the way, darlin'."
A giggle bubbled up in your throat, a bright, happy sound that seemed to surprise even you. It was impossible not to smile when he was like this: charming, silly, willing to play along with your whims. His eyes softened in response, like that had been the correct outcome.
You stepped forward, still smiling, and he fell into stride beside you without hesitation. The sidewalk stretched out ahead of you, unfamiliar in its slight deviations, its different rhythm. You felt oddly proud of the choice, of the small rebellion it represented.
Half a block in, your hand drifted toward his without conscious thought. Maybe it was the weather, or the way he looked at you, or just the feeling that you were safe, but the feeling of boldness surged up within you. Without overthinking it, you extended it fully, palm open in a quiet, almost shy invitation. Your heart thudded against your ribs as you waited, suddenly acutely aware of the gesture and what it offered.
He didn't hesitate at all.
Without looking down, Tim’s hand reached out and closed the distance, fingers sliding between yours. He laced them together, his palm engulfing yours - rough, warm, and solid. It felt heavy, but in a good way. Like this had always been how your hands were meant to fit together. His grip was firm without being tight, anchoring without pulling.
Your heart gave a hard, happy thud against your ribs. You looked straight ahead, face burning, but you didn't let go.
You two walked like that for a while, fingers intertwined, the city moving around you in a blur of headlights and passing conversations. It felt... right. Comforting. Like you had unlocked something you both had been circling without naming.
"So," he said after a few minutes, "where're you takin' me?"
"You'll see," you replied, a small smile playing at your mouth.
When the smell hit him, it was immediate. Warm spices, roasted meat, garlic and lemon carried on the air from the street vendor parked at the corner ahead. The line was short, the metal cart glowing under string lights that buzzed softly overhead. The man behind the cart worked with practiced efficiency, turning spits of meat and calling out orders in a voice roughened by years of shouting over traffic.
"Here," you said, stopping just short of the line. Smoke billowed in your direction, carrying the mouth-watering aroma around you.
"Shawarma?" Tim asked, squinting at the menu painted on the side of the cart. He pronounced the word slowly, sounding it out like it was a foreign language he had never bothered to learn. "Smells good."
"It's the best in the city," you promised, turning to him. "Have you ever had it?"
Tim hummed low in his throat, eyeing the rotating spit of meat with skepticism that bordered on curiosity. "Can't say that I have," he admitted, scratching his jaw with his free hand. "Don't usually venture too far outside meat and potatoes."
Your stomach dropped a little. The anxiety, the need to please him, flared up instantly. "Oh," you said quickly, your smile faltering. "I'm sorry, I should have asked! We don't have to eat here. There's a burger place two blocks down, or we could-"
Tim cut you off with a wave of his hand, his grip on your fingers tightening just enough to stop your rambling.
"Hey, hey," he chided gently, looking down at you with that soft, indulgent expression. "Relax. I ain't that old yet. I can try new things."
He squeezed your hand again, tugging you slightly closer to the cart.
"If you say it's good," he said, his voice dropping into a lower, intimate register, "then I trust you. Order me whatever you're havin'."
After you ordered, the two of you stood off to the side, out of the way of others but still close enough to watch the vendor work. Tim watched the process with interest, asking a few questions, nodding along as if committing it to memory. When the food was handed over, wrapped in paper and foil, the heat seeped pleasantly into your palms.
You two stepped aside to eat, leaning against the low brick wall nearby. The city moved around you, cars hissing on the damp pavement, voices rising and falling in the background. You took the first bite, the familiar rush of flavor settling something in you.
Tim followed a moment later, chewed thoughtfully, then hummed again, lower this time. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. I get it."
You laughed softly. "Told you!"
He glanced at you sideways, something unreadable glinting in his eyes. "You have good taste."
The compliment landed softly, but it stayed.
You ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the city breathing in around the two of you. You felt a lull in a way that had nothing to do with the food. Content. Grounded. Like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. It made the words spill out easily when he spoke again.
Tim swallowed a bite, crumpling the foil slightly in his hand. "So," he asked, nudging your shoulder with his own. "How was the glass box today? You finish that project up?"
"Almost," you said, wiping a bit of sauce from your lip. "I was doing final retouches on the layout. Just tiny details. Swapping a lamp here, moving a vase there. It's tedious, but it looks good."
"Tedious pays the bills," he noted, taking another bite.
"Yeah, well, it would be less tedious of people let me actually do it," you sighed, your face twisting into a pouty frown. The irritation had been simmering all afternoon, and now, in the safety of Tim's presence, it bubbled over.
"Drew was at it again today," you groaned, rolling your eyes.
Tim chewed slowly. "Drew?"
"The guy from marketing I told you about? He's constantly finding reasons to slide over to my desk," you complained, gesturing with your free hand. "He leans on the partition, asks what I'm working on, tries to make jokes... It's just relentless."
You took a bite of your food, talking around it. "I mean, its flattering I guess. He's not mean about it or anything, but it's really just overall annoying. He just doesn't get the hint to let me focus on work. I mean, we're there to work and make money, not play house!"
You laughed dryly, expecting Tim to join in, to make a joke about how annoying office politics were, or to tease you about having a fan club.
But no sound came from beside you.
The silence that followed wasn't the comfortable lull from a moment ago. It was heavy. Sudden. Suffocating.
You glanced up, the smile fading from your lips.
Time had stopped eating. His hand, holding the half-eaten wrap, was lowered to his chest, frozen in mid-air. He wasn't looking at you anymore.
The easy, charming warmth that had radiated from him just seconds ago had evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, jagged tension that radiated off him in waves. His jaw was set so hard, you could actually hear the faint click of his teeth grindnig together, the muscle in his cheek jumping under the skin.
His eyes were fixed on a crack in the pavement. They had gone flat, completely void of the light and humor that had been there when he held your hand. They were dark, empty, and terrifyingly focused. Like a shark that had just scented blood in the water.
He didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stood there, radiating a sudden, cold heat that made the hair on your arms stand up.
"Tim?" you asked, your voice small in the sudden quiet.
He didn't answer. The air around him felt charged, volatile, like the seconds before a thunderstorm breaks.
You blinked, your gaze bouncing off his frozen profile.
He was like a statue carved out of something harder than stone. The heat radiating from hm wasn't the warm, comforting furnace you were used to; it was cold, sharp, and volatile. It was the kind of stillness that predators go into right before they snap their jaws shut.
You quickly looked down, your eyes finding safety in the scuffed toes of your sho1es. Your fingers, suddenly clumsy and nervous, picked at the corner of the foil wrapper in your hands, tearing small strips of aluminum with a soft, crinkling sound that seemed deafening in the silence.
"Did I..." You swallowed, your voice trembling. "Did I say something wrong?"
A second ticked by. Then another.
The city noise - the distant sirens, the chatter of people walking past, the sizzle of the grill - seemed to fade into a dull buzz, pushed away by the vacuum of Tim's silence. You waited for him to laugh it off, to tell you he was just messing with you. You waited for the easy-going contruction worker to come back.
He didn't.
You were just beginning to regret the question when movement caught your peripheral vision.
Slowly, deliberately, his hand crept into your view. It didn't reach for your hand or your shoulder. It settled, heavy and warm, on your forearm. It wasn't a grip, he wasn't squeezing, but the weight of it was undeniable. It was a grounding rod. A tether. It felt less like he was comforting you and more like he was steadying himself.
Then, his thumb began to move.
He traced heavy, rhythmic circles against the sensitive skin of your inner arm. Round and round. The friction was distraction, hypnotic, and undeniably possessive. It demanded your attention, pulling your focus away from your anxiety and centering it entirely on the point of contact. On him.
Slowly, dragging your gaze upward against the weight of your own nerves, you looked at him.
Tim cleared his throat, a rough, grating sound, but he didn't look at you. His eyes were still locked on that invisible spot on the pavement, pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris in a pool of black.
Finally, he spoke.
"I just don't like hearin' about other men thinkin' they can bother ya."
His voice was unrecognizable. It was stripped of the playful drawl, stripped of the humor, stripped of the warmth. It was a low, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate through the hand resting on your arm.
He paused then, his jaw working as he took a slow breath through his nose. Then, finally, his head turned. His eyes locked onto yours, heavy and dark and intense.
"Especially," he murmured, the words dropping like stones, "when they're botherin' what's mine."
The word hung in the air between you, suspended in the humidity. Mine.
You bit your lip, your breth hitching in your throat. The word sank into you, bypassing your logic and hitting something primal in your chest.
A warning bell should have rung. A red flag should have waved. A man calling a woman "mine" after three weeks wasn't normal; it was a cage. But you didn't hear "property." You didn't hear the metallic click of a lock sliding home.
You heard belonging.
You looked at the tension in his jaw, the dark fire in his eyes, and you didn't see a threat. You saw a man who was clumsy with his words because he felt too much. You saw protective indignation, a man so incensed that someone would disrespect you that he couldn't control his own temper. It felt... flattering. It felt like safety.
He cares, you thought, a flush rising to your cheeks. He really, actually cares.
Tentatively, you moved your free hand. You laid it over his large hand where it rested on you arm, your fingers curling around his thumb to stop its restless motion. You gave it a soft squeeze.
"Tim," you said softly, a shy, reassured smile pulling at your lips. "You don't have to worry about him. Really. He's nobody. Just a nuisance."
You watched the transformation happen in real-time.
It was like watching a storm cloud break apart. At your touch, at your acceptance of his claim, the tension bled out of his frame instantly. The rigidity in his shoulders dropped. The darkness in his eyes receded, replaced by a sudden, terrifyingly focused warmth.
He turned his hand over, catching your hand in his, and squeezed back. "Good," he breathed.
A smile spread across his face, slow, satisfied, and sickeningly sweet. It was the smile of a man who had rolled the dice and won the pot. He had tested the fence, and found no electricity running through it.
"Good," he said again, softer this time.
He pulled away, lifting his half-eaten wrap to his mouth to finish the last bite in one go. He chewed with deliberate, calm motions, the violence of the previous moment completely gone, folded away as neatly as the foil wrapper he was now crushing in his fist.
He tossed the ball of trash into a nearby metal bin with a perfect arc. Clang.
He turned back to you, watching. He didn't rush you. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze steady and attentive, cataloging every micro-expression on your face. He watched as you took your last bite, like he was noting the relaxation settling in you, the way your posture softened now that the moment had passed, the way you looked at him with renewed affection.
When you finished, he held out his hand. You handed him your trash, and he disposed of it for you, wiping his hands on his jeans before stepping back into your personal space.
He reached for your bag, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, and then, without a word, reached for your hand again. His fingers intertwined with yours, the grip firm, final.
"C'mon," he said, tugging you gently back toward the flow of the sidewalk. "Let's get you home."
As you walked, the rhythm of the city returned, but the dynamic had shifted. Tim seemed lighter, almost chatty, but the questions he asked were sharp, specific.
"So this Drew fella," he asked casually, looking straight ahead. "He just bother you at the desk? Or does he try to catch you in the break room, too?"
"Mostly the desk," you answered, swinging your joined hands slightly, happy to have the conversation back to normal. "Sometimes the elevator."
"He ever wait for you? After clock-out?"
"No, not really. He takes the subway, I walk."
"Mm," Tim hummed, nodding as if he was just making conversation. "Does he know you walk? Ever ask where you live?"
"I don't think so," you said, frowning slightly. "Why?"
"Just curious," Tim said smoothly, squeezing your hand. "Just wanna make sure you're stayin' safe, darlin'. Guys like that... they don't always know when to quit."
In your mind, he was being sweet, attentive. He was checking on your well-being, making sure a sleazy coworker wasn't crossing lines.
But in Tim's mind, he was building a map. He was calculating routes, times, and opportunities. He wasn't worried about Drew crossing a line. He was just figuring out exactly where he needed to stand to make sure Drew never crossed it again.
By the time you reached your floor, the tension from the street had completely dissolved, replaced by a buzzing, electric anticipation.
Tim walked you to your door, the heavy tread of his boots on the carpet feeling less like an intrusion and more like an escort. He slid your bag off his shoulder and handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours. A lingering, deliberate touch that sent a fresh wave of warmth up your arm.
"Safe and sound," he murmure, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that lopsided, boyish grin that made you forget everything else.
"Thank you," you said, hugging the bag to your chest. "For the food. For... walking me."
"Always," he said.
He stepped in then, closing the small distance between you until he was towering over you. He dipped his head, and you closed your eyes instinctively, expecting the usual routine.
His lips pressed against your forehead, warm, dry, and firm. A seal of approval. But this time, he didn't pull away.
He lingered there for a heartbeat, two, three. Then, slowly, he tilted his head down, sliding his face against yours until his forehead rested against yours.
Your breath hitched. The intimacy of it was overwhelming. You were breathing his air. The scent of tobacco, rain, and spice filled your nose, surrounding you, drowning out the smell of the hallway. He was so solid, so heavy, creating a private little world where only the two of you existed.
"Tomorrow is Friday, yeah?" his voice rumbled, vibrating through you skull where you touched.
"Mhm," you hummed, the sound vibrating in your throat. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, bird-like rhythm. You wondered if he could feel it. You hoped he couldn't.
"Good," he breathed.
He pulled back just an inch, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze was dark, heavy with implication, but the terrifying flatness from the street was gone. In its place was a simmering heat that made your knees weak.
"I'll see you tomorrow then," he said, his voice droppin to a velvety command. "Right after work."
He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb grazing your cheekbone. "Wear somethin' cute," he drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "For our date."
Your eyes widened. Date. He hadn't asked. He hadn't suggested. He had simply decided.
Before you could stammer out a response, before you could process the shift from "walking buddy" to "date," he winked. A quick, charming flash of playful arrogance.
"Night, darlin'," he said.
He turned on his heel and walked away, his stride long and unhurried. You stood there, clutching your bag, watching his broad back retreat down the hallway until he disappeared through the stairwell door.
"Okay," you breathed into the empty air. The word was soft, shaky, and sounded suspiciously like a surrender.
You turned and unlocked your door, slipping inside your apartment. You leaned back against the wood, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
The silence of the room wrapped around you, but for the first time in a long while, it didn't feel lonely. You replayed the evening in your mind, the way he had frozen when you mentioned Drew, the dark possessiveness in his voice, the way he said mine.
A smile crept onto your face.
It felt good. It felt... right. You felt lighter than you had in years, buoyed by the realization that someone cared enough to get angry for you. Someone wanted to protect you. Someone wanted to claim you.
You pushed off the door and walked into your living room, feeling like you were walking on air. You felt weightless. Drifting. Supported.
You didn't notice the pressure building in your ears. You didn't notice that the air was getting thinner. You thought you were floating. But you were just sinking so slowly that you hadn't realized the water was already over your head.
Love is not buoyancy. It's just a different way to drown.
A/N: Well, your date with Tim is coming up next! What are you hoping that happens? I tried to go back through to correct any spelling mistakes, it dropped down to the twenties last night and is taking forever to warm back up, so my fingers were still writing the last half of this. As always, thank you! And please leave a comment if you have any critiques or comments <3
The morning arrived with a kind of aggressive clarity.
Sunlight sliced through the blinds in thin, dusty bars, painting stripes across the duvet. It was too bright. The air in the room feeling scrubbed clean, smelling of laundry detergent and stale coffee from the kitchen, a stark difference from the heavy, liquor-drenched atmosphere that still clung to the back of your throat.
You sat up, blinking against the glare and for a second, the world felt normal. Just another Tuesday. Just another day of work waiting for you. But then your brain caught up to your body, and the memory of him was there, waiting.
You swung your legs out of bed, the floorboards cool against your bare feet. You moved through your morning routine on autopilot - shower, brush teeth, get dressed - but your mind wasn't in the room. It was back in that bar, in the dim amber light.
Nothing had happened. You told yourself that as you splashed cold water on your face, staring at your own dripping reflection in the bathroom mirror. You looked the same. No bruises, no marks, no evidence that the axis of your life had tilted. It had just been a conversation. Just a man who sat a little too close, whose eyes held on a little too long.
You reached for your phone on the edge of the porcelain sink.
The movement was casual, automatic, but your heart gave a traitorous little kick against your ribs. You tapped the screen.
No new notifications.
The screen stared back at you, blank and innocent.
A sudden, sharp constriction squeezed your chest, an absurd, hollow pang of disappointment that hit you before you could defend yourself against it. It was ridiculous. You knew it was. You only met the guy once, you didn't even know his last name. Why would he text you at seven in the morning? Why would you want him to?
You felt silly. Then, a flash of embarrassment ran through you, replacing the chill of the morning air. You set the phone down on the counter, harder than you meant to. the clack echoed in the small tiled room, a punctuation mark to your own frustration.
Get it together, you thought, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turned white. He's just a stranger.
But he didn't feel like a stranger. He felt like a song stuck in your head, a melody you couldn't quite hum but couldn't stop hearing. The night kept replaying itself in jagged fragments, looping over and over while you tried to apply your mascara with a steady hand.
You remembered the way his voice dipped when he leaned in, dropping an octave not for softness, but for secrecy. Like he wanted the words to exist only in the inches of space between your mouth and his.
You remembered the way he watched you. Not the way men usually watched. Hungry, messy, wandering over your body like they were browsing a shelf. No, Tim had watched you with a terrifying stillness. He barely blinked. He didn't fidget. He just... observed.
You shook your head, physically trying to dislodge the thought, and turned away from the mirror. But even as you walked out into the clean, sunlit hallway, the silence of your phone felt louder than anything else in the apartment.
The office was a shrine to things that were clean, orderly, and expensive.
It was an open-concept space on the fourth floor, encased in floor-to-ceiling glass that let the midday sun bleach everything white. Your desk was a sprawling surface of blonde wood, littered with fabric swatches in fifty shades of beige, slate, and cream. On your monitor, a 3D rendering of a high-concept living room waited for your input. A sectional sofa that cost more than your car, a fireplace that would never burn real wood, a rug that no one would ever spill wine on.
Clean work.
His voice echoed in your head, unbidden, layering over the hum of the office air conditioning. He had said it last night when you told him what you did, a faint smirk curling his mouth as if he found the idea of it amusing.
You stared at the screen, trying to decide between 'Oatmeal' and 'Sand' for the upholstery, but the pixels blurred together. It all felt so sterile. So lifeless.
Your eyes drifted to the side of your desk. Again.
Your phone laid face up next to your keyboard, black and silent. It had been three hours since you sat down. You had checked the time approximately forty times.
Stop it, you scolded yourself, forcing your hand to grab the mouse. You are a professional. Focus.
You clicked on a lighting fixture, dragged it across the screen, and deleted it. It looked wrong. Everything looked wrong today. The air in the office felt too thin, too recycled. You kept remembering the smell of smoke and rain, the heavy, grounded weight of a man sitting beside you in a bar that smelled like sawdust.
And then - light. The screen of your phone flared to light.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, a physical jolt that made your hand jerk on the mouse. You reached for it too fast, snatching it up like you were afraid the notification would dissolve if you didn't catch it.
Unknown Number: did you get home ok?
The breath rushed out of your lungs. It was him.
A ridiculous, bubbling warmth flooded your chest, so intense it almost made you dizzy. He was checking on you. He hadn't forgotten. He hadn't just walked out of the bar and erased you.
You unlocked the screen, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard, ready to type back immediately. Yeah, I did! Thanks for asking!
Then you stopped.
You stared at the blinking cursor. Too eager, a voice in your head whispered. Too desperate. You couldn't let him know you'd been staring at the phone for hours waiting for this. You had to be cool. Casual. Just a girl with a busy job and a life that didn't revolve around a stranger with dark eyes.
You set the phone down. You forced yourself to wait.
One minute. Two.
You picked up a swatch of velvet, running your thumb over the texture, counting the seconds in your head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
At three minutes, you picked the phone back up.
You: Safe and sound. You?
You hit send, feeling a thrill of victory. Brief. Polite. Detached. The reply came ten seconds later.
So much for detached.
Unknown Number: fine. barely slept tho
Your stomach did a slow, pleasant flip. It felt intimate, that admission. A crack in the armor.
You: Insomnia?
Unknown Number: something like that. u busy?
You bit your lip. This was the dance. The push and pull. You needed to establish boundaries, to show him that your time was valuable, that you weren't just waiting around to be picked up.
You: Yeah, swamped actually. Deadlines
You stared at the message, proud of yourself. You were playing the game. You were in control.
The three dots of a typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. You frowned, waiting for the text. Okay, talk later? or maybe a Good luck.
Instead, the phone vibrated in your hand.
Incoming Call: Unknown Number
You froze. The ringtone seemed deafening in the quiet office, cutting through the polite clicking of keyboards around you. He wasn't texting back. He was calling.
He wasn't playing the game. He was flipping the board over.
You scrambled to mute the sound, glancing around to make sure your supervisor hadn't looked up, and ducked out of your chair. You practically speed-walked toward the break room, your thumb hovering over the green button, your pulse thudding a frantic rhythm in your throat.
You slid the glass door shut behind you and pressed the phone to your ear. "Hello?"
Your voice came out breathless, higher than usual.
"Deadlines, huh?"
His voice was low, rich with a gravelly texture that sounded shocking against the sterility of the office. He didn't say hello. He sounded amused. Like he knew exactly what you were doing, and he didn't care.
"I- yeah," you stammered, leaning against the counter, suddenly feeling very small. "I'm working."
"You gotta eat, don't ya?"
"I usually just grab something at my desk," you lied. You usually skipped lunch entirely.
"Don't do that," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command, calm and heavy. "Step outside."
You blinked, gripping the phone tighter. "What? Why?"
"Because I'm outside."
"Outside?"
Your voice came out as a squeak. You turned toward the glass wall of the break room, half-expecting to see him floating four stories up, peering in. But all you saw was the glare of the sun and the reflection of a woman who looked caught off guard.
"How do you even know where I work?" The question tumbled out before you could polish it. You knew you hadn't told him. You were sure of it. You had been careful last night, vague about the firm, vague about the location.
On the other end of the line, he chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that felt like it was physically brushing against your ear.
"Relax, sweetheart. You told me," he said, his voice smooth and utterly convinced. "Last night. After your second drink. Said you were right off Main, in the glass building. Don't tell me you forgot already?"
You blinked, your brow furrowing. Did you? The memory of the night was hazy in places, blurred by the dim lights and the nerves, but... you didn't remember that. You scanned your brain for the conversation, searching for the slip-up.
"I... I didn't think I was that specific," you mumbled, doubt already bleeding in. If he sounded that sure, maybe you had. Maybe your liquor had loosened your tongue more than you realized.
"Well, you were," he said, dismissing your confusion with a casual finality. "Now come on down. I've only got twenty minutes left on my break 'fore I gotta get back to it. Don't make me waste 'em waitin' on an elevator."
The urgency in his voice hooked you. He was here, on his break, using his limited time just to see you. The flattery washed over the confusion, drowning it out.
"Okay," you said, breathless again. "I'm coming."
You hung up, smoothed your hair in the reflection of the microwave, and hurried for the elevators.
The ride down felt agonizingly slow. You checked your reflection in the metal doors three times, pinching your cheeks to bring some color back, smoothing the fabric of your blouse. You felt ridiculous, yet thrilled.
When the doors slid open, you walked out into the humidity of the city, the noise of the traffic and pedestrians hitting you like a wall.
And there he was.
He was impossible to miss. In a sea of navy suits, crisp button-downs, and polished briefcases, Tim looked like a tear in the fabric of the scenery. He was leaning against the pristine gray stone of the building's entrance, one boot propped up behind him, looking completely unbothered by the stares of the corporate crowd. He wore the same flannel from last night, or maybe a different one, you couldn't tell, with the sleeves rolled up to expose those thick forearms.
In one hand, he held a white plastic takeout bag, heavy with grease stains at the bottom. In the other, a cigarette burned, the smoke curling up in a lazy gray ribbon that looked offensive against the clean city air.
"Hey," you said, stopping a few feet away, feeling suddenly overdressed in your heels and slacks.
He exhaled, a cloud of smoke drifitng past his face. His head tilted to the side, his gaze traveling over you. Slow, heavy, deliberate. He started at your shoes and worked his way up, lingering on the line of your waist, the curve of your neck. It wasn't a polite glance. He was drinking you in, taking inventory of everything that had changed since he last saw you twelve hours ago.
"Hey yourself," he drawled. He dropped the cigarette to the pavement and crushed it under his boot with a heavy twist of his heel.
He held out the bag.
"Figured you wouldn't have time to grab anything decent," he said.
You took it, the warmth of the food radiating against your palm. The smell of fried grease and salt wafted up. Burgers, maybe fries. It smelled distinct and heavy, nothing like the kale salads and wraps your coworkers were eating upstairs.
"You didn't have to do this," you said, clutching the bag like a prize. "What are you even doing in this part of town? It's pretty far from the bar."
"Work," he said simply. The lie, or half-truth really, rolled off his tongue without a hitch. His eyes remained fixed on yours, unblinking. "Had a job nearby. Scoutin' a location. Figured since I was in the area, I'd make sure you weren't starvin' yourself.
Scouting a location. It sounded plausible. Construction? Contractors? You didn't ask. You just nodded, accepting the coincidence because you wanted it to be true.
"Well, thank you," you said, a smile pulling at your lips. "I... I am hungry, actually."
"I know," he said. He gestured with is chin toward a bench a few yards away, tucked near a planter. "Sit. Eat."
You did as he said. He settled next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed yours, the heat of his body radiating through his jeans. He didn't produce any food for himself, just leaned back, spreading his arm along the back of the bench, claiming the space, claiming the moment.
You opened the container - a burger, loaded, greasy, perfect - and took a bite, suddenly realizing how ravenous you were.
He watched you eat. He didn't check his phone. Didn't look at the passing cars. Just watched your mouth, the movement of your throat as you swallowed, the way you wiped a crumb from your lips. It should have been unnerving, being studied like that while you ate, but under his gaze, it felt oddly validating. Like he was making sure you were fueled.
"So," he started, his voice low, cutting under the noise of the traffic. "What's the schedule? Stuck in that glass box all night?"
You swallowed, dabbing your mouth with a napkin. "Hopefully not. I usually get out by five, unless the client hates the rendering. Then I might be there until eight."
He made a noise in his throat, a scoff, almost. His eyes drifted over your face, noting the faint dark circles you had tried to cover with concealer, the tension in your jaw.
"You look tired," he observed. He reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His knuckles grazed your cheekbone. Rough skin, warm and calloused. The touch was brief, but it left a trail of heat behind.
"They workin' ya too hard in there?" he asked, his voice dropping into that honeyed concern. "Drainin' the life outta ya for a paycheck?"
"I mean... yeah, sometimes," you admitted, a small, bashful smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, warm under his scrutiny. It felt good to say it out loud, to have someone acknowledge the weight of hte day. "But I love it. Mostly."
"Mm," he hummed, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Good. Just don't let 'em grind you down to nothin'."
You finished the last bite of the burger, suddenly mourning the end of the meal. You crumpled the foil wrapper into a ball, the crinkle loud in the lull of conversation, and stuffed it back into the plastic bag.
"I should probably get back," you said, though your feet didn't want to move. "Before they send a search party."
You stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs from your slacks, straightening your blouse. Tim stood with you, unfolding his frame with that same lazy, heavy grace. He towered over you on the sidewalk, blocking out the sun, blocking out the rush of the city.
"Yeah," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. He glanced down the street, eyes dark and unreadable. "Guess I should get back to it, too. Clock's tickin'."
He didn't move to leave, though. He just stood there, looking down at you, waiting.
For a second, the air between you felt thick, charged with a confusing static. A goodbye hung in your throat, hands twitching at your sides. Do I hug him? The question made panic race through your mind. It felt too intimate for a lunch break, but a handshake felt ridiculous after the way he looked at you last night.
You shifted your weight, feeling awkward and painfully exposed under his steady gaze. He saw the hesitation, you were sure of it. He saw the way you half-lifted a hand then dropped it, the way you bit your lip. And he didn't help you. He didn't step in or lean away, just watched you struggle with the social calculus, a faint, amused glint in his eyes.
"Thanks again. For the food," you managed, opting for a safe, breathless nod. "Really. You saved me."
"Don't mention it," he said softly.
Before you could second-guess yourself again, you turned and headed back toward the glass doors, clutching the strap of your bag a little too tight. You could feel his eyes on your back with every step, a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades, until the heavy revolving door spun you back into the air-conditioned safety of the lobby.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of productivity fueled by grease, salt, and adrenaline.
Back at your desk, the office didn't feel quite as sterile. The secret of the lunch break sat warm in your chest. You pulled up the rendering for the living room project, and suddenly, the choices were easy. Oatmeal for the sofa. Slate for the accent wall. You worked with a rhythm you hadn't been able to find all morning, the mouse clicking in rapid staccato.
By 4:45 PM, the file was exported. By 4:55 PM, the client had emailed back: Approved. Let's move to sourcing.
A win. A clean, undeniable win.
You packed your bag with a lightness you hadn't felt in weeks. You logged off, bid a cheerful goodbye to the receptionist, and pushed out of the building just as the clock hit five.
The evening air was cooler now, the city shifting into its golden hour. The streets were crowded with the rush-hour exodus, a river of commuters heading for trains and parking garages. You sidestepped a businessman on his phone and turned right, heading toward the residential district.
It was a fifteen-minute walk to your apartment complex. Usually, you spent it with headphones in, zoning out the noise. Today, you left them in your bag. You felt too present, too wired to tune out the world.
You walked past the bodega on the corner, past the dry cleaners, your heels clicking a steady rhythm on the concrete. The sun dipped lower, casting long, stretching shadows across the pavement.
You were two blocks away when the smell hit you. It cut through the exhaust fumes and the scent of roasting nuts from a street vendor. Sharp. Earthy. Unmistakable. Cigarette smoke.
Not just any smoke, but the specific, heavy blend of cheap tobacco and something woodsy. The scent of the bar.
You looked up, startled, realizing only then that the rhythm of the footsteps beside you had changed. You weren't walking alone anymore. Someone had fallen in step with you, perfectly matching your stride, moving with a silent heaviness that felt instantly familiar.
Turning your head, there he was. Tim was walking right beside you, close enough that his arm brushed against your shoulder as you moved. He had a fresh cigarette between his lips, staring straight ahead as if he'd been walking with you for blocks. As if he belonged there.
He took a drag, the embers flaring orange in the dimming light, and finally glanced down at you.
"Client like the design?" he asked casualy, blowing smoke toward the street.
He didn't say hello. He didn't explain where he came from. He just picked up the conversation exactly where he wanted it, sliding into the empty space beside you like he owned it.
You blinked up at him, your heart doing a frantic stutter in your chest. The suddenness of him, the sheer size of him blocking out the fading sunlight, short-circuited your brain.
"I-I didn't even see you," you stammered, breathless, clutching the strap of your bag. "I'm so sorry, I was just... in my head. I didn't mean to ignore you."
Tim just watched you, the corner of his eye crinkling slightly as he took another long drag. He held the smoke in for a beat, savoring it, before blowing it out in a thin stream away from your face.
"Nah, don't worry 'bout it," he drawled, his voice slow and thick like molasses. "Saw ya walkin'. Looked like you were enjoyin' yourself. Didn't wanna go disruptin' your peace just yet."
He took the cigarette from his mouth, the ember glowing an angry orange in the twilight, and flicked the ash toward the gutter with a sharp snap of his wrist. Then, without asking, he reached out.
His hand closed over the strap of your work bag where it dug into your shoulder. "Here," he said. "Lemme get that."
It wasn't a question. Before you could even process the movement, he'd slid the bag off your arm with practiced ease, hoisting the heavy leather tote onto his own broad shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"Oh-- no, really, it's fine!" you protested, instinctively reaching for it. "My apartment is only a few blocks away, I can handle it. It's heavy with samples, you don't want to-"
"Hush now," he cut in, his tone easy but firm. He adjusted the strap, the delicate leather looking comically small against the worn flannel of his shirt. "It ain't no trouble. Besides..."
He paused, sliding his eyes toward you, a slow, coy smirk pulling at his mouth. He tilted his chin down, letting his gaze drop over you before hooking back up to your eyes.
"Ain't it look good on me, doll?"
The sudden playfulness, the rough edge of the pet name mixed with the absurdity of this hulking man carrying your designer tote, broke the tension instantly. A giggle bubbled up in your throat before you could stop it, escaping as a bright, genuine sound. A smile spread across your face, wide and unbidden.
"It does!" you admitted, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "It really brings out your eyes."
He chuckled, a low rumble that you felt in the soles of your feet. "That's what I thought," he muttered, the smirk lingering as he turned his attention back to the sidewalk. "C'mon. Lead the way."
You fell into step beside him, your shoulder feeling strangely light without the bag, your body hyper-aware of his proximity. The walk felt different now. Less like a commute, more like an event.
"So," you asked, glancing up at his profile. The streetlights were flickering on, casting hollow shadows across his jaw. "Did you finish your... scouting? How was the rest of your day?"
He took a final drag of the cigarette before dropping it and grinding it out under his boot heel, never breaking stride.
"It was alright, he said vaguely. "Found a few spots that looked promisin'. Old structures. Lot of cracks in the foundation if you know where to look."
He said it casually, like he was talking about architecture, but something about the way he said cracks made the hair on your arms stand up. You nodded, filling in the blanks yourself, imagining him in hard hats, inspecting blueprints, doing honest, gritty work.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Always do," he said. He glanced at you, his eyes dark. "Just takes a bit of patience waitin' for the right time to move in."
"That sounds... intense," you said.
"It's peaceful, mostly," he lied, smoothly. "Just watchin'. Waitin'."
You continued to chat, the conversation flowing easier than it should have. He let you talk about the client, about the fabrics, nodding at the right times, throwing in a "Is that right?" or "Sounds like a headache," in that slow, rolling drawl that made even your mundane complaints feel validated.
Before you knew it, the brick facade of your apartment building loomed ahead.
You expected him to hand the bag back at the entrance. To say goodnight on the sidewalk. But when you pulled your keys out to unlock the glass door of the lobby, he didn't stop. He waited for you to pull the door open, then stepped inside right behind you, bringing the smell of the cool night air and tobacco into the stale warmth of the vestibule.
"Oh," you said, pausing by the mailboxes. "You don't have to-"
"I'm walkin' you up," he said. He was already moving toward the stairs, your bag still slung casually over his shoulder. He looked at the elevator, then at the stairwell door, raising an eyebrow. "Which floor?"
"Third," you answered automatically.
"Right then," he said, starting up the first step, his boots heavy on the metal treads. "After you."
He stood aside, waiting for you to pass him. And as you brushed by him to take the lead, ascending the stairs to the sanctuary of your apartment, you realized with a jolt that he wasn't just walking you home. He was crossing the threshold. He was seeing exactly where you lived, exactly which door was yours, and he was doing it while holding your property.
And you were letting him.
The stairwell was cooler than the lobby, smelling faintly of concrete dust and old floor wax.
You took the steps slowly, your hand trailing along the metal railing. Behind you, Tim's boots struck the concrete with a heavy, rhythmic thud, thud, thud that echoed off the cinderblock walls. It was a sound that should have been ominous, a heavy man following you up a narrow, enclosed space, but instead, it felt like an anchor.
One flight. Two flights.
A flicker of doubt sparked in your chest, sharp and sudden. You looked at the scuff marks on the stairs, your mind suddenly doing the math.
It had been less than twenty-four hours. You didn't know his last name. You didn't know where he lived. And yet, here he was, walking up the stairs to your sanctuary, carrying your life on his shoulder like he had been doing it for years. Was this right? Was this safe? The rational part of your brain whispered that you were giving away too much, too fast, that you were handing a stranger the map to your safe haven.
But then you heard him exhale behind you, a low, easy breath, and the doubt lost its teeth. He wasn't pushing. He wasn't demanding. He was just... there.
You reached the third-floor landing, reaching for the heavy fire door, but a flannel-clad arm shot past your shoulder before you could touch the handle.
Tim didn't crowd you. He just leaned in, his chest brushing against your back for a split second - a wall of heat and tobacco scent - and pushed the bar.
"Allow me," he murmured, his voice rumbling right by your ear.
The heavy door swung open with a groan of hinges. You stepped through into the carpeted hallway, the lights humming overhead, and he followed, letting the door click shut behind him.
You walked toward unit 304 in silence, the comfortable quiet settling over you both like a warm blanket. When you stopped in front of your door, fishing your keys from your pocket, he swung the bag off his shoulder.
He held it out to you, the leather strap looking absurdly delicate in his large, scarred hand. "Safe and sound," he said softly.
You took the bag, the weight of it returning to your arm, and suddenly you felt the loss of his help. "Thank you, Tim. Really. You didn't have to walk me all the way up."
"Can't have you walkin' alone in the dark," he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. He looked down at you, his expression shifting, the playfulness from the street gone, replaced by something heavier. Something darker.
He didn't move to leave. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken, pressing against your skin.
"Well," you breathed, clutching your keys. "I... I guess I'll see you around?"
He smirked, a slow, lazy curling of his lip.
"I suspect you will," he drawled. Then, he moved.
He took a step closer, crowding your personal space without touching you. He reached out, his hand engulfing yours where it rested on the strap of your bag. His skin was rough, calloused from work, warm and dry.
He lifted your hand.
You stopped breathing. You watched, frozen, as he bowed his head, bringing your knuckles to his lips.
It wasn't a quick peck. He pressed his mouth against your skin, a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. His lips were chapped, firm, and the stubble on his chin grazed the back of your hand, a rough contrast to the courty gesture.
He didn't close his eyes.
He looked up at you through his lashes, his irises dark and glittering in the harsh hallway light. He was watching your reaction, drinking in the way your breath hitched, the way your pupils blew wide. It was a look of pure, unadulterated hunger masked as charm.
"You have a good night now, darlin'," he murmured against your skin, before lowering your hand slowly, his finger trailing against your palm before pulling away. "Lock this behind you," he added, nodding toward the door. The command was soft, but the steel was there.
And then he turned. He walked back down the hallway, his boots thudding against the carpet, without looking back once.
You stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he had been, your hand tingling where his mouth had touched it.
With shaking fingers, you jammed the key into the lock and pushed the door open. You stepped inside your apartment, the familiar scent of your vanilla candle and clean laundry greeting you. It was safe. It was yours.
You closed the door and threw the deadlock. Click.
Silence rushed in to fill the room. You looked at your couch, your perfectly arranged pillows, the clean lines of your living room. It was exactly as you had left it this morning.
But as you slid down against the door, clutching the bag to your chest, the apartment felt vast. It felt cold.
The silence wasn't peaceful anymore. It was hollow.
You closed your eyes, exhaling a shaky breath into the quiet, and realized with a sinking feeling in your gut that you preferred it when he was taking up all the space.
A/N: I dialed up the southern drawl for Tim. I might go back to the first chapter to fix his lines. maybe not. This is a slow burn but gawd, I can't wait to get to the meat of this story aaaaa >.< as always, thank you for reading!!
You noticed him because the room seemed to bend toward him.
Not in an obvious way. There was no dramatic entrance, no heads turning all at once. It was subtler than that, like smoke drifting toward an open window without ever being told where to go. He stood near the bar, half-lit beneath the low amber lights, a glass in one hand, posture relaxed in a way that felt practiced. People moved around him easily enough, but their paths curved just slightly, unconsciously, as if giving him space was the most natural thing in the world.
When his eyes met yours, it didn't feel like being caught. It felt like being selected.
He smiled at first. Small. Controlled. The kind of smile that didn't ask permission and didn't need reassurance. He lifted his glass, took a slow drink, and then, as if the moment had already been decided, stepped closer.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, already pulling the empty stool out with the toe of his boot. The question came a second too late to be sincere.
You hesitated, glass halfway to your mouth. He noticed immediately.
"You can say no," he added easily. "I won't take it personal."
Something in his tone told you that wasn't entirely true.
"It's fine," you said, setting your drink down. "I was just... people-watching."
His mouth curved faintly. "Yeah. You look like the type."
"Which type?"
"The observant one." His gaze swept the room, the settled back on you. "The kind that pretends she's not paying attention, but she is."
Heat crept up your neck. "You get that just from standing next to me for ten seconds?"
"Closer to fifteen," he corrected. "And yeah. I do."
He ordered a beer without asking what you were having, without asking what you thought he should get. Like the decision had already been made. The bartender slid the glass over, and he barely acknowledged it, eyes still fixed on you.
"I'm Tim," he said.
You told him your name. He repeated it once, quietly. Then again, softer, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth.
"That suits you," he said.
You smiled, reflexively. "Most people say that."
"Most people are lazy," he replied. "They just mean it sounds good on you."
You should have brushed it off. Instead, you felt the words settle somewhere deeper, warm and unsettling all at once.
"So," he said, leaning his forearms against the bar, sleeves pushed up to reveal scarred knuckles and bitten nails, "what do you do when you're not here?"
"Interior design," you said. "Commercial spaces."
"Nice. Clean work," he said immediately.
You blinked. "What?"
He took a slow drink. "Bright places. Organized. People pay you to make things look right."
"...Yeah," you said carefully.
"That tracks." His gaze lingered. "Means you like control."
"I wouldn't say that."
"No?" His eyes dipped briefly, then returned to yours. "You chose it for a reason."
The way he said it made it feel less like an observation and more like a conclusion already reached.
"And you?" you asked, sharper than you meant for it to. "What do you do?"
He smiled, but it was slower this time. Measured. "Depends who's asking."
"I am."
He leaned closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours. The contact was light. Deliberate.
"Then I'd say I handle things people don't like to think about," he murmured. "So they don't have to."
Your stomach tightened. "That's vague."
"Deliberately."
Silence settled between the two of you, heavy and intentional. You became acutely aware of your posture, of the way his attention seemed to press in without ever touching.
"You don't scare easily," he said.
"I don't think that's true," you replied. "I just don't panic."
"Same thing, most of the time." He lifted his glass again, eyes still on you. "People who panic give themselves away."
"Give what away?"
"That they're not in control."
The word landed with weight. Control. You rolled it around in your head, trying to decide whether it bothered me. It didn't. Not exactly. It felt... observational.
"You talk like you think everyone's trying to be," you said.
The music swelled, then dipped again. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. The night pressed on around you, busy and careless, but the space between Tim and you felt strangely insulated, like a pocket carved out of the noise.
"I think most people are just trying to get through the day," you muttered.
"Yeah," he agreed, after a beat. "But some of them are better at it than others."
There was that edge again. Not sharp enough to cut. Just enoug to make you aware of it.
You noticed his hands then. How many scars littered themselves across his knuckles. The uneven surface of his fingertips, bitten away along with the nails, cropped short. When he lifted his drink, there was tension in his grip, a tightness that suggested restraint rather than ease. Like holding something back required constant effort.
"Do you always watch people like that?" you asked before you could stop yourself.
He tilted his head, amused rather than offended. "Only the ones worth paying attention to."
The music shifted. Someone bumped into you from behind, hard enough to jolt you forward. Tim's hand shot out instantly, holding your arm, steadying you. His fingers closed with certainty. Not painful, not gentle, but exact.
"You alright?" he asked.
"Yeah," you said, your pulse thudding loud enough that you were suddenly aware of it.
He released you immediately, as if the contact had served its purpose and nothing more.
"People don't watch where they're going," he said, jaw tightening briefly as his gaze flicked toward the man already disappearing into the crowd. Something hard passed behind his eyes, then locked itself away.
It should have unsettled you.
Instead, you found yourself interested. Curious.
You pushed yourself up from the barstool, stretching your legs a bit before looking at him, loosely holding your drink in front of you. He didn't get up with you or move closer, but he shifted his body to look at you better.
"You catch fast," you said lightly. "Reflexes like that usually come with a story."
His gaze dipped briefly to your arm, to the place his fingers had been. Then back to your face. "Or practice," he said.
Something about his answer made your stomach tighten again. "Practice with what?" you asked, before you could stop yourself.
This time, he didn't answer right away.
He studied you, expression unreadable, like he was deciding whether the question was worth indulging. You shifted your weight, your shoulders squaring unconsciously under his attention. The pause stretched just long enough to make you wonder if you had crossed a line.
Then he smiled, easy as ever.
"Clumsy people," he said. "Crowded places."
You laughed softly, relief bleeding into the sound. "You make it sound dangerous."
His eyes flicked to your mouth when you laughed. Just for a second, but it was long enough for you to notice.
"Only if you're not paying attention."
The words threaded through you, settling somewhere between warning and invitation. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the person who had bumped into you earlier stumbled past again, closer this time, his shoulder grazing yours with careless force.
You staggered a half-step, your drink trickling down the side of the glass.
Tim moved instantly.
His hand caught your waist this time, fingers spreading across your side with the same precision as before. The contact was firmer. More familiar. He steadied you without effort, holding you there for a beat longer than necessary.
"Hey," he said sharply, his gaze snapping toward the man. "Watch it."
The guy muttered something incoherent and kept moving, disappearing into the crowd.
Tim didn't let go right away. You were suddenly very aware of his hand at my waist, of the heat of it through the thin fabric of your shirt. Your breath caught, shallow and traitorous.
"You okay?" he asked again, quieter now.
"Yeah," you said, though the word came out thinner than before. "I'm fine."
His thumb shifted, a small, unconscious movement that pressed into your side before he seemed to realize what he was doing. He withdrew immediately, hands lifting in a mock surrender.
"Sorry," he said. "Habit."
Something about that explanation made your pulse jump. You settled back down into the barstool, hoping to avoid any further collissions for the evening. "It's fine," you repeated, though you weren't sure what you were reassuring him about. Or yourself.
He watched you closely, eyes sharp but not unkind. "You don't like being handled."
The statement startled you. "I didn't say that."
"No," he agreed. "But you noticed it."
You hesitated. "Anyone would have."
"Not everyone," he corrected. "Some people don't register it until its too late."
A chill traced its way up your spine, slow and deliberate. You folded your arms loosely, more to give yourself something to do than to shut him out. "You talk like you've spent a lot of time around those kinds of people."
"I have."
The answer was immediate. Certain.
"Do you enjoy it?" you asked, surprising yourself with the question.
He tilted his head, studying you again, like you had just stepped onto thinner ice.
"No," he said after a moment. "But I'm good at it."
The honesty in his tone caught you off guard. There was no bravado. No attempt to impress. Just a statement of fact.
"That sounds... exhausting," you said.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. It is."
For the first time since you two had started talking, something like weariness flickered across his face. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, smoothed over by that familiar half-smile, but you had seen it.
"You're not what I expected," he added.
"What were you expecting?"
He shrugged. "Someone who would've walked away by now."
The words settled heavily between you. You glanced toward the bar, toward the exit beyond it. You could leave. You know that. The thought hovered at the edge of your mind, insistent but distant.
Instead, you looked back at him. "And is that disappointing?"
His smile sharpened, just a touch. "No," his eyes narrowing at you. "It's interesting."
The way he said it made the word feel less like curiosity and more like intent.
"You look like you're about to run," he added, softer now. "Or like you want to."
The volume of the room dipped just enough for the words to land cleanly. Not loud. Not accusatory. Observant.
"Do I?" you asked.
"Yeah." His gaze swept over you, slow and unhurried, as if he were reading something written just beneath your skin. "Like you're standing at the edge of something and pretending you don't know how deep it is."
"And what do you think is down there?" you asked.
He smiled again, but this time it was different. Smaller. The warmth that had softened his expression earlier never quite made it to his eyes.
"That depends," he said, "on whether you can swim."
The words settled heavy in your chest, sinking deeper than they had any right to. You opened your mouth to respond, something sharp or joking or dismissive forming on your tongue-
"Tim."
The voice came from near the door. You turned your head to look.
The man standing there looked like he'd been carved from exhaustion. Taller than Tim, broader through the shoulders, but slouched as if holding himself upright was more effort than it was worth. His clothes were unremarkable, his presence anything but. He didn't look angry. He didn't look curious.
He looked resigned.
His eyes flicked from Tim to you and back again, quick and assessing, like he was noting variables rather than people.
Tim exhaled slowly, the sound more habit than irritation.
"That's Brian," he said, almost as if it was an afterthought. "He worries."
Brian didn't correct him. He didn't smile, either. He stayed where he was, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched forward as if bracing against something unseen. The bar noise seemed to bend around him, giving him a wide berth without anyone consciously choosing to.
"You coming?" Brian asked. His voice was quiet. Flat. Not unkind, but not inviting either.
"In a minute," Tim replied easily. He didn't look at Brian when he said it. Instead, he turned back to you, lowering his voice just enough that it felt like a private thing again. "You don't have to go yet."
It wasn't phrased like a question. You hesitated.
The choice rose up suddenly, sharp and disproportionate to the moment. It felt heavier than it should have, like a hinge turning somewhere deep inside. Leave now, and this becomes nothing more than a stranger with an sharp smile in a crowded bar. A story you might half remember later and shrug off. Stay, and something else begins.
You felt Brian's gaze on you then. Not intense. Not judging. Just there. It lingered for a second longer than necessary before he looked away, his jaw tightening faintly. The movement carried a quiet finality, like he'd already seen this moment before and knew better than to interfere.
That, more than anything else, should have decided it for you.
"I'll stay," you said.
Tim's reaction was immediate and unmistakable. Not exuberant. Not triumphant. Just a subtle shift in his posture, a loosening through his shoulders that felt less like relief and more like confirmation.
"Good," he said softly. "I was hoping you would."
The way he said it made your stomach dip, a strange mix of warmth and unease curling together in your chest. Like you had passed some invisible test without ever knowing the rules.
Behind him, Brian exhaled quietly and turned toward the door. The night outside swallowed him whole.
Tim stayed where he was, close enough that you could feel his presence without touching, his attention settling back on you with a renewed focus.
"See?" he said lightly, as if nothing of consequence had just happened. "Not so scary."
As the night wore on, the bar thinned around you. Conversations blurred into a low, indistinct hum. Laughter drifted past without landing. Time softened, its edges rounding off until minutes felt interchangeable, forgettable. Tim stayed close through it all, never pressing, never drifting far enough to lose you. Always positioned. Always aware.
When he laughed, it was quiet and sudden, like a release he hadn't planned on sharing. When he went still, it felt deliberate, as if motion were something he rationed. You began to notice the way his attention never truly wandered, how even when he looked away, some part of him stayed trained on you.
It should have felt suffocating.
Instead, it felt... grounding.
At some point, he leaned in, close enough that his shoulder brushed against yours again, the contact brief but intentional. "You're doing fine."
The words weren't soothing. They weren't even reassuring. They landed with the quiet certainty of an assessment already made.
You nodded, though you weren't sure what you were agreeing to.
There was a sense then, subtle but unmistakable, that you were standing at the edge of something vast and dark. The surface was smooth, deceptively calm, enough to be inviting. You told yourself the depth wasn't danger. That darkness could be mapped if you paid close enough attention.
That some people were built for it.
Tim straightened slightly, gaze drifting toward the far end of the bar, then back at you again. His mouth curved into that familiar, knowing half-smile.
"You don't strike me as the type who turns back," Tim said.
It wasn't encouragement. It was an expectation. You didn't know yet that oceans don't care how carefully you enter them. That they don't reward caution or curiosity. They only take note of weight.
You only knew that when you glanced toward the door, you didn't move. And when Tim's attention settled fully on you, steady and assured, you didn't look away.
The bar lights hummed overhead.
The music played on.
And somewhere beneath it all, something vast shifted, patient and unseen, already certain you would sink.
A/N: I plan for this to be a multi part series, so please bear with the slow build-up. Thank you!! And as always, thank you for taking your time to read <3
a/n: Hi! I wanted to try my hand at a Brian fanfic, kinda in an AU where he's not involved with Tim or any of the other crps, and you knew him from pre-MH events. I hope you guys enjoy >.<
[TIMESTAMP: NOV 14, 20XX - 11:42 PM]
[AUDIO: LOW STATIC HUM / RAIN AGAINST CONCRETE]
The porch light flickered. It was a mundane annoyance, the kind you would usually ignore, but tonight the buzzing sound felt distinct. Heavy. Like a fly trapped against the glass of your eardrum.
You adjusted the strap of your bag, keys clutched in your hand, trudging up the driveway of your house, rounding the corner to your front door. It was your sanctuary. The one place where the old paranoia didn't reach.
He was sitting on the ledge of the porch.
He wasn't lurking in the bushes. He wasn't hiding. He was curled inward, elbows on his knees, head bowed low between his shoulders. He was stillness personified, an unnatural lack of motion that made your brain scream predator.
You stopped three steps down. The keys slipped from your numb fingers, hitting the concrete with a sharp clack.
At the sound, his head snapped up.
The movement was too fast, too sharp. It was the reaction of something that expected to be attacked. But when his eyes found yours, the violence didn't come.
"Brian?" The name scraped out of your throat, sounding foreign.
He stared at you. The streetlamp caught the ruin of his face. He looked older, hollowed out by months of running. The yellow hoodie was stained with grime and mud, the fabric looking like armor that had taken too many hits. In his hands, he clutched a bundle of black fabric, strangling it with white-knuckled force.
"Brian..." You took a shaky step up. "You're dead. They said you fell."
"I didn't," he whispered.
His voice was a ruin, raspy and broken, but it wasn't cold. It sounded incredibly tired. He looked past you, scanning the dark parking lot, his eyes darting to the tree line before snapping back to your face. He was vibrating with tension, a wire pulled until it was ready to snap.
"You survived," you breathed, the shock finally giving way to a surge of relief.
Your instinct, dormant for years, took over. You didn't see the grit or the blood on his sleeves; you saw your friend. You moved to close the distance, your arms reaching out to pull him into a hug, to verify that he was solid.
He scrambled back. It wasn't a casual retreat. He pushed himself backward across the concrete, his boots scraping loudly, pressing his spine against your front door. He held the mask up like a shield between you.
"Don't," he choked out. It wasn't a growl; it was a plea.
You froze, your hands hovering in empty air. "Bri?"
"Don't touch me," he said, his voice trembling now. He looked down at his own hands, then at you, as if measuring the distance between a contagion and a patient. "You don't want to touch me."
"Why are you here, then?" you asked, your voice trembling. "If you're hurt... let me help you inside."
"No, not inside," he said quickly. "Not safe."
He took a deep shuddering breath, the air whistling in his chest. He lowered the mask slightly, revealing eyes that were wet and terrified. For a moment, his guard dropped, and you saw the man beneath the trauma.
"I just..." He swallowed hard. "I needed to see."
"See what?"
"If you were real."
He looked at you as if you were a hallucination he was trying to dispel. He traced the line of your jaw with his eyes, drinking in the sight of you, starving for it, but refusing to come an inch closer.
Then, a dog barked in the distance.
The softness vanished. Brian stiffened, instincts in him taking over, his head snapping toward the noise. The sad ghost was gone, replaced by the paranoid survivalist.
He stood up in one fluid motion, towering over you on the small porch. He pulled his hood up, casting his face in shadow.
"Go inside," he ordered. His voice was low, stripped of emotion. "Lock the door. Deadbolt and chain."
"Brian, wait--"
"Lock it," he insisted, his gaze boring into you. "Don't look out the windows tonight."
He didn't say goodbye. He simply turned and vaulted over the porch railing, landing silently in the grass below. He melted into the darkness of the forest as if he had never been there at all, leaving you standing alone in the flickering light, the static in your ears slowly fading to silence.
[TIMESTAMP: NOV 15, 20XX - 12:03 AM]
[AUDIO: DOGS BARKING IN THE DISTANCE / FAINT STATIC HUM]
[TIMESTAMP: APRIL 12, 20XX - 10:45 PM]
[AUDIO: DISHWASHER HUMMING / CLOCK TICKING]
Five months.
Memory is a cruel thing. In the first week, the image of him sitting on your porch was vivid, high definition terror or relief. But as the weeks bled into months, the edges softened. You started to rationalize. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was a stress-induced hallucination. You had stopped looking out the window every night. You had stopped leaving the porch light on.
You were wiping down the kitchen counter, the smell of lemon soap lingering in the air. The house was quiet, settling in for the night. You reached to turn off the overhead light, ready to head to the bedroom.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three light raps. Not the frantic pounding of an emergency, but the hesitant request of a ghost asking permission to haunt.
You froze, the dishcloth clutched in your hand.
You walked to the door, your heart pounding a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. You unlocked the deadbolt, the one he told you to use, and cracked the door open.
Brian stood there.
He looked worse than before. The yellow hoodie was faded, the cuffs fraying. He had a split lip that was healing poorly, and the shadows under his eyes were dark enough to look like bruises. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, his eyes scanning the road behind him before snapping to you.
"Brian?"
He didn't say anything at first. He just let out a breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. "Hey."
"You came back," you whispered, the doubt shattering instantly. He was real. He was here. "Come in! Quickly."
He hesitated. His eyes swept over your living room. The clean carpet, the folded throw blanket, the safety of it. He looked down at his muddy boots.
"I'm dirty," he murmured. "I shouldn't track..."
"I don't care about the floor," you said firmly, stepping back and opening the door wider. "Get in here."
He stepped inside. Immediately, his paranoia took over. He didn't relax. He checked the corners of the room. He walked to the window, peering through the blinds to check the street, his body tense and coiled. Only when he was satisfied that he hadn't been followed did he turn back to you.
"Do you want... tea?" you offered, feeling the absurdity of the question. "Or coffee?"
He looked at you, and the sharpness in his eyes dulled into exhaustion. "Tea. Please."
You made it in silence. When you brought the mug to him, he was sitting on the very edge of your armchair, as if ready to spring up at any second. He took the mug with both hands. His fingers were rough, calloused, tremoring slightly as he stared into the dark liquid.
"Where have you been?" you asked, sitting on the sofa opposite of him. "Everyone thought you were gone."
He took a long sip, the steam fogging up his face for a moment. "Moving," he said vaguely. "Had to go underground for a while. It got... loud."
"Loud?"
He tapped the side of his head. "The static. It gets bad sometimes."
He didn't elaborate, and you didn't press. You just sat with him. For an hour, the two of you simply existed in the same space. You talked about nothing - the weather, a book you read, the rent going up. He mostly listened, his eyes fixed on you as if memorizing your face. He drank the tea like it was a holy sacrament, savoring the warmth he clearly didn't get out wherever he normally was.
As the clock ticked past midnight, the tension returned to his frame. He set the empty mug down.
"I have to go," he said, standing up. The reluctance in his voice was heavy, dragging the words down. "It's late. You need to get some sleep."
"You could sleep here," you offered, although you already knew the answer.
He looked at the couch, then at the door. "Can't. Not safe. If I stay too long, I leave a trail."
He walked to the door. He put his hand on the knob, his back to you. The visit was over.
"Brian."
You reached out, your fingers hooking into the sleeve of his jacket. He stopped. He didn't pull away, but he went rigid. Slowly, carefully, he turned to face you. He looked terrified. Not of the outside world, but of you. Of what you might do.
You didn't give yourself time to overthink the grime on his jacket or the danger he carried. You stepped into his space. Rising on your tiptoes, your hand slid up his arm to steady yourself as you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
His skin was cold and rough with stubble. He smelled of rain, old leaves, and ozone.
He froze. His breath hitched in his throat, a sharp audible intake of air. He stood paralyzed, his hands hovering at his sides, unsure whether to push you away or pull you closer. His eyes went wide, pupils blown, staring at the wall behind you in shock.
You pulled back, offering him a small, sad smile.
"Be safe," you whispered. "Please."
He looked at you. For a second, the mask of a survivor slipped. He looked young, broken, and desperately lonely. His mouth opened, then closed, struggling to form words that wouldn't break him.
"I'll try," he choked out.
He opened the door and stepped into the night, closing it softly behind him. You heard his footsteps pause on the landing for a long, heavy moment, as if he was fighting the urge to turn back, before they faded rapidly down the stairs.
[TIMESTAMP: APRIL 13, 20XX - 12:15 AM]
[AUDIO: SILENCE]
[TIMESTAMP: APRIL 14, 20XX - 03:12 AM]
[AUDIO: HEAVY RAIN / MUD SQUELCHING / RHYTHMIC THUDDING]
The shovel hit a root. The vibration jarred all the way up his arms, settling deep in his teeth.
Brian ignored it. He stomped on the blade, driving it through the obstruction, tearing the earth open. It was wet work. The ground here was marshy, smelling of decay, standing water, and things that had been dead for a long time.
Thud. Scrape. Toss.
He worked with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency. He didn't look at the bundle wrapped in thick, black plastic a few feet away. He didn't think about who, or what, was inside it. That wasn't his job. His job was to clean the slate. To hide the evidence so the nightmare could continue uninterrupted.
He paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his gloved hand streaking dirt across his brow.
And then, it hit him.
Not the static. Not the headache that usually signaled His arrival.
It was the ghost of a sensation. A phantom pressure on his cheek
Soft.
He froze, leaning heavily on the shovel handle. The woods around him were silent, save for the dripping of the trees, but in his head, he was back standing in front of your door. The dim yellow light. The smell of warm tea and lemon soap mixing. The way you rose on your tiptoes, so careful, so gentle.
Brian.
He could hear the lull of your voice, echoing in the empty spaces of his mind, bouncing off the walls of his trauma. It sounded like forgiveness.
Slowly, trembling, he raised his hand to his face. His glove was caked in filth, grave dirt and worse, but he hovered his fingers over the spot where your lips had touched him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently as if to dislodge the memory. But it stuck. It was a parasite, burrowing deep into the grey matter of his brain. He could still feel the warmth of your lips. It was a terrifyingly gentle burn, a brand that marked him as something he wasn't allowed to be anymore.
Human.
He looked down at his hands. They were caked in mud. Under the gloves, he knew there was dried blood under his fingernails. Not his own.
A wave of nausea rolled over him. It started in his gut and claw its way up his throat. It was so violent he almost dropped the shovel.
"You don't know," he whispered to the empty forest. His voice cracked, sounding small and pathetic against the vast, indifferent dark. "You don't know what I am."
If you could see him now, standing in a shallow grave, burying the mistakes of a monster, you wouldn't have kissed him. You would have run. You would have screamed.
He felt like a fraud. A con artist selling you a tragedy when the reality was a horror show. You thought you were kissing a wounded stray, but you were kissing a plague carrier. Highlighting every inch of rot inside of him. It made him aware of how hollow he had become. He was a walking plague, and you had pressed your lips against the infection, unaware that it consumes everything it touches.
I am unworthy, the thought rotting in his mind. I am going to kill her just by breathing her air.
The static spiked.
[AUDIO DISTORTION - EAR SPLITTING SQUEAL]
Brian gasped, clutching his head, dropping to his knees in the mud. The woods seemed to stretch, the trees elongating, the shadows sharpening into impossible angles. He was watching. He knew.
The Operator didn't like distractions. The Operator didn't like "soft."
Brian grit his teeth, the tear leaking out to mix with the grime on his face. He forced the memory of your face down, shoving it into the deepest, darkest box in his mind, right next to the memories of who he used to be before the cameras started rolling.
He wasn't Brian. Not out here. He couldn't afford to be Brian.
He grabbed the shovel and stood up, his movements jerky and puppet-like. He swung it into the earth with renewed, desperate violence, trying to bury the feeling of your love along with the body.
Thud. Scrape. Toss.
He would finish the job. He would be the monster, so you could stay the human.
[TIMESTAMP: APRIL 14, 20XX - 4:30 AM]
[VIDEO: BLACK SCREEN / LOW HUM]
[TIMESTAMP: JULY 17, 20XX - 06:45 PM]
[AUDIO: LOW FREQUENCY / DISTANT THUNDER]
Three months of silence. Three months of wondering if that kiss had been a goodbye or a mistake.
You trudged up the porch steps, the weight of a long shift at work dragging at your shoulders. You reached for your keys, your mind already on autopilot. You just wanted to lock the door and pretend the world didn't exist for a few hours.
The knob turned in your hand before you inserted the key, the door slowly drifting open.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a sudden, violent rhythm. You knew you had locked it. The apartment was dark inside, shadows stretching long and distorted across the floor.
"Hello?" you called out, your voice trembling. You stepped inside, your hand instictively reaching for the pepper spray on your keychain, though you knew it would be useless against the things that lived in your nightmares.
You moved toward the kitchen.
He was there.
Standing with his back to you, his hands gripped onto the back of one of your wooden kitchen chairs so hard you could hear the wood straining under the pressure. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling in sharp, jagged rhythms.
"Brian? Is- Is that you?"
He turned.
The air left your lungs. It wasn't Brian. Not the soft, tired man who drank tea on your couch. His yellow hood was up. The black mask, with its cruel, red, stitched frown, stared back at you. It was a void where a face should be, a caricature of sadness that promised violence.
"Stop," he growled. The voice was distorted, muffled by the fabric, but it lacked the command of a soldier. It sounded wet. Choked. "Don't call me that. Not right now."
He took a step toward you. For the first time since he reinserted himself into your life, you felt a primal spike of fear. He looked huge in the small kitchen, a monolith of instability.
"You have to stop," he said, pacing a tight circle before rounding on you again. He pointed a gloved finger at his own head. "I can't... I can't turn it off. That kiss. It's rotting in my brain. It's making me weak. It's making me careless."
You pressed your back against the wall, eyes wide. "Brian-"
"I am a plague!" The shout cracked in the middle, turning into a depserate plea. He slammed his hand against his chest. "You see a memory. You see a college friend! You don't see this! I am radioactive. I'm a walking sickness. Every second I stand here, I am ruining you. I am dragging you into the mud with me!"
He was shaking. The aggression wasn't directed at you; it was directed at the space between you. He was trying to scare you. He was trying to show you the monster so you would finally be smart enough to run away.
"I want it," he whispered, the anger draining out, leaving only devastation. "God, I want to stay. I want to be what you think I am. But I can't. I'm going to get you killed. I'm going to break you.
He slumped against the counter, the mask staring at the floor. "I can't let this build up inside of me anymore. I have to leave. I have to go away for good.
You looked at him.
You saw the terror in his posture. You saw a man who was drowning, pushing away the lifeboat because he was afraid he would capsize it.
Something inside you snapped. You weren't afraid anymore. You were furious. Furious at the world that did this to him, and furious at him for trying to decide your fate for you.
"No."
The word hung in the air, sharp and absolute. Slowly, the mask lifted. He looked at you, stunned.
You dropped your bag on the floor and walked toward him with purpose, crossing the "quarantine line" he had tried to establish.
"You don't get to decide that for me," you said, your voice rising. "You don't get to decide what I can handle. I know what you are, Brian. I know about the static. I know about the sickness. I'm not stupid."
You stopped inches from him. He flinched, bracing for a hit, or maybe bracing to shove you away.
"I don't care if you're a plague," you said, reaching out to grab the rough fabric of the yellow hoodie he was always wearing. "I don't care if it ruins me. I choose this. I choose you. So stop trying to save me from myself."
He froze. The red eyes stared down at you. He was trembling so hard his teeth were likely chattering behind the fabric.
"You... you can't..." he stammered, the persona he wanted to hide behind disintegrating completely.
"I can," you whispered. "Come here."
You pulled him. He didn't resist.
As if strings were cut, the monster crumbled and he fell forward. His knees hit the kitchen floor with a heavy thud, dragging you down with him. He buried his face in your stomach, wrapping his arms around your waist in a grip that was desperate and bruising.
He sobbed. It was a horrible, jagged sound, muffled by your shirt and the mask he still refused to take off. He clung to it like a man hanging off the edge of a cliff, pouring months of terror and loneliness into the fabric of your clothes.
You held him, wrapping your arms around the yellow hood, resting your chin on top of his head, rocking him slowly while the thunder rumbled outside. You held the plague in your arms, and you didn't let go.
[TIMESTAMP: JULY 17, 20XX - 07:15 PM]
[AUDIO: MUFFLED SOBBING / RAIN]
The video log from that night in the kitchen cut out abruptly, but the memory didn't.
You remembered peeling him off the floor. It took a long time. He was heavy, dead weight with exhaustion and grief, and he had clung to you as if gravity had reversed and you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth. You managed to get him to the living room and pry the mask from his fingers.
Underneath, his face was a mess of tears and grime, flushed with the heat of a panic attack that had burned itself out. You used a warm washcloth to clean him. He didn't flinch. He just sat on the edge of the couch, eyes closed, leaning into your touch with the desperation of a starving animal.
There was no grand conversation that night. No plans were drawn up. You simply laid down on the couch, pulled a blanket over the both of you, and for the first time since college, Brian slept without thrashing. He slept so deeply it terrified you, his head heavy on your chest, his breathing syncing with yours.
That was two weeks ago.
Since then, the air in the apartment had changed. The static hadn't vanished - you knew it was still out there, lurking in the woods - but inside these walls, the frequency had shifted. It was quieter. Warmer.
[TIMESTAMP: AUGUST 04, 20XX - 08:30 PM]
[AUDIO: SOFT RAIN / PAGES TURNING / EVEN BREATHING]
The living room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of a floor lamp and the blue light of the rain against the window.
Brian was lying on the couch, but this time, he wasn't sitting on the edge, ready to bolt. He was sprawled out, taking up space. His legs were stretched long, his feet resting on the coffee table (a habit you used to scold him for in the dorms, but now found endearingly normal). His head was in your lap.
You were running your fingers through his hair, untangling the knots, massaging the tension that permanently lived at the base of his skull. He wore an old t-shirt of yours that was tight across his shoulders, exposing the scars on his arms, but he didn't seem to care.
He made a low, contented sound in his throat, a half-groan, half-sigh, and opened his eyes. They were clear. No static. No vacancy.
"You're staring," he murmured. His voice was raspy, but the sharp edges were gone.
"I'm reading," you lied, holding your book up, though you hadn't turned a page in twenty mintues.
He huffed a soft laugh, shifting slightly to look up at you. The movement pulled the fabric of his shirt, revealing the edge of a scar on his neck, but he didn't rush to cover it.
"I never thought..." he trailed off, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "I never thought I'd get this back."
"Get what back?"
"Quiet," he said. "Safety. You."
He reached up, his hand seeking yours. You laced your fingers with his. His grip was firm, grounding.
"I spent so long in the noise," he whispered. "In the dirt. I forgot what it felt like to be... clean. To be warm. Normal." He squeezed your hand. "I convinced myself I didn't deserve it. That if I got close to warmth, I'd just turn it cold."
"And now?" you asked softly, tracing the back of his hand with your thumb.
He turned his head inward, pressing his cheek against your stomach. "Now... I'm scared," he admitted. "I'm terrified He is going to take it away. I'm terrified I'm going to wake up and be back in the mud."
"You're not in the mud," you said firmly. "You're here. With me."
"Yeah." He let out a long breath, his body sinking deeper into the cushions, surrendering to the comfort. "I'm here."
He closed his eyes again. For a long time, the only sound was the rain tapping against the glass, a gentle rhythm. There was no hum of electricity. No headache. The Operator, for whatever reason, had turned his gaze elsewhere for the night.
"Thank you," Brian whispered.
"For what?"
"For catching me."
He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. It wasn't desperate, but deliberate. A promise.
"I can't promise forever," he murmured against your skin, his realism cutting through the sweetness but not spoiling it. "But I can promise tonight."
"Tonight is enough," you answered.
And it was. You watched the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your leg. For the first time in a long time, the shadows in the corners of the room didn't look like monsters. They just looked like shadows.
Brian drifted off to sleep, his hand still holding yours, a faint, peaceful expression smoothing out the lins of his face.
[TIMESTAMP: AUGUST 04, 20XX - 11:00 PM]
[VIDEO: SIGNAL CLEAR / NO DISTORTION]
[TIMESTAMP: AUGUST 24, 20XX - 03:33 AM]
[AUDIO: CEILING FAN / RHYTHMIC BREATHING / WET GLITCHING SOUND]
The routine had become a drug. For weeks, Brian had convinced himself that the "quiet" was real. He had started to believe that maybe, just maybe, the Operator had lost track of him. The bruises under his eyes had faded to faint yellow smudges. He ate regular meals. He remembered what it felt like to be warm.
He was asleep, his arm draped heavy and possessive over your waist. You were curled into his side, deep in a dreamless slumber.
Then, Brian woke up.
It wasn't a natural waking. It was a jolt, like missing a step on a staircase. His eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling of your bedroom.
He felt... wrong.
His body felt heavy, buzzing with a residual electric current. His limbs ached with a fatigue that didn't match the eight hours of sleep he should have had.
He shifted, intending to pull the duvet higher. His hand brushed against the white sheet.
It felt wet.
Brian frowned, his mind slow and sluggish. He lifted his hand into the sliver of moonlight filtering through the blinds.
His hand was coated in black.
Not shadow. Fluid. Thick, viscous, and smelling of copper.
The air left his lungs in a silent scream. He sat up, the movement frantic, scrambling away from you. He looked down at the bed.
The pristine white sheets, the symbol of the safety you had given him, were smeared with dirt and fresh blood. There were muddy boot prints leading from the window (which was wide open) to the side of the bed.
He looked at his clothes. He wasn't wearing the t-shirt he had fallen asleep in. He was wearing the yellow hoodie. It was zipped up. The mask was sitting on his pillow, staring at him with its empty black eyes.
[AUDIO DISTORTION - LOW FREQUENCY THUM PING]
I went out, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. I went out, and I don't remember.
The "quiet" hadn't been safety. It had been a gap in the tape. The Operator hadn't left him alone; He had simply been piloting Brian while his consciousness was turned off. He had used Brian like a tool and then walked him back into your bed, dirty and bloody, just to prove a point.
This isn't real.
He looked at you, sleeping peacefully inches away from the filth he had dragged in.
You can't have this, the static hissed in his ear. It is the unattainable. It is a song no one sings.
He had turned your sanctuary into a crime scene.
"No," he whimpered, the word cracking in the silence. He scrambled off the bed, backing into the corner, his bloody hands held up as if to surrender. "No, no, no."
It was a terrible, ragged sound, like an animal caught in a trap. You sat up, groggy and confused. "Brian?"
"Don't look," a voice choked out from the corner. "Don't look at me."
You turned on the bedside lamp.
The light flooded the room, revealing the nightmare. The mud on the floor. The blood smeared on the sheets where he had been holding you. And Brian, pressed into the corner of the room, scratching at his own arms as if trying to peel his skin off.
"Brian!" You threw the covers off, ignoring the mess, your heart dropping into your stomach. You rushed toward him.
He flinched so hard his head hit the wall with a sickening thud. "Stay back! Look at it! Look at what I did!"
He held up his hands, shaking violently. "I was asleep. I thought I was asleep. But He took me. He took me and made me do... I don't even know what I did."
He slid down the wall, burying his face in his bloody hands. "It's fake. All of it. The quiet... it's just a lie to make it hurt more when He pulls the string."
"Brian, stop." You dropped to your knees in front of him, heedless of the danger. You reached for his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. "We can clean it. It's okay. We can fix this."
"You can't fix this!" he screamed. It was the loudest he had ever been in your presence, a raw, tearing sound of pure devastation. "You can't fix me! I am a puppet! I am a weapon! I brought this into your bed!"
He looked at you, and the facade shattered. There was no fight in him left. There was only a broken man realizing he was doomed.
"I thought I could have this," he sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "I wanted it so bad. I wanted to be real for you."
"You are real," you pleaded, gripping his wrists tighter, getting his blood on your own hands. "You're here. Stay with me. We'll figure it out."
"No." He shook his head, pulling his arms away from you with a strength that bruised. "I can't. If I stay... next time I might not wake up before I hurt you. Next time the blood might be yours."
The logic was bulletproof. The horror was absolute.
He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the mask from the pillow. He didn't put it on, he couldn't bear to cover his face yet, but he clutched it like a death sentence.
"Brian, please!" You stood up, blocking his path to the window. "Don't go back out there. You're not well. You're scared."
"I'm not scared for me," he whispered, stepping around you, refusing to make contact. He grabbed his boots. "I'm scared of what I am when I'm with you."
He climbed onto the window sill. The night air rushed in, cold and indifferent, dispelling the warmth of the bedroom instantly.
He looked back one last time. His eyes traced the blood on your sheets, then the blood on your hands. The stain he had put there.
"It was a dream," he said, his voice hollow. "Forget it. Wake up."
"Brian!"
You lunged for him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his hoodie.
But he was gone.
He dropped into the darkness below, vanishing into the static and the trees. You were left standing at the window, screaming his name into the void, with nothing but the bloody ruin of your sanctuary to prove he had ever been there at all.
[VIDEO TEAR - SIGNAL LOST]
[TIMESTAMP: AUGUST 24, 20XX - 04:00 AM]
[AUDIO: SILENCE]
[TIMESTAMP: AUGUST 24, 20XX - 04:15 AM]
[AUDIO: WIND HOWLING / CHOKED SOBBING]
The window was still open. The curtains whipped violently in the pre-dawn wind, snapping like flags, but you didn't move to close them.
You were on the floor beneath the sill, your back pressed against the wall. You had slid down until you hit the hardwood, legs sprawled out in front of you. You didn't care that your pajama pants was soaking up the mud Brian had tracked in. You didn't care that the cold was biting into your skin.
Sobs racked your body, ugly, violent sounds that tore at your throat. It wasn't a cry for attention; it was the sound of something breaking. You gasped for air, your chest heaving, turning to stare blankly at the dark tree line where he had vanished.
"Come back," you whispered, though the words were swallowed by the wind. "Just come back."
He didn't. The woods remained silent, indifferent to your collapse.
Eventually, the adrenaline faded, leaving you shivering and hollow. The sobs quieted to shaky, wet gasps. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, smearing tears and dust across your cheeks. You looked at the room, the sanctuary he had destroyed.
It looked like a crime scene. The bloody handprint on the sheet. The black mud ground into the rug.
You stood up. Your legs were numb. You walked to the bed and stripped it with trembling hands. You didn't bother folding the sheets, instead balling them up, hugging the stained fabric to your chest for a second, inhaling the scent of copper and rain one last time, before shoving them into a black trash bag.
You dragged the bag to the kitchen. You scrubbed the floor on your hands and knees until the water in the bucket turned black, and then you scrubbed it again until it was clear. You threw away the pillowcase. You threw away the rug. You purged the evidence of the nightmare, but the apartment felt vast and empty when you were done.
[TIMESTAMP: SEPTEMBER 10, 20XX - 7:00 PM]
[AUDIO: CRICKETS / DISTANT CARS]
The routine began a week later.
Every evening at dusk, you put on your heavy wool coat. You made a cup of tea that you never drank. You went out to the porch and sat on the top step, the exact spot where he had first appeared.
You waited. And waited.
You scanned the tree line, your eyes tracing the shapes of the branches, looking for the flash of a yellow hood or the red gleam of a frown. Every squirrel that moved made your heart jump. Every shadow that stretched too long looked like him.
The neighbors walked by, stealing looks from the corner of their eyes. The woman sitting alone in the cold, staring at nothing. You didn't care. You were bargaining with the universe. If I sit here long enough, you thought, he has to come back. He can't leave it like this.
But the sun went down. The air turned freezing. The tea went cold in your hands.
The woods were just woods. There was no monster. There was no Brian. There was only the silence he had left behind.
[TIMESTAMP: OCTOBER 15, 20XX - 08:30 AM]
[AUDIO: KEYBOARD TYPING / OFFICE CHATTER]
Nearly two months passed.
You stopped sitting on the porch. The hope had calcified into a dull, heavy stone in your gut.
You went back to work. You answered emails. You smiled at coworkers when they asked how your weekend was, responding with an empty response, "Fine." You went to the grocery store and bought pasta and sauce for one.
To the outside world, you were normal. You were functioning. But inside, you were walking through static.
The apartment was too quiet. You found yourself leaving the TV on just to fill the silence. You found yourself waking up in the middle of the night, reaching across the bed for a warmth that wasn't there, your hand hitting the cold, empty mattress.
You were living in the "after." It wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a hollow space in the center of your chest, a void where a myth used to live. You moved through the days like a ghost in your own life, waiting for a haunting that never came.
[TIMESTAMP: OCTOBER 29, 20XX - 11:58 PM]
[AUDIO: WIND CHIMES / DISTANT TRAFFIC]
You walked up the steps, eyes on your boots, expecting nothing.
Yet there he was.
Leaning against the railing, his yellow hoodie stood out against the pale color of your home. He wasn't hiding his face this time. The mask was tucked into his pocket. He looked gaunt, the bones of his face sharp and jagged under the porch light. He looked like a man who had spent years arguing with his own survival instincts.
You stopped. You didn't drop your keys this time. You just stood there, the wind biting at your cheeks, looking at the ghost you couldn't exorcise.
"I know," he rasped. His voice was a wreck, unused and rough. "I know I shouldn't be here. I know I said it was poison."
He looked at his hands, then at you. His eyes were desperate, swimming with a mixture of terror and need.
"I tried to stay away," he whispered. "I tried to let you be real without me. But... I couldn't." He took a shaky step toward you, stopping when you didn't flinch. "I just kept thinking... maybe I was wrong. Maybe the static isn't everything. All I needed to make it real was one more reason."
"And what was the reason?" you asked, your voice flat, numb.
He looked at you as if you were the only source of light in the universe. "You."
Tears spilled over your lashes, hot and fast, tracking silently down your cold cheeks. You didn't say anything. You couldn't. The anger, the relief, and the heartbreak were a tangled knot in your throat.
You walked past him.
You unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped into the warmth of the apartment. You left the door wide open to the night, a silent, damning invitation.
You heard his boots cross the threshold. Click. The door closed. The lock turned.
He followed you into the kitchen like a stray dog. Skittish, head down, waiting to be kicked out. You didn't look at him. You moved on autopilot, pulling ingredients from the fridge. Pasta. Sauce. Simple things.
He sat at the small kitchen table. He didn't take off his hoodie. He watched you. You could feel his gaze on your back, heavy, intense, terrified that if he blinked, you would vanish. The silence in the room wasn't peaceful; it was pressurized. It was the sound of a dam holding back a flood.
You set the plate in front of him and sat across from him.
He picked up the fork, his hand trembling. The metal clinked against the ceramic. A sharp, jarring sound in the quiet room.
He took a bite, cautiously chewing before he swallowed. He looked at you, and the mask cracked. He wasn't the survivor. He wasn't the Monster. He was just Brian, and he was breaking apart.
"Why?" you asked. You didn't look up from your plate. "Why come back just to look at me like you're at a funeral?"
"Because I am," he whispered.
You looked up.
"I'm mourning this," he said, gesturing to the table, to the food, to you. "Every second I sit here, I'm waiting for the static to start. I'm waiting for the blood. I know it's coming. But I can't leave."
"Then don't," you said fiercely.
"You don't understand," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "It’s a myth. We are a myth. I’m trying to believe in it, but I know-"
"Stop."
You stood up. The chair scraped against the floor. You walked around the table.
He tensed, bracing himself.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his head against your stomach. You buried your face in the rough fabric of his hood.
"I don't care if it's a myth," you sobbed into his shoulder. "I don't care if it's fake. I don't care if it ends in blood. I'm not afraid of the static, Brian. I'm afraid of the silence when you're gone."
He crumbled.
His arms came up, wrapping around your waist, clinging to you with a strength that bordered on painful. He buried his face in your shirt, shaking, letting out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. His hands gripped on to you as if you were the only solid thing in a world of glitching shadows.
[TIMESTAMP: OCTOBER 30, 20XX - 01:15 AM]
[AUDIO: SLOW HEARTBEAT / FABRIC RUSTLING]
The bedroom was dark, curtains drawn tight to block out the view of the tree line.
Brian lay beside you. The yellow hoodie was draped over the chair in the corner, a shedded skin. He was wearing a t-shirt, his scars visible in the gloom.
You were curled against him, your arm thrown over his chest, your leg tangled with his. You were clinging to him, trying to be the anchor that kept him from drifting away into the noise. You listened to the steady thrum of his heart, forcing your breathing to match his.
Brian stared at the ceiling.
He could feel the hum in the base of his skull. It was faint, a distant buzz like a dying fluorescent light, but it was there. It was always there. The Operator was watching. The clock was ticking.
He looked down at you. You were asleep, face pressed against his shoulder, trusting him completely.
He knew the truth. He knew that you weren't real, not in his world. In his world, nothing soft survived. In his world, love was just a leverage point for the monsters to press on. This domesticity was an illusion, a glitch in the horror movie of his life.
But he shifted, pulling you tighter against him, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
She's a myth, he thought, the thoughts drifting through his mind like smoke. She is a story I'm not allowed to read.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the static, shutting out the inevitable end.
But I have to believe in it. I have to believe in her.
For tonight, he would let the myth be real.
[VIDEO TEAR - SIGNAL LOST]
[END LOG]
Thank you for making it all the way to the end. I based this off the song, Vermillion, Pt. 2 by Slipknot, and I hope that I was able to convey the emotions I felt right. I appreciate you reading c: and if you have any advice or critique, pls share! <3
What if that's actually Kankri..? Like,
*Kankri looks up and mumbles*
Kankri is n9t here right n9w. He is in Sweater T9wn.
*Proceeds to bury head back and sweater and you suddenly hear noises as if someone was making fake airplane noises*
(Also, is it just me, or is Batter like a huge nerd in all his concept art? He’s always like being overly dramatic and running around after ghosts that don’t seem to care or yelling random things at people)
(Like seriously, what a dork. Speaking of dorks, Zacharie is no better…)
(Just look at him with his shirt tucked in and his pants hiked up to his nipples, my God…)
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