everyone in the notes we are all holding hands. everyone who hasnt worked on a wip in weeks or months or years, its okay. we are going slow but we are going
It appears if you have 18+ or mdni in your blog's header bio you are now flagged. I'm seeing a bunch of my mutuals now being flagged and this is the common thread. In fact, I'll add a community label to this post just to not get caught in the snare.
Warnings: nothing much in this chapter but some really faint flashbacks and general PTSD.
Words: 16k
“The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, repaying itself over and over.”
–Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
“I have been where you fear to be. I have gone where you fear to go. I have seen things you don’t wish to see. All these things I have done for you.”
–Author Unknown
A mind-fog overtakes you the next week.
Between spacing out entirely in a strange state of disassociation, you spend every other waking minute on hyperdrive, overthinking everything. Everything. Everything you and Sy had said to one another, everything you and Sy had done to one another, everything that had happened in the past year, half-year, month, week, weekend. All of it runs through your mind, zooming by and colliding in the recesses of your brain, and even when you try to escape it in your sleep, it still trickles its way into your dreams.
Internal justification of your behavior wars with your ongoing guilt, sometimes coming out the victor and sometimes submitting to defeat. While your ego speaks loudly in your hindbrain in support of your decisions, your conscience speaks just as loudly to cover you in shame.
Shame often wins.
After all, you’d run from the conflict with Sy. You’d fled. You were given something too difficult to handle, and you just…ran away. To your parent’s house, of all places. So that you could be a child for a weekend. So that you could hide.
Sy’s never had that luxury. He's always had to face everything head-on. More than just that, he's had to lead people through it. And now that something’s happened that you can't seem to handle, you escaped it entirely. You abandoned him.
Even as the guilt spreads through you, it’s not long before you automatically begin arguing with yourself in your own head again. He’s been running away, too. Maybe not to an entirely different home like you had done, but to the basement every night. To the bars and the poolhalls and the endless poker nights with friends. He’s been the person pushing you away in the first place.
But still–every time those thoughts try to worm their way in, you try to stop them before they can form any substance. Sy’s been silently struggling, too. For a long time. His actions have been the only way he’s been able to deal with the aftermath of returning to his home-country again, and you have to remind yourself that though this is difficult, it’s a two-way street. You’re both dealing with your own issues here.
And so your thoughts go–back and forth, and back and forth again.
It's amazing, the perception of time. While the two days making up the weekend at your mom and dad’s house passed excruciatingly slowly–staring-at-the-ceiling slowly–all five days of the weekday pass at warp-speed.
You guess that's just how it is when you have something to look forward to.
And you definitely are looking forward to seeing Sy again on Saturday. There’s no point denying it out of some silly preservation of your pride. You are. There’s true hope for your relationship again. Within a vase on the nightstand next to your bed, it’s in bloom. Not wilted at all. Not even a little bit.
Bright, and pretty, and…hopeful. With a note-card still present signed Your Sy.
During the week, you and Sy communicate, but only through texting, and only at night. When it’s late and you’re cloaked with the type of bravery that only comes from being in a dark room under a large blanket in bed, you send him messages wishing him a good night’s sleep, and he does the same to you.
Always, you covet his responses.
By Saturday afternoon, a casual-sounding yet intentionally-sent text appears on your phone, asking if you're still on for tonight’s date. Simple and to the point, there’s still a possible antsy undertone you pick up from it.
Maybe he’s just as nervous as you are.
After simply replying with the word ‘yes’, you send a second text saying that you're looking forward to it, and then you add a red heart beside that for good measure.
The restaurant Sy’s taking you to is, like he told you last week, somewhere you’ve never been before. You know nothing about it besides that it’s in the city and is supposed to be fancy, and you don’t really know how to feel about that. You and Sy don’t really do extravagant things.
When the evening rolls around and you’re all showered and primped and waiting on the couch in a nice dress and high heels, there's a tell-tale prickling in the palms of your hands that you can't get rid of, followed by a layer of embarrassing sweat breaking out.
Despite the coldness from outside seeping its way in the house from the old windows, your hands continue to grow hot, and the heat only spreads throughout your body, making you antsy. You wipe your gross palms on the sofa and glance at the time on your phone with a nervous, clenched jaw. The instant the time changes over from 6:29 to 6:30, you hear Sy’s truck pull into the driveway.
You take a deep breath and try to loosen your jaw and your shoulders.
Right on time.
You stand up and look in the mirror beside the couch for a few moments until you hear a few thumps at the door. The fact that Sy has a key to this house yet he's chosen to knock does something weird to your already-prickling hands.
After opening the door with a nervous energy, you stand frozen for a minute while taking a look at the man before you. Sy’s wearing an actual suit. The image takes you aback so much that your mouth falls open.
He’s wearing an actual suit, and he’s got an overcoat on and a nice pair of shoes, too.
Everything’s intentional. The relatively early time of the date. The restaurant he’s chosen. The outfit he’s decided to go with. The message is clear. He’s trying to let you know he’s making an effort.
“You wore your hair down," Sy finally comments instead of offering a more traditional greeting, and upon hearing the words, you lift a hand to touch it.
“I did,” you murmur with a breaking voice. You clear your throat.
After a few more moments that Sy spends just taking you in, he finally murmurs, “Dress looks nice," and you almost want to laugh.
Finally, you grab your jacket by the door and put it on. “You don’t gotta butter me up, Sy.”
“Just tellin’ it like it is,” he simply replies, and there's a little mirth in his eyes, but there's also a reservation that's unusual for him, like he's being careful.
You remember the early, early days when he used to be careful like this. He’d still be slightly mischievous and daring in the way that only Sy could really get away with, but he was always deliberate.
It used to be endearing. Now, after all the time you've been together, it still is, only now it's somewhat sad.
“You look nice, too,” you tell him quietly, and after giving you a sideways smile that actually makes you weak-kneed, he then displays a small bouquet of red carnations he’s kept hidden behind his back.
In surprise, your lips part before transforming into a small, shy smile. You slowly accept the flowers in your slightly sweaty hands and bring them to your nose. “Well, thanks, Sy.”
Running your eyes all over the pretty flowers, you’d easily stand exactly where you are all night simply staring at them in wonder, but you make yourself stop.
“Just, uh–Wait here just a second,” you hold up a finger and say, “and I’ll throw these in some water real quick.”
Your heels click against the floor as you scurry into the kitchen for a vase, and it’s then that you notice the little card on the side of the bouquet that matches the one that was on the daisies Sy recently gifted you. Even though he’s hand-delivered the flowers directly to you, there’s still a note he’s written on the card: Remember what I said last week. -Sy.
Remember what I said last week… Remember what I said last week…
Well. He’d said a lot of things last week. All of which you’ve overanalyzed ad nauseam. You’re not sure which exact thing you’re supposed to be remembering.
You flip over the card and read: “Did You Know? Also meaning ‘my heart aches for you,’ dark red carnations stand for deep love and affection.”
If someone would’ve told you a month ago that Sy’s heart aches for you, you would’ve laughed. Now you stand entirely motionless in the kitchen and ache right back. You take a shaky breath and set up the flowers on the kitchen table.
Remember what I said last week.
After locking up the door behind you, you step out onto the front porch again with a small smile and an odd feeling. You love that you’re going on a date with Sy, and you love that he got you flowers again, but you can’t help but instrusively think that he’s only doing this to go through the motions of what he feels like he needs to do.
After giving you a somewhat tight smile of his own, Sy leads you along the front yard with a hand on the small of your back. Despite the thickness of your jacket, you feel the warmth of each individual finger.
But–So what if he is going through the motions? That’s what this is all about. He’d put it on the card on the daisies last week– ”I’d do anything in the world to make this right.”
Remember what I said last week. Maybe that’s what he’s talking about.
Sy opens the passenger door of his truck and makes sure you’re able to make the gargantuan climb into the cab with the heels you’ve got on before shutting the door for you. As he walks around the front of the truck to the driver’s side, his headlights shine on him, and you notice him uncharacteristically looking downwards at his own feet.
Once he’s inside sitting beside you, his cologne wifting through the air, the space feels intimately tight. It’s the closest you’ve been with Sy in…forever. If not physically the closest, then definitely emotionally. Along with the unique scent of him being so near you, there’s a sort of heaviness, too, a thickness of unspoken emotion.
Though the truck’s engine is still running, Sy doesn’t move to put it in gear. He doesn’t even lift his hands to the steering wheel.
After several moments of silence, you glance at him and clear your throat. “How’ve you been doin’ this week?” you chance asking.
Looking devastatingly broody and handsome, he looks over at you. “Fine.”
“Really,” you correct.
He takes a few seconds to think of his answer. “Okay at best.”
Briefly, you look down at your own hands in your lap, and, just like you, Sy clears his throat.
“What about yourself?”
“Same,” you let out quietly, and then he sighs.
And then it’s quiet.
“Sucks without’chu around,” Sy eventually comments.
You silently nod. You're glad he's being honest. Blunt, but honest.
You just have no idea how to respond. The house feels cold without you home, too? I want you to come back even if we’re probably not ready for that yet? How did everything get to this point? Did you know I love you so much it hurts?
Sy saves you from having to speak by throwing the truck in reverse. While glancing at the road behind him, he briefly stretches his arm along the back of your head-rest. Once on the pavement, he switches gears and accelerates, and the loud engine sounding out in the night air fills the silence.
He takes familiar turns throughout the neighborhood until navigating down busy roads you don’t typically use, then after a few minutes, he merges onto the highway.
You’re heading into the city. The buzzing in the palms of your hands returns.
The engine and the dim radio are the only sounds in the truck for a long time, so you get the feeling that the two of you are going to just wait until you’re actually at the restaurant before you have any type of discussion. You keep sneaking glances at Sy as he drives, though, and there’s a look in his eyes while he stares ahead that you just can’t place.
“Hang in there for me,” is what he’d told you.
And that’s what you’re trying to do.
“What’d–” You clear your throat, finding it dry. “What’d you do this week?”
“Not much of anything,” he answers, and he lifts his hand to his truck’s turn-signal before switching lanes.
You perk up a bit as he starts to exit the highway; you must be getting close now. “Me either,” you conversationally reply. “Just work.”
As Sy looks over his shoulder to check his blind-spot before switching lanes again, you realize that you’ve probably picked a stupid time to try to chat. He probably needs to focus.
“At your office or you just been workin’ from home?” Sy asks.
“At the office,” you clarify. “It’s been busy.”
He hums a little, then asks about the situation at your job. When he remembers the name of the coworker you’d been slightly struggling with a few months ago, you acknowledge yet another effort he’s making. Even though you know he’s dealing with way worse internal shit than the stuff that’s been going on at your office, you share some news about the most recent meetings you’ve had and some of your upcoming projects.
It’s a boring topic, but for what it’s worth, Sy seems interested while he continues to drive along busy streets lined with tall buildings. Eventually, he pulls into a parking garage, and it’s quiet again while he slowly hunts for and finds a spot large enough for his truck to fit.
After parking and getting out of the truck, Sy wordlessly takes your hand and begins leading you down the parking garage ramp. The gesture is less sweet than it is purposeful; you can tell by the way he’s keeping you close to him that he’s nervous about being in this environment. Over his shoulder, he clicks his keys twice until his truck beeps, then even after confirming it’s locked, he clicks them again.
“There were some really good reviews that I read online about this place,” you casually mention. “Everyone said it’s really nice…that it’s in a good area.”
Instead of replying and making more small-talk, Sy just squeezes your hand.
Your heels click along the cement underneath you while you step out onto the sidewalk. Immediately, despite the cold weather, you’re in a sea of activity: tons of people are on the sidewalk, some loitering, some walking, some playing music.
“Move your purse to your inside arm,” Sy directs, and he’s so quiet that you barely catch what he’s saying until he momentarily lets go of your hand.
While you glance up at him questioningly, he actually removes your purse from your shoulder for you. You drape it over the shoulder of the arm that’s closest to Sy before he takes your hand again and resumes walking.
“Nobody’s gonna…” You let your statement float out into the cold air, unfinished.
Remaining stiff beside you, Sy finally ends up jay-walking to a less-crowded part of the sidewalk across the street. He pulls out his phone. “Should be a few more blocks,” he murmurs.
You hum in acknowledgement, taking time to look at each shop, restaurant, and building you pass until you feel Sy start to slow down.
“Here we go,” he says, one hand moving to your lower back while the other opens a door with the restaurant’s name on it.
“Whoa,” you utter once you step inside and are hit with a wave of warm air. The place is huge. Huge and busy and…expensive-looking.
Sy navigates through a crowded lobby-area to approach a hostess behind a tall table. “Syverson,” he tells her. “Reservation for two.”
After you’re escorted to your table, feeling like a celebrity for being seated so quickly, Sy unnecessarily helps you take off your purse and jacket before you sit down. He lingers by your side for a minute, glancing at the newly-bared expanse of your back, and his fingertips touch the exposed skin there.
When you’re both finally seated in front of one another, you clasp your hands in your lap and nervously look around at everyone and everything. You’re in the middle of the room, and off to your left is a long, dim bar with backlights highlighting shelves of glasses and liquor bottles. Patrons wearing pretty clothes sit along the bar, knees touching their neighbors while conversing in hushed tones over background classical music playing. The other tables host nicely-dressed couples quietly chatting and eating.
The place is seriously nice. Really nice.
Sy’s in a suit.
Once he’s removed his overcoat, you're able to get a better look at what he’s actually wearing. Forgoing a tie, his white dress-shirt complements his light eyes, unbuttoned a little more than is necessary to expose curly chest hair. The suit itself is dark gray, and, in contrast to his beard, looks just…astonishingly handsome.
He’s always cleaned up nice.
“This almost reminds me of that military ball we went to that one time,” you utter.
Sy blinks as memories of that night must come to him. That was a good night. After you’d come home from the event, you’d…It was a good night.
Simultaneously and a little wistfully, you both smile at one another.
Your silent moment is interrupted by a waiter. “Good evening,” he says before politely introducing himself by name and procuring two thick leather-bound menus. “Would you also like to look at the wine menu this evening?”
You raise your eyebrows at the waiter and then look at Sy.
“Go for it,” he tells you.
“Sure.” You clear your throat and try to use actual manners. “Yes, please.”
There’s a tablet the waiter provides you with gloved hands, and after accepting it, you scroll through literally dozens of pages of wines as he politely steps back.
The options quickly overwhelm you. “Just a–Just this is fine,” you point to a red and order.
The waiter nods. “For you, sir?”
Sy looks up. Without any scruples, he says, “I’ll just take Miller if you have it.”
After clarifying, the waiter nods and says, “Right away.”
You have no idea how to behave when the waiter returns and makes a big display of presenting and opening a bottle of wine in front of you, going so far as to offer the cork to you.
With it in your hand, your mind blanks, and you look around in confusion until spotting a gentleman sniffing the cork that he's just been offered. You don’t know what the cork is supposed to smell like, but you awkwardly smile and nod at the waiter after briefly putting it up to your nose.
“Uh–Great,” you brightly say. “Thank you.”
After your wine is poured, you look across the table to find Sy smiling at you, his shoulders slightly shaking.
“Shut up,” you mumble, but you’re smiling back in no time, as well. His top tooth is crooked. These days, he rarely smiles largely enough for you to witness his actual teeth at all.
While Sy takes a first sip of his beer–given to him in a bottle and then poured into a fancy glass–you shift your weight in your chair and nervously touch the tablecloth draping close to your lap, disearnestly looking at your menu.
“Anything else exciting to share about your week?” you ask, grasping at straws here. You take a long sip of your wine to make yourself at ease, but in the back of your mind you're aware that if anyone were watching you, you'd come across uncivilized. You're supposed to swirl the liquid first. Plus, no one straight-up gulps wine.
But apparently you’d gone and mistakenly ordered an entire bottle of wine and not just a glass, so…you may as well calm your nerves somehow.
“Not an awful lot, honestly. Went to the gun range,” Sy mumbles before lifting his glass and taking another drink. “Did the VA thing.”
Realizing he's not using the word “therapy”, you just comment, “Ah.”
“Stopped drinkin' a six-pack every night,” he adds with a small murmur. “So there’s that.”
You glance at his beer. "Down to just half?"
“Helps me relax.” He pulls his lips to the side for a second. "Helps me sleep."
You stare ahead at his face for a bit. His skin looks a little better. His eyes don’t look quite so exhausted. He’s cleaned up his beard. He looks great, honestly. Still, you’re worried.
“Have you been sleepin’ okay?” you try to clarify, but suddenly, the sound of a heavy pot clattering onto the floor in the back of the restaurant echoes out through the entire dining room and causes your shoulders to jump up as you gasp.
You–and about a dozen others around you-naturally turn your attention to the direction of the loud sound when there's another abrupt noise sounding out in front of you: Sy's just knocked over his entire drink. You whip your head back to the table just in time to see the contents of his glass actively spilling all over the tablecloth and onto the floor. His face is blank.
“Oh, gosh,” you widen your eyes and rush out before springing into action. While Sy turns the glass upright again with strangely shaky hands, you start gathering as many napkins as you can to sop up all the beer pooled up around it.
Within seconds, you end up getting your dress, hands, and forearms wet, but you don’t care. When you glance ahead at Sy, you realize his jaw has become stiff, and he looks almost angry. To an outsider, it would appear as anger, anyway. To you, you recognize it as his hyper-focused serious expression, and that’s when you realize that the sudden noise must have really affected him. He seems to be somewhere else.
“Well, that sure was loud, wasn’t it?” you calmly ask with a small smile, still trying to wipe everything up. “Guess one of the cooks dropped somethin’.”
Sy clears his throat, and you casually reach out across the still-wet table and put your hand out.
“In a nice place like this, I wonder if they’re still gonna have their job,” you conversationally go on in a stage-whisper, trying to be lighthearted.
"Guess there's my sign to lay off the drink entirely, huh," Sy mutters, reaching out to accept your hand.
Your face slightly falls. “A little moderation’s always a good thing.”
The silence that ensues after that pressures you into filling it with spoken words, with some sort of noise to distract your heart, but you don’t. You sit with it. You sit in it, just touching Sy’s hand.
When the waiter visits your table again, visibly rushing, he assists with the wet napkins you’ve piled up and even goes so far as to move you and Sy to another table despite your insistence that your spot–even with its wet tablecloth–is fine.
You suppose that at a place like this, a kitchen-mistake disturbing diners is extremely against the restaurant’s reputation, so now they must be overcompensating. You’re led to a low-lit secluded section of the restaurant where the waiter offers a dim booth in the corner surrounded by tall windows.
Upon sitting down, you’re presented with your bottle and glass of wine again. Sy orders a Coke.
It’s quiet while you try to sincerely focus on the menu to figure out what you’re even going to order here. “Whatcha gonna get?”
Sy turns his gaze to your face. “Huh?”
“To eat,” you say. “What’re you gonna get?”
Seemingly distracted, he pulls his hand from the table and drags it up to his beard. “The rib-eye, prob’ly.”
“Oh, yum,” you murmur.
“What aboutchu?” he asks.
Without looking up from the menu, your lips pull to the side. “I dunno,” you eventually stall. “I’m too indecisive…”
“No, you?” he jokes, and you glance up at him and truly smile. He's obviously in his head tonight, so it's good to hear him try to be funny.
“Well, it’s not like I can even pronounce half the things on this menu. I’ll look like an idiot if I say the food wrong.”
“I’ll handle orderin’ it, then, if you just tell me what you want.”
Moments later, the waiter comes back with Sy’s new drink. “Hi, there. Would you like to place your order or hear any of the night’s specials first?”
Sy looks up. “Just another minute,” he says decidedly.
“It’s okay,” you instantly tell him. “I’ll just have what you’re havin’.”
He stares at you from across the table, his eyes strangely intense. “Don’t settle for somethin’ you don’t really want just ‘cause you’re under pressure.”
“Um…”
“I’ll be back shortly,” the waiter nicely says, and without looking at him, Sy nods.
“Ain’t nobody pressurin’ you here,” Sy says again. “Decide whatchu wanna decide ‘cause you wanna decide it.”
Your bottom lip slightly falls. Everything feels like double-speak right now. You finally close your mouth and look back at your menu.
After conspicuously using your phone to look up pictures of the various words on the menu, you finally close the small book and look up at Sy.
“Verdict?” Sy asks.
“I think I’m actually gonna get steak, too,” you decide confidently. Sy seems to study you for a bit but ultimately just nods.
After the server takes your order–filet mignon for you and rib-eye for Sy–you make efforts to keep up some sort of conversation.
“I ran into Richard at the commissary yesterday,” you mention.
“Oh, yeah?”
You take a sip of wine. “Mm. Says you haven’t been showin’ up for poker lately.”
“Not for a while now,” Sy confirms.
You tilt your head. You guess that during the night of your first big argument, he just…stopped going.
“He invited us over for dinner with his family.”
“Mm.”
“I told him to just reach out to you to get plans settled,” you say, “but he said Fridays or Saturdays are best ‘cause of the kids.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a little more chit-chat after that, but when your food arrives, the two of you savor everything in appreciation with little conversation. Besides a slightly embarrassing moment of you accidentally spilling some of your wine, things go just fine, and afterwards, Sy covers the entire bill. You feel oddly guilty due to the price of everything, including the entire bottle of wine you’d ordered by accident and couldn’t even finish.
You even go so far as to apologize, but Sy waves it off. “You’re worth it,” he just says.
The drive home is pretty quiet, as well, and by the time you’re back in your driveway again, the finality of the date being over slightly depresses you. You make no move to get out of the truck, instead staring out the window at your front door. Everything was nice, but now Sy’s dropping you off, and he won’t be coming inside.
To the home that’s just as much his as it’s yours.
Beside you, Sy clears his throat. “Did you like everything?”
You turn and look at him. “Hm?”
“The food,” he utters.
“Oh! Yeah,” you reply, trying to make your eyes convey excitement rather than dejection at having to go inside alone. “I really did.”
He chuckles. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”
“I’m not lying,” you say with a small smile. “I did like everything.”
“But…”
“No buts,” you clarify. Sy continues to stare at you until you nervously laugh. “What?”
Sy shakes his head. “Nothin’. So.” You curiously watch as he reaches into the front pocket of his coat and pulls out a very tiny gift bag. “I, uh. I gotchu somethin’.”
You squint your eyebrows in confusion. “You already paid for dinner and got me flowers,” you mumble. “Twice now.”
He chuckle-scoffs before offering the small bag to you, and with a somewhat anxious hand, you reach out and accept it.
“Sy…”
“Well.” He nods towards the gift. “Open it.”
You reach inside and feel a small box. It’s obviously jewelry of some sort, but you’re skeptical. Besides your engagement ring, Sy has never really gotten you jewelry.
After the fancy restaurant tonight, you’re almost expecting something way too extravagant for your taste, something that would blind you when opening the box, but when you do, it’s nothing like that.
It’s hand-made costume jewelry.
You look down at the plain, pretty earrings and genuinely smile, honestly relieved to feel a little more down-to-earth again.
"Wow,” you say softly. Though it’s stupid, you feel spoiled. Flowers, a nice restaurant, a present.
He nods. “You, uh.” He clears his throat. “It ain’t much, but. We were at a store one time and you said you liked ‘em.”
“That was, like, a year ago,” you murmur. You pick up the earrings and immediately slide them on.
Sy’s eyes are gentle and bright, twisting at the edges as he smiles at you without showing any of his teeth. He reaches out to move your hair back and looks at the jewelry hanging from your left ear.
“Do I look pretty?” you joke.
His answer comes out a little quiet. “All the time.”
“Thanks, Sy.” Your voice softens as you add, “For everything.”
A beat of silence. “So,” he proposes. “Next Saturday. Same place, same time?”
You look at him in surprise. “What, like—to the same restaurant?”
“Nah, I meant—” He stops to smile– “here. The house. Same time and place to pick you up. For dinner. If that’s somethin’ you’d–”
“Oh, absolutely,” you interrupt.
“Okay, then,” he says quietly, and then he finally gets out of the truck. You follow suit.
At the door, you stall, standing directly in front of Sy with your face expectantly lifted. He moves towards you slowly, being deliberately careful. Under the front porch light, you watch as his eyes travel around the different features of your face before pausing at your lips and then settling on your eyes. Instead of being dark and intense, his own eyes are oddly wide and vulnerable.
With your breath taking form in the cold air between your faces, you take a small step closer to Sy and hesitantly touch the open flaps of his overcoat. After he cups your face with both of his hands as if you’re delicate, the two of you just stare at one another.
His cologne has seemed to soak into his skin by this time of night, mixing with his natural pheromones and turning his scent even more heady in contrast to the cold air surrounding you. In magnetizing diziness, you lean slightly forward as your eyelids flutter shut, and the next sensation you feel is his wet lips against yours, his beard against your skin.
Soft and sweet and still overly-careful, Sy’s kiss tastes of regret. It’s like you’re outside your parents’ house with tear-tracks on your face, desperation and anguish and guilt all warring with one another. Your fingers twitch against the fabric of his coat you’re holding onto while you try to morph the kiss into something else, anything else, but then it ends, and you’re left with only chilly air against your mouth.
You drop your hands and tightly smile. “Night, Sy.”
“Night, darlin’,” he replies, finally dropping his hands from your jaw, as well, and he just stands there staring at you until you finally turn towards the door.
You feel like you should ask him to come inside. It’s his home, too. Having him walk back to his truck–It just feels so wrong. He should at least come inside for a little bit.
…But then what if things turn to shit? What if you have an argument? What if it’s too soon? You’ve gotten along this entire night. What if that doesn’t last?
You take a steady breath. You begin to ask, “Didju wanna–” just as he’s jutting his chin back to the truck. He beats you to it and asks quicker than you can: “Didju wanna go some place for dessert?”
Your mouth parts while you try to comprehend what he’s just said, and he sighs at himself.
“I know it’s bad timin’ since we’re literally already here, but I, uh.” He runs a hand over his shortly-cut hair. “Feel like I’ve sorta fucked this night up from the start, so...”
Your eyebrows bunch together. “What?” you ask in sheer surprise. “What do you mean?”
“This isn’t–” He scowls at his shoes.
“...This isn’t what?” you prompt.
There’s a long silence.
“I want to take you out to nice places,” he finally looks up and explains. “I do.”
You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know what he’s getting at. “It was nice,” you insist. “I wasn’t lyin’ in the truck when you asked about the food–”
“It ain’t that.”
“Then…What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “I know I ain’t the best at this, ‘s all.”
You blink. “At what?”
Sy makes a vague gesture to what he’s wearing and then to his truck. Your eyes follow his movements until you start to put together his meaning.
“Hey, it’s–Maybe we’re just a little out of our comfort zones because it’s been so long,” you quietly say. “But it’s okay, Sy. It really was a good dinner. I had a nice time.”
He glances at you for a moment before putting his hands in his coat pockets. “Didju wanna go get dessert with me?”
Biting your lip, you gratefully smile. “Yes.”
A while later, you and Sy find yourselves occupying a small booth side-by-side at the local Wendy’s, a large chocolate frosty with two spoons shoved inside it resting atop the table in front of you. A ridiculous smile overtakes your face.
Before diving into the thick milkshake he’s just bought for the two of you, Sy takes off his overcoat and his actual suit jacket, too, wasting no time in unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress-shirt and pushing them up his forearms to the elbows.
“I know you hate wearin’ suits,” you say before sliding your spoon in your mouth, “but for what it’s worth, you really do look nice in it.”
“Then that’s what matters,” he responds with a little mirth in his eyes.
You grin as he places both of his elbows on the table and then picks up his spoon. You’re so close that your forearms are touching. Besides the front porch just a few moments ago, this is physically the closest you’ve truly been all night.
“Don’t think they’ll want us back at that nice restaurant for a long time, though,” you conversationally go on. “The first drink that spilled was totally an accident, but when I spilled my glass of wine, too, that probably took it too far.”
“Yeah, guess you don’t wanna embarrass yourself in front of another wine connoisseur, d’you?”
You smile. “Oh, shut up. That entire thing was so weird how he presented the bottle and–”
Sy snaps his fingers. “She tells the truth.”
“I liked it,” you maintain, elbowing him slightly. “It was just…super fancy.”
“Which is a bad thing?”
You shrug and then briefly look away. “Not if you only did it ‘cause you felt you had to.”
“Did it ‘cause it’s what you deserve,” he easily replies. “It’s what you’ve always deserved. I just need to get used to it again.”
“Yeah, me, too,” you murmur.
It’s quieter after that, though thankfully not awkward. With the both of you entirely over-dressed for where you’re at, you joke around together until your chocolate frosty is entirely gone.
The next time you find yourself in front of Sy on your porch, the mood should be much different this go-round, only it oddly feels the same. The same morose expression on Sy’s face. The same hesitance and regret that the night’s ending.
“Guess this is goodnight for real,” you murmur.
Sy looks at the front door. “Guess so.”
“Hey,” you utter, beckoning him to look at you. “Don’t look so sad. Now we get to kiss again.”
Sideways, Sy smiles, then steps closer to you. The way you both wrap your arms around one another is more natural this time–your arms wrapped around his waist, his broad arms around your entire frame.
You turn your head to rest your cheek against his chest and let out, “I missed this.”
“Me, too,” he admits, then–“Missed what?”
You slightly shake your arms to convey the act of hugging, then you squeeze him tighter. “This.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles against your hair. He moves one of his hands to cup the back of your head. “It’s crazy what you lose when…”
“Hm?”
Instead of responding, his fingers catch you by the chin to guide your face upwards. There’s a moment held in suspension while the both of you stare at one another, then within an instant, there’s Sy’s hot mouth covering yours, his breath strangely quivering.
You bring your hands up to cup Sy’s face right back, and with your fingers in his beard, you memorize every movement of his jaw. The kiss isn’t fast, or needy, or deep, but it carries you away nonetheless. It’s back-and-forth rippling, both of you relearning and remembering how you fit together. It’s healing.
When it’s over, the world around you spins for just a bit. You’re left exhaling visibly in the space between your bodies, probably too overwhelmed from just a kiss, but then again, Sy’s breathing quickly, too, little bits of water vapor exiting his mouth in quick white puffs to show you that he is, too. The tip of his nose is pink, and his eyes look heavier than before.
You nervously clear your throat. “Did you–Did you wanna come inside?” you risk.
Sy briefly closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re vaguely troubled.
“Or–I mean–Nevermind, it’s okay,” you immediately amend. “It’s fine. I-I don’t know what I was even thinking.”
He finds one of your hands and loosely takes it in his.
“I just wanna do this right,” he tells you while rubbing the back of your hand with his calloused thumb, and you nod, not knowing exactly what he means. Ultimately you just look down. “We said a month.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, “but it’s not like–”
He interrupts, “I’ll keep puttin’ in the work, goin’ to the VA. And I’ll be back next Saturday. You just–You just keep hangin’ in there for me.”
While he squeezes your hand, you quickly nod.
“Hey,” he says a little louder, and you finally look up again. “Can you do that?”
You smile softly at the determination in his eyes. “I can do that.”
“Good.” His free hand grazes your neck before he leans in and kisses you one final time. “Next Saturday,” he says against your lips.
You repeat his words: “Next Saturday.”
Reaching inside your purse for your house key, your fingers are strangely shaky–due to the cold, you presume. You let yourself inside, and before shutting the door again, you lift up a silent hand to wave goodbye to Sy, the same hand that holds the ghost of his touch.
He lifts up a hand in return.
You aren’t able to shut the door directly in Sy’s face, so you turn around and push it shut with your back. After you hear it click shut, you slide all the way down the length of the wood and sit on the floor, staring out into the empty living room with your mind running a hundred miles an hour.
_________________
The next week finds you in a more carefree headspace than the week before. Your body feels lighter, and somehow, so does your mind. Your nights are almost dreamless. It’s clear-headed and comfortable and exciting, even, as your nightly texting with Sy evolves from a few words at a time to sentences. You imagine you’ll probably move on to actual phone calls soon.
The plan is to go to another restaurant with Sy on Saturday evening, someplace a little more casual yet still reservation-worthy at Sy’s insistence, and he said he’ll pick you up at 6:30 just like last week. When Saturday actually rolls around, however, you’re disappointingly rushed and stressed for reasons not having to do with your upcoming date at all.
After getting called into work last-minute, it messes everything up. You end up running frantically late.
While you give it an honest effort to be entirely ready before 6:30, you fail extremely badly. By the time Sy’s heavily knocking at the door, you’ve only just stepped out of the shower, and when you hastily open the door, it’s with a towel wrapped around you.
Sy gives you a surprised once-over while standing entirely motionless on the front porch like he’s not allowed inside or something. A moment later, he shakes his head at himself and quickly steps in.
“I’m so sorry,” you say in a hurry. “I should’ve texted you–”
He immediately closes the door behind him to stop the cold outside air from hitting your damp skin, and you briefly take in his appearance. He looks so nice and put-together–just like last week except without an actual suit jacket–and you’re in a fucking towel.
“I had to go into the office today to finish up this important deadline,” you start to quickly explain yourself, “and then somethin’ else came up so I had to stay late–it’s a long story–then there was some water-main break on the road comin’ home, and somehow I still thought I could fit in a shower before you came, but–” You stop rambling and just heave a sigh, holding out your bare arms. “Here I am.”
Sy’s extremely quiet as he just listens to you finish rambling. “You don’t need to stress out none. Just me here.”
“It’s not just you. You–You’re important,” you mumble quietly, frowning. “You–And we had plans. You made another reservation.”
He shrugs. “I’ll cancel.”
You hesitate. “You really don’t have to do that,” you say, but he’s already pulling out his phone. “Seriously. I can–”
“Let’s just go somewhere here closeby,” he suggests.
“Okay,” you repeat quietly, lifting up a hand to clutch the front of your towel.
When you make no effort to move, Sy clears his throat while glancing away from your cleavage. “So, you wanna get dressed, or is it gonna be a clothes-off kinda date?”
Reluctantly, your smile grows, changing from shy to wide. “You’re so stupid,” you mutter as you turn around and head for the hallway.
“Why’re you smilin’, then?”
You mumble, “'Cause I can’t help it with you.”
Slowly, Sy follows you down the hall towards the bedroom. “You sayin’ I make you smile?”
"Maybe.”
You enter your bedroom and begin grabbing clothes from your closet, and you make it to the bathroom door before Sy's silence prompts you to seek out his eyes. The banter has been going well, but there’s another frequency that’s entered the room. Something not just heavy but dense.
While he stands at the foot of your bed, he puts one of his hands in the front pocket of his pants. The other holds onto his phone. “Seem to remember you sayin’ all I do is torment you, actually,” he softly utters.
Your face falls. You clear your throat and clutch the clothes you're carrying a little closer to your chest.
“Um. At the…At that time,” you look at the carpet and answer.
“At that time, but not now?” Sy questions, his massive presence in the room making the air feel thick. “Or…at that time, and still now?”
You lift your face to seek out Sy's sad, downward-turned eyes. You momentarily feel like dropping the clothes you're currently grasping in order to reach out to him, to hug him, but you hesitate.
“At that time," you whisper, "but not now.”
He sits down at the end of your bed. Your bed. Your shared bed.
“Well, that’s progress, then,” he states. “I’m gettin’ somewhere. Not tormentin’ my wife anymore.”
While an array of guilt and anguish and hurt hits you, your mouth bunches to the side. “Sy–”
“Shh,” he interrupts, shaking his head at himself. He goes so far as to rub a hand over his face. “Go on’n get dressed. You’re the one who said that supper’s gotta be clothes-on.”
“I…"
The shadows on Sy's face smoothe out, and his eyes regain the brightness from earlier by the front door. It doesn't take long for you to realize that he doesn't want to get into anything deep right now. Not yet. That he’s already feeling self-deprecating enough over slipping out what he already has.
"I didn’t say anything,” you reply, trying to find it in you to chuckle again. “You’re just puttin’ words in my mouth.”
Sy lifts his eyebrows and brings a hand to the front of his dress pants, appearing as if he’s preparing to undo his belt. “Then…clothes off?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and step into the bathroom. After closing it behind you, you finally drop your towel.
“You, uh–You look nice,” you say through the crack in the door. “By the way.”
Replying easily, Sy says, “I imagine you do, too, right now."
It’s been forever since he’s seen you without clothes on. You slide your panties up your legs and jump into your leggings before staring at your bare chest in the mirror. Tilting your head to the side in consideration, you grab your tits with both hands and lift them up.
Letting your hands drop, you pause. “Well, thanks,” you end up saying, still shocked enough to be quiet but loud enough so he can hear it.
While you hear Sy talking on the phone in the next few minutes to cancel his reservation, you put on your bra and the dress you'd picked out before sliding on the earrings he’d gifted you and then pointlessly messing with your hair. You spend the next few minutes applying makeup, and then, when you sigh and figure out that you look about as good as you’re going to, you step back into your bedroom in bare feet.
The sight awaiting you gives you so much déjà vu that you immediately pause in your tracks. Sy's sitting at the foot of the bed waiting for you to finish getting ready. Patient as he always used to be.
Back when you used to go out on regular dates together.
Which…You’re doing again?
Though patient, Sy’s still obviously a little broody–you can tell from the deepness of his frown, the downturned angle of his eyes. When you take a few steps forward to stand in front of him, you exhale heavily and offer him a nervous smile.
“Good?” he asks, smoothing out his face into another neutral expression, and you're frozen. For some reason, you're frozen. Right there in front of Sy. You can't move.
Maybe it’s because it’s suddenly so quiet. Maybe it’s because the last time you were in this room together, you’d had a massive fight and then ran out on him. Maybe it’s simply because you’re in your bedroom all alone, and he’s sitting on the bed you picked out together years ago, and he hasn’t slept beside you in weeks.
For a moment, you don’t know what to do or say. When you gently touch his cheek, he makes unblinking eye-contact with you. It’s then you realize how tired he looks.
There’s still so much obvious hurt between you. If Hope is now a part of this relationship, Hurt can officially now be added into the polycule, as well. The question is, which one is going to stick around?
“Good,” you confirm quietly. “Are you?”
“I’m alright, darlin’,” he says quietly. And then he puts his hands on his legs and stands up.
Tentatively, you push yourself up on bare toes and place the gentlest of kisses against his lips. The kiss goes nowhere, but it’s long, and it’s sweet.
When you lower yourself again, Sy smiles at you, actually showing his teeth. “You’re wearin’ the earrings.”
“I like them.” You bring a hand up to touch one of them. Sy does, too.
After clearing his throat, Sy walks into the hallway, and you follow. By the front door, as you’re bending down to put on your shoes, he lightly taps your ass. You playfully narrow your eyes at him while standing up.
“So, where should we go, anyway?” you shove your arms into your coat and ask.
He shrugs. “I’ll drive around ‘til we see someplace.”
That place ends up being a steakhouse. About fifteen short minutes later, you’re walking through the parking lot with Sy’s hand in your own.
“Our first real date was at one of these places,” you reminisce.
“It was,” Sy acknowledges. “I saved up for two whole months.”
A little too loudly, you laugh, and as he opens the restaurant’s door for you, Sy smirks in the familiar way he’s always done upon saying something that you find funny.
You know he’s thinking the same thing you are, too. The job he worked back in high school was horrible, paying almost nothing. He didn’t have much time back then to work a lot plus do all the extra-curriculars he was already involved in, but damn if he didn’t spend any free moment he had trying to earn money, anyway.
Saving for two entire months is a stretch, though.
There’s a small wait to be seated which you spend on a bench with Sy’s hand on your leg. While you look around with a hand on top of Sy’s, you absentmindedly run your thumb back and forth across his knuckles. The environment inside is just as dim as it was at the restaurant you’d gone to last week, but instead of being ritzy, this place is loud and lively and extremely casual. Without feeling high expectations to maintain proper etiquette, you relax against Sy until your surname is called.
Directly after you’re led to your booth, you order drinks from a waitress you catch staring at Sy for a few seconds too long, then you begin glancing at the menu before you.
“More steak?” you guess.
“Gonna do a burger this time,” he mutters.
“Ah.”
It’s quiet, and Sy studies you for a moment. “Havin’ a hard time decidin’ whatchu want?”
You smirk. He knows you well. “Maybe I’ll close my eyes and just point at something random,” you say.
The waitress comes back with your drinks a few minutes later and looks directly at Sy. “Ready to order yet, or would you like a few more minutes?”
“A few more minutes, please,” he answers before immediately glancing back in your direction.
While your eyes continue to rake over the menu full of options, Sy pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing thick cords of muscle that are accentuated when he reaches out for his glass of soda. You’re unable to pay attention to anything else as he brings his glass to his mouth. His chunky watch resting on his right wrist glistens under the low-hanging overhead light, and you’re enamored just watching him for a bit. His shoulders and chest are so damn big.
You clear your throat and finally just place your menu down because you’re too distracted to look at it any longer. At your ongoing staring at him, Sy questioningly raises his eyebrows.
“You look nice,” you explain. “Your–Your outfit.”
Under the table, you feel Sy’s knee bump against yours. “You, too, but I already said that,” he replies, and then he winks.
You’re left stupidly staring at one another for a few moments until the waitress comes back. “How’s it goin’? Have you decided anything?” she looks at Sy and asks.
Immediately, Sy looks at you. You quietly mouth “I’m good.”
The waitress continues looking at Sy. “Would you like to start with an appetizer?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “The combo-plate for an appetizer, then a bacon cheeseburger for me–medium rare–with the steak fries.”
“Right away.” She looks at you next.
You clear your throat. “I’m just going to get the fried chicken dinner,” you politely tell her.
“Alrighty,” she collects your menus and says, “I’ll put all that in for y’all and be back with y’all’s appetizer shortly.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, and then when she’s gone, you tell Sy, “I’m gonna be so full when we leave this place. I didn’t know you were gettin’ an appetizer, too.”
“You liked the combo plate the last time we came here,” he quietly says.
Trying to think of the last time you did come here, you blink.
He’s…not wrong. You had liked it then. You can’t even remember when that even was, but you know you’d gotten the combo platter as an appetizer and had eaten almost all of it by yourself.
“Shoulda asked you,” he mutters when your silence goes on too long.
“No, no,” you say quickly. “I do still like it. I’m excited. Just…gonna be a lotta food.”
His face relaxes. “I toldju you’re gonna have to need your Thanksgiving pants.”
You take a tip of your drink through a smirk. “You said that for our date last week,” you remind him. “Not this one.”
“Takin’ you out for dinner and dessert didn’t have you changin’ into your Thanksgiving pants last week?”
You put your thumb and your index finger together to signal “almost” to Sy and continue smiling at his own stupid smirk he offers you.
Things are nice and light between you in the moments that follow, but when the waitress comes back with your appetizer and you both start picking at the food on the hot plate, you chance asking, “How’s it been goin’ at the VA?”
“Went twice this week,” Sy says, not actually answering the question. “Solo and group.”
“Oh, good,” you genuinely comment. “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” he replies non-tonally.
You take a bite of food and wash it down with a drink. “You disagree?”
He shrugs. “Just been…a helluva week. Been bringin’ up a lot of shit.”
You nod. “Is it easier with other people around that relate?” you ask. “Like, do the other people there have similar stories? At the group sessions?”
He shrugs while somewhat nodding. “Sorta similar.”
“I don’t mean to pry or anything if you don’t want to talk about it right now,” you mumble. “I’m just trying to…see how you’re doing.”
He meets your eyes and holds your gaze for a long moment. “It ain’t that. I don’t really like–” He sighs. “It’s hard to be the one doin’ the talkin’. Hard to talk about any of it at all.”
“Being vulnerable,” you murmur.
Sy grabs a buffalo wing from the plate and bites it. While chewing, he lets out a quiet grunt.
“But what if– Just hypothetically, what if it was one of your friends instead,” you propose. “...And what if they were havin’ some of the issues that you’ve been havin’? Or…that you’ve had. What would you say to them?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m probably not makin’ any sense,” you murmur. “I mean, like, what if they were tryin’ to get some help, and they were the ones at the VA? What kind of advice would you give them?”
Sy reaches out for a napkin to wipe off his mouth, and you watch his titanium wedding band dimly gleam as he moves his hand around. “What, durin’ groups?”
You nod and go back to eating your food.
“I’d tell ‘em to fuckin’ get it all out,” Sy ruefully says with a dark chuckle. “We’re all fuckin' scared sometimes. I always–” He glances up at you and then looks back down at his plate. “I always say it’s better to talk for a long time than to talk for the last time.”
“Mm. Yet you yourself don’t always follow your own advice,” you mumble with food still in your mouth.
He clears his throat. “Maybe not.”
“Why do you hold yourself to such a higher standard, babe?”
He steels his jaw. “'Cause I've got to.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” He takes a drink of his soda and slowly sets the glass down. He seems to mull over your question for a few moments, touching his beard before finally answering. “I’m the superior. I’m the one in charge.” He lowers his voice and mutters, almost as if to himself, “I was the one in charge.”
"Okay, but there're people in charge of you, and other people in charge of those people," you respond. “In the military, you’ve got those grades, right? Unless you’re literally just starting out, everyone’s literally gonna be the superior of someone else. It goes up and up and up. That’s just how it works. You’re always gonna be in charge of someone, but someone’s always gonna be in charge of you, too.”
“What are you tryin’ to say?”
“That you shouldn’t feel weird or–or stupid, or guilty, or whatever it is–for opening up and talking about everything,” you answer, but afterwards, you sigh, ultimately letting out what you’ve been wanting to say for a long, long time. “If you ever made a mistake–or, if you feel like you did, at least–then it was just that, Sy–a mistake. You were followin’ orders.”
There’s a beat of silence. “That’s not necessarily how it works.”
You tilt your head to the side. “So you’re sayin’ you were insubordinate or something?”
Sy narrows his eyes at your challenge.
“Guess you were just followin’ your orders,” you conclude breezily.
Sy sits back and crosses his arms, and you soften your features.
"It'll eat you alive if you let it, Sy. Don't let it."
He lets out a sigh as if releasing all air in his lungs at once. "Talkin’ about all my fuck-ups in combat is hard enough,” he admits, “but…it’s like I’m re-livin’ it. Like I’m lettin' everyone down a final time."
"Sy…"
"Maybe if I'd'a gotten to go to the actual funerals it'd be different,” he mumbles. “I dunno. Was stuck in hell tryna keep the operation from turnin' into a complete failure."
“And I’m sure that’s exactly what you did,” you say, reaching out and touching his knuckles with your fingertips, “and I’m sure that everyone’s thankful for you.”
“I don’t know if thankful would be the word I’d…” he trails off.
When it’s clear he’s not going to finish his sentence, you both resume eating the rest of the snack foods in front of you in silence for a while. Your actual dinner plates arrive sometime later, and it’s only after Sy’s finished half his entree that he actually talks again.
“There’re some things I don’t know if I can ever really say out loud, Y/N,” he admits without looking at you. “About what I’ve seen. What I’ve done. Not to you.”
You nod. “I get that.”
He puts down his half-eaten burger and finally makes eye-contact. “But I want you to know that it ain’t ‘cause I don’t…It ain’t ‘cause I think of you less.”
“You just don’t want me thinkin’ of you less,” you finish.
He stares at you unblinkingly–just open, earnest eyes.
“I wouldn’t, you know,” you almost whisper. “Think of you less.”
Briefly looking away again, he mildly shakes his head. “You don’t know that.”
“I swear that I do,” you immediately reply, and when Sy looks at you again, you let him stare into your eyes as long as it takes for him to see you’re telling the truth.
He wordlessly picks up his cheeseburger again and resumes eating, but underneath the table, he reaches out a foot and hooks one of his ankles around yours.
_________________
On your front porch with Sy again a few hours later, you both stall saying goodbye.
After rocking on the balls of his feet, Sy asks, “Had a good night?”
“I did, yeah,” you answer with a smile. “It was nice.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “‘Specially that part about funerals.”
"Are you forgettin' already that you openin' up is what I want?"
Sy lifts a hand to briefly rub the side of his neck. "It don't make good date-talk," he mutters, and you give him a look, tilting your head to the side.
“Yeah, well. I don’t care what you think you’re supposed to say or what you think you’re not supposed to say. I want to hear,” you remind him. “We can’t pretend none of it’s there. It’s…It’s the whole reason we’re doing this one month thing.”
Sy’s quiet, but he ultimately nods.
You let out a quiet sigh. “I just want you to believe me,” you look down and mutter.
“It ain’t that I don’t.”
“You just want to keep punishing yourself,” you murmur.
“I–” He slides a hand over his head and then drops it. “I’ve been runnin’ away from a lotta shit. I know I have.”
“I ran away, too, you know,” you quietly reply.
He frowns. “I pushed you away,” he corrects.
“But still. It’s not just on you here. You don’t have to keep sufferin’ all alone.”
You take a small step forward until your shoes touch his.
“I know that when we were–when we were arguing recently,” you say, “I said a lot of stuff that I know made you feel bad, and I hate that, but–it’s just ‘cause I’ve been hurt. But I entirely understand that you’ve been hurt, too. So if you’re ever ready to do the counseling stuff with me there, too…I’d like that.”
Without replying, he nods a little, his frown making his face slightly droop. After taking in a deep breath, he lets out a long, audible sigh just through his nostrils.
“I’m not going to give up on you,” you finish, swallowing thickly. “And I’m not going to let you give up on yourself, either. In sickness and in health, remember? In good times and in bad.”
You remain silent while giving Sy time to reflect on your words. Standing entirely still, he looks oddly choked up.
“I know I’ve said this already, but—” he clears his throat– “I really am sorry.”
You offer a small smile. “I forgive you.”
Sy shakes his head. “I don’t deserve it yet.”
“Why’s that?”
“I haven’t earned it,” he answers, and then he vows: “But I’m gonna.”
You don’t know what to say. “Sy…”
“It’s…” He looks down momentarily. “It’s a hard thing to admit when you’ve fucked up.” He lowers his voice even more. “Not just with your job. When you ain’t been a good man to your wife.”
A flaming arrow finds and momentarily chars your heart as it travels through your chest. “Yeah, but…the important thing is that you’re dealing with it,” you remind him. “That you’re moving forward. That–we’re moving forward. We’re here now. Together.”
The side of his mouth turns upwards. “Yeah, we are,” he says, and then, slowly, he leans downwards to meet your mouth.
Without embracing one another, your goodbye kiss is short. You don’t make a move to go inside once your mouths hesitantly break away, though, because you feel like there’s the chance to maybe talk more, to maybe kiss more. Just like last week…there’s a chance to smoothe over all of this hurt. Little by little, to salve the wound. To keep healing.
“Well…” You grab your house keys when you realize that your conversation must be final. “Goodnight.”
Suddenly, Sy touches your elbow. “That offer from last week still stand?”
You turn your face to look at him while unlocking the door. “What offer?”
He motions to the door with his chin and clears his throat. “Am I still invited inside?”
“Oh!” you let out, not sure why he’s changed his mind. “Uhh. Yeah. Sure.”
“Just a suggestion,” he murmurs, trying to be nonchalant and failing.
“No, it’s just–last week, you acted like you had this dead-set rule to not come inside for a whole month, that’s all.”
“Well, I gotta stop punishin’ myself now,” he tells you. “Wife’s orders.”
You look down and smile before pushing open the door and stepping inside. Like he’s been doing lately, Sy helps you out of your coat and hangs it up on the little rack by the door. Usually his cap and set of keys hang there, too.
After standing awkwardly in the room for a bit while Sy hangs up his jacket next to yours, you take off your shoes.
“You want anything to drink?” you ask, taking a few more steps into the room. “You still got beer in the fridge.”
“I’m good.”
Your reply is quiet. “‘Kay.”
Sy moves to sit down on the couch and naturally takes up almost half of it. “You can prob’ly just throw ‘em out.”
Taking a seat next to Sy, it’s surprising how naturally you lean into his side. It’s oddly intimate when he lifts his arm to let you move in closer. “What, you don’t drink anymore?”
“Been tryin’ not to,” he says, and before you can comment on that, he reaches for the remote and asks, “You still been watchin’ that one show you like?”
You softly chuckle. “You gotta give me a little more than that.”
“The one with that actor you like,” is what he goes with, and you playfully narrow your eyes.
“That’s not remotely helpful.”
“Yes, it is,” he genuinely smiles and says. “That guy with the accent.”
“Ooh, that show,” you realize. “I finished it.”
“Whatchu watchin’ now?”
You shrug. “Nothing. Just…whatever’s on until I fall asleep, honestly,” you answer. “HGTV. The Food Network. Boring stuff like that.”
Soon, Sy clicks to some sort of cooking show, and you can’t help but groan. “Ughh, not now, though. I’m still so full that I don’t think I can bear lookin’ at this.”
“Well,” he changes the channel and says, “I don’t know if I can compromise on the HGTV.”
You slightly elbow him. “Just put on whatever, I don’t care. You know we have Netflix.”
While continuously changing the channel, he takes his time to respond. “Yeah.”
You both end up agreeing to watch some new documentary on Netflix–an easy, safe choice. All the while, your fingers twitch where they’re smushed between your leg and Sy’s.
Don’t you still want me? you want to ask. Don’t you want me at all?
With his arm around you, his hand stays appropriately-placed, not moving at all. Not even to caress. He just protectively secures you. After analyzing his lack of affection as his way of not jumping into things instead of his way of showing he’s not attracted to you, though, you start to relax.
It’s not long before your mind slows down while staring at the television ahead with your head tilted against Sy’s body, and you begin to match the cadence of his breathing–deep and full, full and deep. Being so close to him feels nice and warm and heavy. While you sink more into the couch and more into his side, you let yourself melt even more. Your stomach is full and your body is slack, and your nostrils and head are full of Sy’s scent. It’s nice… and warm… and heavy.
The next thing you remember is an insistent shaking near your shoulder. It’s persistent enough that you bolt upright and realize immediately from your heavy, disoriented head that you’ve fallen asleep.
“Shit,” you swear, your eyes gritty as they blink open. “What time is it?”
“Close to midnight.”
Your eyes grow larger. “Sy,” you whine. “Why didn’t you get me up?”
Beside you, Sy answers with a shrug, but there’s some sort of soft look in his eyes that you catch before he looks ahead at the TV. “You looked tired.”
“Yeah, guess I was,” you admit, wishing you hadn’t had to work earlier in the day. Maybe you would’ve had more energy to actually stay up.
Yawning, you lift your arms above your head. Right at the same time, Sy audibly places both of his hands atop his legs.
“Guess I should prob’ly get.”
Still disoriented, you sit upright even more and rub your eyes. Everything seems too bright even though the only light is coming from the flickering television set.
You turn to Sy and stare at him. His face is just so stupidly handsome. “Huh?”
“I’m gonna go on and head out,” he says again before standing up.
“Oh,” you utter. “Okay.”
When you stand up, too, you notice flowers that are new inside a vase on the coffee table. You reach down to touch them. “Where’d these come from?”
“Accidentally left ‘em in the car,” Sy tells you as he starts putting on his jacket.
You softly trail the tips of your fingers across soft purple and pink petals. “These colors are really, really pretty together.”
When you find the bouquet’s card still within its little plastic holder, you lift it up and flip it around. Did You Know? Hyacinths represent deep sorrow, guilt, and forgiveness. Lotus represents hope , overcoming adversity, and emerging stronger.
“Do you..” You look up at Sy and drop the card on the table. “Do you get these flowers on purpose?”
Instead of playing dumb, Sy just stands there. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I dunno,” you mutter. “I just…”
Without any further response, you walk directly to him and hug him around the neck. His return embrace almost squeezes the breath out of you, and you’re grateful; he does still want you. When you feel him cradle your head against his chest before leaning down to kiss the top of your hair, you wonder–not for the first time and not for the last–how the fuck you even got to this place together.
When the silent, heavy hug has finally gone on almost too long, you lower your arms and step back. Almost longingly, you stare at one another.
“I love you,” you murmur.
“I love you,” Sy softly responds. “You don’t know how much.”
Sy holds your face underneath your chin while kissing you one last time, then he separates again, his eyes still vaguely troubled in a way you wish you could make disappear for good.
“Next Saturday,” he says before opening the front door, and you repeat his words.
This time, when he leaves, you stand under the front porch light and watch as his truck backs out of the driveway and then completely disappears.
In your bedroom, you take two long pillows and stuff them longways under the blanket on Sy’s side of the bed, making a vague person-shaped lump beside you. When you go to sleep, it’s to imagining the feeling of his arm around you on the couch.
__________________________
The next Saturday, Sy surprisingly mixes up the routine he’s created by picking you up at noon instead of in the evening, whichs means that both of you are gratefully wearing comfortable, casual clothes. While he stands on the front porch with a fresh set of flowers displayed in front of him, you’re happy to note that there’s color in his face again that’s been missing these past few months.
“Hey, you,” he says, and you smile brightly as you accept the bouquet.
“Hey, yourself.” You push yourself upwards on your tip-toes to give him a long kiss.
“Didn’t forget ‘em this time,” he says, and like you’d done the first time, you dash into the kitchen for a vase and flip over the card on the side of the bouquet.
Did You Know? Yarrows represent healing and love.
You can barely stop yourself from skipping on your way out the house to his truck. Maybe this date will be different. Maybe the ghosts that’ve been hanging around you both will have finally found someone else to haunt.
Sy opens the passenger door for you. “Hop on in.”
“Where’re we goin’?” you ask in slight excitement.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, waiting for you to buckle your seatbelt before closing the door. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of a drive.”
You wiggle on the seat. “Oooh. Road trip. Fine by me.”
The drive is long yet comfortable. Everything flows naturally, the music on the radio a background noise to the soundtrack of you and Sy truly coming together again. It’s helped that your texting has picked up this week, too, feeling like having true conversations throughout each day without either of you feeling pressured.
Eventually, you start noticing familiar signs and landmarks, and you turn to the side to stare at Sy.
“What, we’re headed to our hometown?”
Sy looks self-satisfied. “Yep.”
“Oooh,” you say again, aimlessly smiling while wondering what surprise is about to happen. “Goin’ back home.”
While paying attention to the road, Sy smiles in response to your pleased reaction. The skin by his eyes crinkles in a way you’ve always found endearing.
It’s nice.
It’s nice until it’s not.
Small droplets of water start to fall onto the windshield, and it’s almost instantaneous how quickly the lighthearted expression on Sy’s face drops. When those droplets start rhythmically falling quicker and heavier, covering the entire windshield and causing Sy to turn on his windshield-wipers, the mood within the truck entirely sours.
“God dammit,” Sy curses quietly, and you glance at him in confusion, unable to understand how he’s so perturbed over just a little rain. “Fuck.”
“Ah, it’s okay. It’s just a little rain,” you murmur, trying to chuckle, but another look at his face shows you exactly how surly he’s being. “Sy, it’s seriously okay.”
“It’s horseshit.”
"Okay," you utter in slight discomfort.
He sighs in apology. How you're able to discern what an apologetic sigh sounds like, you don't know, but it's clear Sy's aware of how he's coming across without meaning to.
“You…want me to drive or somethin’?” you ask, and he just shakes his head.
Your mind wanders. You start wondering if maybe he had a bad experience in the rain or something, something he’s never told you, something you need to be careful about discussing.
It just doesn’t make sense. You don't understand his mood. Things had been going so well so far. There had been Hope.
Moments later while at a stop sign, Sy finally turns his head to look at you. “Was gonna take you down to the river," he explains. "To our rock. Didn’t look at the damn forecast first.”
At that, your eyes soften. “Aww. Well, we can still go,” you insist.
“No, we can’t,” he mutters. “It’s rainin’.”
“We’ve got jackets on.”
“Hmpfh.”
“I wanna go,” you insist again, and Sy cranes his neck forward to look up at the gray clouds everywhere before giving you an unimpressed look.
“Ain’t lettin’ up any time soon.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Gonna be freezin’ cold.”
“Woulda been freezin’ cold with or without the rain,” you comment. You take hold of his arm and gently shake it. “C’mon. Drive there. I’m excited now.”
And so, with a resigned sigh and the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, he does.
In another ten minutes, Sy’s truck slows down while navigating a muddy back-road and then finally slows down under a canopy of trees.
“Everything okay?” you check in when he doesn’t make any further movements to get out the truck.
He rubs his beard absentmindedly. “I brought a buncha food in a cooler back here,” he gestures to the backseat and says. “Was gonna have lunch out by the water.”
“We could eat it here,” you suggest, unbuckling your seat belt.
He just stares at you. “Here,” he repeats. “In the cab of my truck.”
You shrug in consideration. “Nice view of the trees and stuff.”
Sy’s shoulders shake. “Nice view of the trees.”
“You just gonna repeat whatever I say?” you ask. “Yes, it’s a nice view of the trees. I happen to like it here.”
That’s an understatement. One of the reasons you’re so happy to be here is that it’s–it’s your spot. It’s the one spot you used to hang out together at when you were young, where you could be truly alone together. It’s not only nostalgic but is an incredibly meaningful decision on Sy’s part. It’s…borderline romantic as fuck, actually.
“Yeah, well.” He’s still wallowing over the rain, but he quietly responds, “Me, too.”
He’s put a lot of thought into this. He’s putting a lot of thought into this–all of this, the dating-his-wife-again thing. You know it shouldn’t be cute for him to be so grumpy all over a little rain, but you get it. He’d planned something. He’d planned a picnic.
He’s still carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s still blaming himself for not having every single thing go to plan.
Maybe it’s time you intervene.
You touch the door handle and pull it. “Actually, though… I don’t think I’m hungry just yet.”
“Huh?”
You push open the door.
”What in the hell are you doin’?” he stares at you and asks, and you stare right back.
“You told me we were gonna go to our rock.”
“That was the plan before the rain came.”
“And I said I still wanted to go,” you remind him. “We’ve got jackets on.”
“Y/N.”
“Sy,” you match his tone. “What, you afraid you’re gonna get your hair wet?”
Shaking his head, Sy smirks a little, the kind of smirk where he sticks his tongue in his cheek and you can still clearly see it even through his beard. “You’re crazy.”
“Yeah,” you simply answer. “It’s why you love me.”
Then you jump down from your seat.
“Woman.”
Soft rain instantly begins to make contact with your hair and clothes, and the droplets are slightly chilly where they land. By the time you make it to Sy's side of the truck, you’re noticeably wet, but you start to spin around until Sy finally opens his own door.
"C'mon," you urge, gesturing with both arms for him to step out. He remains still, just staring down at you while you spin around.
"Gonna tell me what you're doin'?" he asks while you get more and more wet.
"Well." With your arms outstretched, you spin again. "Right now I'm spinnin’, but I know you won't, so once you get out here I'll just have to figure it out as I go, I guess."
You hold out your hand invitingly, and Sy just stares at it, prompting you to insistently wiggle your wet fingers. “Come on,” you say again, grinning, and he finally concedes, trying and failing to hide a smile as he gets out the truck.
As rain instantly falls atop Sy's closely shaved head, you take in his steadily-wettening coat and jeans and smile. You didn’t think he’d actually do this.
Looking to the side where you know there's the path leading to the river, you momentarily peek back at Sy who’s assessing the forest with a stern brow, and you pause in consideration.
You don’t think it could be triggering for him in any way. He mostly goes to desert environments with no rain, so you're comfortable that this won't remind him of anything bad. This'll be a new memory. You start walking towards the treeline.
"Didn't your momma ever tell you goin’ in the woods durin’ a storm prob’ly ain’t the smartest idea?” Sy asks as he follows you.
“Oh, c’mon, it’s not thunderin’,” you say. “It’s not like we’re gonna get struck by lightnin’.”
“Just by a fallin’ tree,” Sy comments, and you make a face before chuckling.
“It’s not even rainin’ that hard. The leaves are filterin’ most of it. See? It’s not so bad anymore.”
He pauses and looks around for a bit, muttering under his breath. “Smells like duck shit out here.”
You frown. You know that he’s been mentally dealing with a lot lately in therapy, having to unbury all types of stuff he’s been pushing way down. You get that his behavior all month is largely due to it.
…Maybe you’re trying to be too playful here to counteract his negativity.
“You wanna go back to the truck for lunch?” you slow down and ask seriously, and Sy looks at you.
Realizing how he’s coming across, he pauses and reaches out for your elbow. He shakes his head at himself and gives you a slightly apologetic look.
“What’s the plan here?” he asks, and you shrug.
“Not everything has to be planned, you know,” you tell him with a soft smile, moving your arm to take Sy’s hand in your own. “We’re just goin’ on a walk. To our rock.”
Sy’s chest expands as he takes a deep breath, and then he steps ahead. “In the rain.”
“Yep,” you say brightly, and then, with a quick squeeze of his hand, you drop it before you’re off, leading the way for once. “Maybe we’ll find some nice frogs. Or worms.”
"Too cold for the animals to be out."
Fighting back a sigh, you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. "Just us, then."
The straight path is deep in various spots, causing water to collect in pools within ruts, and instinctively, you tap at the standing water with your feet, ultimately hopping into some of the larger puddles.
“This whatchu got into while I was on tour?” Sy asks nearby. “Playin’ in the rain?”
You jump two-footed into a large hole in the ground so that the water within it splashes all over Sy’s jeans. “Yup," you answer, and then you do it again. "Should try it sometime."
"You go right ahead," he says in amusement.
"Oooh, this one looks deep," you exclaim, finding a puddle that must be at least up to your shins, and you test it out. “Look at this one.”
Instantly realizing you’ve underestimated the depth of it, when you’re soon shin-deep in cold water, you squeal in shock. Laughing, you hold onto Sy.
The entire time he lifts you out of the rut, you grin. And then, with your socks drenched in water, you’re off.
“Y/N!” he shouts, but you’re too busy laughing.
This is where you’re from. This is your hometown. You and Sy have spent countless hours on this very dirt. You know the earth beneath you. The roots out here are on your side; they wouldn’t trip you. You leap over them easily.
“Y/N, it’s fuckin’ wet!” you hear from behind you, but you keep going.
You slightly slip on the mud underneath you as your feet take off more confidently, gleefully speeding with the thrill of being pursued out here like the old days. Figuring it could be an issue for Sy instead of good fun if you were to actually get out of his sight, you never go too far ahead where he can’t see you, but your head-start and your smaller stature are both on your side.
“Y/N!”
"I'm right here," you shout back, momentarily looking over your shoulder with a playful grin.
When you come to a briar patch, you stop, and you look side-to-side. There’s no clear path anymore to your left or right, and there’s no way to go through the bush in front of you without jumping over it, and that’s not happening; you’re having too much fun right now to get your jeans cut up.
Hearing Sy close behind you, you dart to the left, but instantly, he’s there. You squeal before you look around, and when you see another mud puddle off to the side, you jump in it quickly, instantly splashing Sy and cackling.
For the first time in ages, he genuinely smiles at you. It starts small, almost hesitant like it’s been all month, and widens and widens and widens until all of his perfectly white teeth show, the one at the top a little crooked. His smile grows until it almost turns mischievous, and then he crouches down, leers at you, and collides with your body in a gentle tackle. Breathlessly, you continue laughing, and then you find yourself being pressed against the damp yet rough side of a tree.
“Gotcha,” he says, almost victorious.
“You’re just too good,” you reply, out of breath. You let your body go lax, Sy’s hand cradling your lower back a buffer to the rougher parts of the bark behind you.
Sy’s heavily breathing in front of you, mouth agape as he heaves in air, and his eyes travel all over your face. You just stare back at him.
“Look where we are,” you whisper.
He looks around and slightly smiles. “We made it.”
You’ve been to this spot more times than you can count. You used to come out to this spot all the time–mostly with Sy alone, but sometimes with friends. You’d listen to music as you drank cheap wine-coolers and snacked on cheap food. You’d waded and you’d swam in the water here, sometimes clothed and sometimes not. You’d laughed under the sun and the moon.
Sy showed off for you here, doing pull-ups on the low-hanging tree-branches, lifting boulders and throwing them just because he could, teaching you about the species of birds and fish and wildlife.
More memorably, you’d race one another out here. Sy dedicated the entire year before he went into the military to training, and you made fun of him for army-crawling around in the mud back then because he’d look so ridiculous, but he took it seriously. You’d time how long it took for him to run to the barbed-wire fence by the cow field and back–a difficult trip over tons of tree roots, rocks, and poison ivy–and then you offered yourself up as a target to chase.
Just like you’d just finished doing a moment ago.
“We had a lot of good times out here, huh?”
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “We did.”
The expression on Sy’s face morphs from happy nostalgia to worry within seconds, noted by the angle of his eyes. “You coulda broken a damn leg doin’ that shit out here, Y/N,” he scolds. “Runnin’ like that.”
Instead of getting upset at his demeanor, you lift your arms and wrap your hands around his neck. “I’m wearin’ boots, Sy. And I was bein’ careful.”
“Still coulda happened,” he says.
“Maybe,” you respond calmly while patiently looking up at him. Even though he’s crouching down, he’s still massively large. “But that would’ve been out of your control.”
In response, Sy lifts an eyebrow at you, and you tilt your head to the side.
"You can't always keep bad stuff from happenin', Sy."
Sy’s face goes through a series of changes, and, as if it were really visible somehow, you watch without blinking as some of the weight of the constant pressure he puts on himself begins to slowly lift.
He still wants to argue with you, you know, but he’s not.
“You can’t control everything,” you repeat yourself, softer this time while your hands slide down to rest atop his chest. “Not the weather. Not me slippin’ in the mud. Sometimes things just…happen. Things that're beyond your control. And that’s okay.”
His eyes look weary when they look into yours. “I’m only tryna protect you, Y/N.”
“I know,” you gently reply.
“That’s all I ever try to do.”
“I know.”
“I married you ‘cause I love you, I fuckin’ do,” he forces out, fingers of one hand twitching against your back and fingers of the other grabbling for your waist, “and even if the person I have to protect you from is–is–”
“You don’t have to protect me from yourself,” you firmly grip his jacket and say. “You never have to do that. You take care of me.”
He continues staring at you, his face damp, his eyes a bit wild.
“You take care of me,” you repeat.
When he abruptly presses his lips to yours, they’re wet and a little cold. Your clothes are wet and a little cold, as well, and you’re definitely going to regret it when your adrenaline dies down, but for now, it’s worth it. You kiss him back just as fervently, chasing his mouth until he backs off, breathing quickly.
“You take care of me,” you repeat again.
He puts his forehead on yours. “I want to.”
“You do,” you repeat once more. “Because that’s your job. And you take your job seriously.”
Dangling from the tree branch upside down, Sy’s legs were bent at the knee to secure his weight. He crossed his arms across his shirtless chest in an X, and you watched from afar as he began to lift his upper body up to do crunches.
Such a ridiculous and obviously attention-seeking guy your boyfriend was, but still, you were magnetized by the sheen of sweat on his skin, by the stamina and focused intensity he showed during his work-outs.
“Hey, you,” he said when you got closer.
You smirked. “Hey, yourself.”
Still hanging upside down, Sy stopped exercising and reached out for you. Feeling silly, you leaned forward, grabbed his damp face, and kissed him, and you giggled into his mouth at the weird sensation of your lips being upside down.
The silliness died when he abruptly said without warning, “Marry me.”
You wanted to laugh at the way his eyes seemed to cross while he was looking at you, but you couldn’t. You took a step back. “What?”
He let go of the branch and dropped to the ground with an impressive flip. He took just two seconds to catch his breath, then he said just as seriously, “Marry me.”
Waiting for the punch-line, you finally let out your little laugh. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“Ain’t it obvious?” he answered. “I’m talkin’ about you marryin’ me.”
“No matter what job it is,” you go on, “you take it seriously. You take care of me.”
Sy’s hands don’t let go of their heavy grip on you.
“I know that the military defines you, Sy. I get that,” you quietly say. “It’s who you are and who you’ll always be. I know this. But…not everything is a mission.”
Sy continues to just breathe in the small sliver of space between your faces.
“And you can’t keep holdin’ yourself to these impossibly high standards, Sy. It’s not fair to yourself.”
He forces himself to take a deep breath.
“You don’t have to be Captain Syverson all the time,” you softly say, almost shaking him. “You don’t have to get upset if everything doesn’t go to plan, like our dates or whatever. Everything’s been great as it is. You can just…let whatever happens happen. You can just…be Sy.”
“Just Sy,” he murmurs.
“Yeah. Sy. The guy I married,” you add. Then you pull his face down to yours.
“It’s what we’ve always talked about,” he’d said. “Gettin’ married.”
“Yeah, it’s just…” You took a few steps to the side until you reached the smooth expanse of the large rock by the giant tree. Your rock, you called it. You sat down and pulled your knees to your chest. “We just graduated.”
He shrugged before sitting down directly next to you. “Whether we’re young or not don’t change anything.”
You turned your gaze from the river ahead of you to Sy. “But doesn’t it?”
“Whether we do it now or wait five, ten years–what’s the difference?”
“Yeah,” you murmured, still in shock. “It just always seemed like something that seemed really far-off, that’s all.”
There was silence. “So is that a no?”
Stupidly, you laughed, and stupidly, you nodded. Even though you were both young, who cared? He was it for you.
“Yeah?”
Quickly, you nodded again, and you said against his suddenly approaching mouth, “Yeah.”
“Okay, then.” He laughed against your lips. “Let’s do it.”
“What?” you asked. “Now?”
“Well, not right this second,” he said. “Gotta get a ring first. Somethin’ pretty as you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Your lips purse against Sy’s and begin rippling, and Sy reciprocates as his fingers twitch against you. Breaking the kiss with a smack, Sy stands upright, and almost dumbly, he grins.
“What?” you ask.
“You smiled,” he whispers, and you just blink. “Against my lips. You smiled.”
You look at him with your eyebrows lifted.
“You used to do that,” he says. “You always used to do that.”
“Yeah, I–I did.”
“We’re still us,” Sy murmurs, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. Raindrops fall from the canopy of trees above, trailing down his forehead and clumping on the tips of his eyelashes before he blinks them off. “I’m still me.”
You nod. “You’re still you. I’m still me.”
“We’re still each other,” he whispers.
“We are,” you repeat, grinning so widely it almost hurts your face.
Briefly, he looks to the side. “Sound like a fuckin’ lunatic,” he mumbles under his breath, and you quickly shake your head, grabbing his face.
"You don't," you reassure, making him look down at you. “You really don’t. Keep goin’.”
“I can kiss you however I want.”
Laughing, you nod. “You can.”
Then he does. With his hips now confidently pressing against yours, he gives you more of his body as he brushes his lips over yours again. His tongue delves in your mouth–again, and then again, and then again–and gone is the tentative hesitation you’ve watched him struggle with these past few weeks.
“What we had was good,” he says into your mouth.
You’re slipping. “It was,” you slur quietly.
“I can make it that way again.”
“You can,” you agree, then in between another kiss, you amend it to, “We can,” but you really, really like the control Sy’s taking back here. Your eyes remain closed while he suckles your bottom lip.
You kiss and squeeze each other and kiss some more, until your very teeth feel like chattering, and when you start to actually lose your breath, you have to disconnect.
“Okay,” you say, slightly chuckling. “I think–I think we might need to get back to the truck.”
Sy reluctantly loosens his grip on you. “You gonna race me?”
“Hell no,” you laugh, then you accept his offered hand and begin walking at a regular pace down the narrow muddy trail.
Together and side-by-side, you walk back to Sy’s truck, your body buzzing.
Inside the cab, Sy instantly turns on the heater, and you instantly take off your boots and socks.
“You wanna eat?” he asks, turning to look at you and failing to hide how his eyes keep trailing to your lips. “I gotchu tons of stuff you like.”
“Of course you did,” you happily say, chuckling. “But we’re both soakin’ wet. Let’s go home and shower first, change clothes. We can…We can just eat at the table.”
Images of Sy in the shower enter your mind. Images of the both of you in the shower together enter your mind. Images of the both of you at the kitchen table enter your mind–domestic and familiar.
You actually used to eat dinner together at the table. You’d have intricate meals. The table would be decorated with flowers he’d buy you.
He’s gotten you flowers every week now.
You find yourself incredibly, unexpectedly sentimental.
“Hey,” Sy says, and you jerk your head, shaken out of your thoughts. “What is it?”
“Hm?”
Sy takes hold of your chin with his thumb and forefinger, leading you to look at him. “You’re about to cry.”
You lift your hands to wipe the sides of your eyes. Sy still doesn’t let go of your face, and you’re forced to bare your thoughts. “I just–I want you to come home,” you admit, your voice slightly breaking.
He slowly blinks. “But you–”
“I know what I said,” you interrupt. “I know. Just–come home, Sy. Come home.”
Sy lowers his hand from your chin. When silence fills the truck, you begin to grow slightly uncomfortable. “Don’t you want to?”
“It’s all I want,” he admits. “You wantin’ me there.”
