I was tagged by my lovely friend @elliekayfiction to participate in the WIP game. Basically these are the fanfics I currently have in progress in my Google Drive (I excluded anything that is just an idea with nothing actually drafted because that list would be over like 40 or 50 things).
If any of these happen to catch your attention based on the name or pairing, feel free to send me an ask and I'll share a little more about them!
Summary: You think Bradley Bradshaw is all California sunshine and surfboards, not ice rinks and hockey sticks. When he surprises you with a first date at the rink, you quickly learn two things: You are spectacularly bad on ice. Bradley is surprisingly good on ice. Between wobbly skates, unexpected hockey skills, and a winter night wrapped in cedar lights and quiet confessions, what starts as a simple date becomes something softer and steadier.
Word Count: 3,779
Author’s Note: This fic was written for the Holiday Writing Challenge in @echoingbirdsofprey 's Discord, using the prompts: Ice Skates, Hockey Sticks, Cedar & Sycamore, Martin Brodeur — plus the assigned quote "You must think you're the greatest hockey player of all time, or the greatest figure skater, I can't rightly tell." Hope you enjoy!
Bradley pulls up to your place right on time, his Bronco rumbling low in the cool evening air. The second you slide into the passenger seat, the heater’s already going, warm air brushing your legs. He flashes you one of those easy, golden smiles. The kind that somehow manages to be both confident and shy at the same time.
“You look cute,” he says.
Your stomach does a mortifying little flip.
“Thanks.” You say as he pulls away from the curb.
From there the two of you settle into a comfortable quiet that comes from a week of steady texting, a couple of coffee hangouts, and the kind of flirting that always hovers but doesn’t quite tip over the edge. You glance at him every few minutes. You take in the way his hands rest on the wheel relaxed. The faint scratch of stubble along his jaw from not shaving for a day or two. The way he hums along to the radio without realizing it.
The city thins out quicker than you expect as he heads out of the heart of San Diego. Streetlamps stretch taller. Storefronts turn into neighborhoods, neighborhoods soften into long dark roads.
Soon you’re rolling down a quiet stretch lined with towering cedar and sycamore trees, the branches wrapped in white holiday lights that glow like scattered stars.
“Okay…” you murmur, watching the light flicker across his face. “This does not look like the route to the beach.”
“Nope.”
“Are we—” you cut yourself off as he turns into a parking lot, the massive building ahead unmistakable even from a distance. A winter recreation center. Bright posters of kids in helmets, a sign advertising seasonal hot cocoa with the purchase of a skate pass, and an image of a smiling penguin on ice skates.
“Bradley.”
“Mhm?” he says, all innocence.
“You did not bring me to an ice rink.”
He shrugs, turning off the engine. “I did.”
“Okay. Since when are you a winter sports guy? You’re literally a surfer dipped in aviation grease.”
He laughs, leaning back in his seat, the grin softening. “Yeah, well…surprise. I played hockey for a couple years.”
You blink at him, trying and failing to picture it. “You did not.”
“I did,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “When my mom first got sick, I went to stay with family on the East Coast. Lotta snow. Not much to do. So I ended up on the ice.” Something gentle moves in his voice, like he’s remembering something he’s not quite ready to share. “Those winters were rough,” he adds quietly. “Hockey helped.”
Your chest softens. The lights outside blur for a second as you take him in. This man who wears his warmth so easily, yet carries whole pieces of his past tucked behind that brightness.
You reach over and squeeze his arm. “Thank you for sharing that.”
He gives you a small smile, one that hits deeper than all the others. “Yeah. Well. Thought maybe I could share the ice with you too.”
You look at the rink. Then back at him.
“…You do realize I can barely manage walking on solid ground, right?”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, already slipping out of the truck to open your door. “Means you’ll have to hold onto me.”
The second you step through the doors, the blast of cold air hits you like a playful slap. Kids are wobbling across the ice, teenagers are showing off, and a couple older guys in team jackets are practicing slapshots at the far end. It smells faintly of cold metal, popcorn, and winter.
Bradley hands the cashier a couple bills and gets two scuffed pairs of rental skates. He passes yours to you with a grin that should be illegal.
“Ready?”
“No,” you answer immediately. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs, leading you toward the long wooden bench along the wall. When you sit, your socks slide a little on the polished floor, and you immediately begin to tilt sideways like an overconfident baby giraffe.
Bradley catches your elbow. “Whoa there.”
“This is going great already,” you mutter, grabbing the bench like you’re preparing for impact.
He drops onto the bench beside you, and somehow manages to look effortless while putting his skates on. It’s unfair, honestly.
You tug one skate onto your foot, but the stiff leather makes you wobble again. You’re not halfway through pulling the tongue straight when Bradley’s voice hums low beside you.
“Here,” he murmurs, touching your knee. “Let me.”
He kneels in front of you, guiding your foot between his hands. The contrast of his warm fingers on your cold ankle nearly short-circuits your brain. He works slowly, threading the laces through each eyelet with this casual confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
“You know,” he says as he tightens the bottom section, “for someone who claims to be athletic, you’re struggling pretty hard with sitting.”
“Skating isn’t sitting,” you mutter.
“No, but balance is balance,” he teases, pulling the lace snug with a practiced tug.
You try to focus on literally anything other than the sight of him kneeling between your knees, sleeves pushed up, curls falling a little over his forehead. His hands skim higher to adjust the tongue of the skate, brushing along your calf, and you swear he can probably feel your pulse kicking against your skin.
He glances up, catching your expression. “You okay?”
“Bradley. I’m going to die on this date.”
“Nah,” he says, moving to your other skate. “I’ve got you.”
The second skate goes on quicker, his fingers deft and sure. When he finishes, he taps your shin gently.
“Alright.” He looks up at you with a spark in his eye. “Let’s go conquer some ice.”
You stare at your feet, then the rink, then him.
“Did you say conquer? Because that sounds like a stretch goal. For, like…month six of training.”
He stands, offering his hands to you. “Good thing you’ve got an excellent teacher.”
The ice looks harmless enough from a distance. Smooth. Shiny. Peaceful.
It is a liar.
Bradley steps onto it like it’s nothing, like it’s just a slightly chilly sidewalk. Meanwhile, you take one look at the glossy surface and your knees go wobbly.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” you mutter.
“You literally got in the car willingly,” he counters, holding out both hands. “Come on. Try it. One foot at a time.”
You grab his hands because, frankly, you value your life. You place one skate on the ice.
The blade slides. Your body follows. Gravity gives a cheerful little wave.
“Whoa—!”
Bradley catches you before you can eat it. One arm wraps around your waist, warm and steady, pulling you flat against his chest. His other hand splays across your lower back like he was expecting this. Which… he probably was.
“Hey,” he murmurs, laughing softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Your breath gets trapped somewhere between your ribs and your pride. “Why does it feel like the floor is moving?”
“Because it is,” he says, amusement spilling out of him. “It’s ice.”
“I can’t do this.”
He grins, nudging your chin up with two fingers. “Try both feet.”
You immediately regret listening as soon as the second skate touches down. Your legs slide apart like two disgruntled magnets trying to escape each other.
“Bradley. Bradley! BRADLEY!”
He pulls you upright again, laughter rumbling against your cheek. “Okay, wow. You weren’t kidding.”
“I’m amazing at many things,” you say, gripping him like you’re about to ascend into heaven, “but apparently existing on frozen water is not one of them.”
He takes your hands again, stepping backward so you automatically glide forward with him. Slow, easy, patient. His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the chill.
Little by little, you manage not to die.
“This is good,” he says gently. “You’re doing great.”
“You don’t need to lie to me,” you mutter, concentrating very hard on not fracturing anything important.
“I’m not lying,” he says. “You’re improving.”
And then as if summoned by your suffering, Bradley does something deeply rude. He shows off.
He releases one of your hands, glides backward with the kind of smooth confidence that should be illegal, then spins into a tight little turn so sharp the ice sings beneath his blade.
Your jaw drops open.
He has the nerve to chuckle, skating forward again with zero effort, stopping just inches in front of you. “What?”
“You must think you're the greatest hockey player of all time,” you say, pointing dramatically, “or the greatest figure skater. I can't rightly tell.”
Bradley’s ears go pink. His smile flickers. Not cocky, almost flattered.
“Well,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean…I wasn’t bad.”
You raise a brow. “Oh really? That’s like Martin Brodeur level? Were you coached by Wayne Gretzky? Have a secret stint on Disney on Ice?”
“Oh my god,” he laughs, stepping in close again, “I was fifteen.”
“And skating like this?”
“Yeah,” he admits, shrugging one shoulder. “It just…stuck.”
He moves behind you, his hands sliding to your waist, his breath warm against your cheek.
“Come here. I’ll help you glide.”
“This feels unsafe.”
“You’re safer with me than anywhere else on this ice.”
And then he starts guiding you. Slow. Steady. His hands firm on your hips. Your feet move because he’s moving them, because you trust his strength more than your own balance. Every shift of his fingers sends a little jolt up your spine. You don’t dare look back at him. You’d combust.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, “you’re doing it.”
“I’m literally just standing.”
“Standing is half the battle.”
“You keep saying these things like they’re helpful.”
He laughs again. Soft and a little too delighted. “Okay, try pushing off a little. I’ll hold on.”
You glide a whole five feet before wobbling like a baby deer hitting an oil slick. Bradley catches you under the arms, pulling you back into him with a quick, easy motion that feels practiced. Natural.
“Nice save,” you breathe.
“I told you.” His mouth tilts into a smile against your hair. “I’ve got you.”
By the time you’ve managed a couple shaky laps, and by “laps,” you mean two long stretches of not dying… Bradley seems to get an Idea.
His eyes narrow like a mischievous puppy who just learned how to open up the kitchen cabinets.
“Oh no,” you sigh. “What’s happening. Why is your face like that.”
“Stay right here,” he says, already gliding away.
“I can’t not stay right here. I’m pretty sure if I move without you, I might die.”
He just laughs, skating toward a rack near the boards. You watch him bend to grab something. No, not something. Two somethings. Hockey sticks.
He turns back toward you with them slung over his shoulder like he’s posing for a very specific, very attractive sports magazine you regret not subscribing to.
“For balance,” he says, all innocence.
“That’s a lie.”
“It is,” he confirms cheerfully, handing you one. “But it’ll be fun.”
You take it because you have no survival instincts. The stick is heavier than you expect, and the moment you put your weight on it, your skates shift in opposite, catastrophic directions.
“Bradley—Bradley—Bradley—!”
He zips in and catches your elbow again.
“Okay. Rule one: don’t lean on it like a cane.”
“Wonderful timing,” you deadpan. “I definitely did not just do exactly that.”
He’s laughing again. Not mocking. Just…genuinely delighted by your ability to constantly lurch toward disaster like it’s a sport.
“Here,” he says, moving behind you again. His hands skim down your arms until they reach your hands. “Hold it like this.”
His fingers adjust yours gently, warm even through your gloves. He taps your elbows inward, nudges your knees slightly bent. His touch is careful, guiding, soft in a way that makes your heart squeeze.
“Basic stance,” he murmurs near your ear. “Nice and easy.”
“I look ridiculous, don’t I.”
“You look cute.”
Then he coughs and steps to your side like he definitely didn’t say that out loud.
“Uh okay next part,” he clears his throat, skating backward to watch your form.
You attempt what he showed you. Attempt is the key word.
As you shift your weight, your stick swings out in a wild, sweeping arc.
Bradley ducks. Barely.
“Hey!” he laughs. “I like my face. Please don’t rearrange it.”
You slap a hand over your mouth. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I swear that wasn’t on purpose.”
“Are you sure?” he teases. “Because that was a pretty good slapshot wind-up.”
“Please, I have the athletic grace of wet laundry.”
He skates close again, tapping the blade of your stick with his. “Try holding it more centered. Like this.”
He wraps a large hand over yours, gently guiding your grip up the shaft. The moment his chest brushes your shoulder, your breath catches.
He pretends not to notice.
You pretend you didn’t almost pass out.
To deflect from your own flustered state, you smirk at him. “So what now? You’re gonna go full Martin Brodeur on me? Block every shot I take?”
Bradley snorts so hard he almost chokes.
“Goalies are weird,” he says immediately.
You blink. “Weird?”
“Weird,” he repeats firmly. “I was a winger. We don’t jump in front of pucks. We send them.”
“Oh,” you say, “so you were fast.”
He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Still am.”
You nearly drop the stick.
He tilts his head. “What? Something wrong?”
“Nope,” you say quickly. “Just thinking about how this is probably a bad time to test…anything.”
His grin widens. Slow, warm, and slightly mischievous. “Let’s not use the hockey sticks for testing yet.”
“Yet?”
He hums, skating backward just enough that you feel the tug of his attention like gravity. “Gotta get you standing upright first.”
You tighten your grip on the stick. “Okay. Show me how to do this without accidentally committing a crime.”
He gestures you forward. “Come on then. Let’s get you moving.”
He skates a few feet away, then drops into a low stance that makes something in your chest flutter, knees bent, stick flat on the ice, shoulders squared.
“Bradley,” you say, pointing at him, “why do you suddenly look… official?”
He grins. “Humor me. Pretend I’m a goalie.”
“You literally just said goalies are weird.”
“They are,” he agrees easily. “But I can fake it for thirty seconds.”
He plants himself in front of an empty stretch of ice, spreading his arms wide like he’s daring you. The confidence is unfair. Distracting. Rude.
“Alright,” he says. “All you’re gonna do is push the puck forward and aim between my legs. Nice and easy.”
You look down at the puck, then back up at him. “You’re assuming I won’t fall before I even touch it.”
“I won’t let you,” he says, softer now. “Promise.”
You take a breath and line yourself up, copying the stance he showed you earlier. Knees bent. Stick centered. You nudge the puck forward, slow and tentative.
Bradley shifts, tracking it, still smiling.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Now push.”
You do, more confidently this time. The puck slides. Bradley moves to block and somehow it slips right past him.
There’s a beat of stunned silence from both of you.
Then you gasp. “I DID IT.”
You throw your arms up in victory, laughing, adrenaline rushing through you, and immediately lose your balance.
“Oh—!”
The ice rushes up to meet you, but before you can fully panic, Bradley is there. He drops to his knees beside you, hands on your shoulders, steady and warm.
“Hey, hey,” he says quickly. “You okay?”
You blink up at him, breathless, heart pounding, not from the fall, but from how close he is. His brows are knit with concern, his hands gentle as he helps you sit up.
“I’m fine,” you breathe, then grin. “Did you see that though?”
His worry melts into a laugh. It’s soft, fond, a little incredulous. “You scored on me.”
“I scored on you,” you repeat, delighted. “I’m basically a prodigy.”
“Don’t get cocky,” he teases.
He chuckles, brushing a thumb over your glove. “Still proud of you.”
He helps you up, his hands staying on your waist. You’re breathing a little harder than you mean to, cheeks warm despite the cold. When you glance up, he’s already looking at you.
“Want to try just normal skating again?” He asks softly.
You nod. “Yeah. I think so.”
He doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he shifts his grip, one hand sliding to yours, fingers lacing together through your gloves. The other stays firm at your back as he guides you forward.
“Slow,” he murmurs. “We’ll take it slow.”
You push off together this time.
It’s different now. Your movements feel steadier, less frantic. You’re not fighting the ice so much as learning how to move with it. Bradley matches your pace effortlessly, skating backward while keeping you close, his grip easy but attentive.
“You’re doing really good,” he says.
You scoff lightly. “I think you’re just being nice.”
“I’m really not,” he replies. “You’re trusting it now. That’s the trick.”
You glance down at your skates, then back at him. “Trusting you, you mean.”
Something warm flickers across his face at that.
“Yeah,” he says. “That too.”
You make it halfway across the rink without wobbling. When you realize it, a laugh bursts out of you, surprised and delighted.
“Oh my god. I’m doing it.”
He grins. “You are.”
He eases you into a gentle turn, guiding your hips, murmuring instructions under his breath. Every correction is careful, respectful, like he’s acutely aware of how close he is — how easily this could tip into something more.
When you slow to a stop near the boards, you’re both a little flushed.
Bradley leans his forearm against the rail, breathing easy. “You wanna try stopping next?”
Your eyes widen. “Stopping? You mean like…on purpose?”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I won’t let you fall.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And I keep meaning it. The one time you fell was your fault for bad sportsmanlike conduct. Karma, really.”
“Oh is that how we’re playing?” You tease back.
He steps behind you again, one hand at your waist, the other guiding your arm. “Okay. When I say, dig the edge in a little. Just a little.”
You do as he says. The skates scrap. Your body lurches…and then you stop.
“I stopped!”
“You stopped,” he confirms, pride unmistakable.
You turn in his arms without thinking, your hands finding his chest for balance. He stills instantly, eyes dropping to where you’re touching him, then back to your face.
The moment stretches for a few more seconds. Quiet. A little charged.
“I’m glad you talked me into coming tonight,” you say softly.
“Me too,” he replies, just as quietly. “I was hoping you’d like this.”
“I didn’t think I would,” you admit. “But…I really do.”
Bradley’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, a gentle, grounding touch. His forehead rests against yours, warm despite the chill, his breath ghosting across your lips. For a second, neither of you moves. The rink noise fades into something distant and dull, like the world politely giving you space.
“You okay?” He murmurs.
You nod, barely. “Yeah.”
His thumb shifts where it’s hooked around your fingers. His hand slides slid to your waist again, settling in.
“Tell me if—” he starts.
You tilt your head just enough to close the distance.
The kiss is soft. Careful. The kind that feels like he’s checking in even as he’s leaning closer, lips warm against yours, pressure light but certain. You melt into it without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie for balance as much as anything else.
He exhales against your mouth — a quiet sound, surprised and pleased — before deepening the kiss just a little. Not hungry. Not rushed. His hand steadies you instinctively when your skates shift, keeping you upright without breaking the moment.
You laugh softly into the kiss, breathless.
“Sorry,” you whisper. “Ice.”
He smiles against your lips. “Told you I’ve got you.”
When you kiss him again, you’re feeling braver this time. Your body leans into his, trusting, familiar already. His arm wraps around your back fully now, pulling you closer, solid and warm and real. The world narrows to the scrape of blades somewhere nearby and the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
When he finally pulls back, it’s slow. Reluctant. His nose brushes yours.
“Still glad you came?” he asks, voice low.
You smile, cheeks aching, chest full. “Very.”
He grins then presses one more gentle kiss to your forehead before guiding you toward the boards.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you off the ice before I have to carry you out.”
You laugh, lacing your fingers with his as he leads you toward the exit. The cold hits different once you step outside. The parking lot is nearly empty now, the building behind you glowing softly through the glass.
Bradley walks close beside you, shoulders brushing. The easy kind of close that doesn’t need permission.
Your hands find each other without either of you really noticing, his fingers warm, steady, fitting like they were meant to be there. You swing your joined hands once, playful.
“So,” you say, glancing up at him. “When were you planning to tell me you’re secretly Olympic material?”
He laughs, breath puffing white in the cold. “Olympics? Come on.”
“You saw yourself out there,” you tease. “The backwards skating? The dramatic saves? I nearly died twice.”
“I think dying is a stretch,” he points out. “Very dramatic of you.”
You bump his shoulder. “I’m serious. You could’ve warned me I was going on a date with a hockey prodigy.”
He shakes his head, smiling like the word still feels strange on him. “I just wanted to skate with you.”
The simplicity of it settles warm in your chest.
You stop beside his Bronco, turning to face him, and he leans down just enough to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s lingering, affectionate, like he’s not in any hurry to end the night.
You rise onto your toes and kiss him. His hands come to your waist instantly, steadying you. He smiles against your lips before kissing you back, slow and sweet. When you pull away, both of you are smiling.
He opens the door of the Bronco for you, his hand feeling warm at the small of your back as you climb inside. And for the first time in a long while, winter doesn’t feel cold at all.
Summary: When the power in your new neighborhood is knocked out, your soft spoken Navy pilot neighbor Bob Floyd shows up at your door just to make sure you’re okay. One offer of warmth turns into shared soup, soft conversation, and an unexpectedly intimate evening by the fire.
Warnings: Mentions of power outage, and severe winter weather. Mild physical touch (shared space, shared blanket, that kind of thing.). This one is honestly pretty fluffy without anything too concerning.
Word Count: ~5,000
Author's Note: This is my submission for @lewmagoo 's "A Very Lewmagoo Holiday". Thanks so much for letting me join! If you guys haven't yet, I'd encourage you to check out her stuff. She writes Lew's characters SO well!
You still weren’t used to how quiet the neighborhood was. Back home, mornings came with the rumble of buses and the squeal of someone’s impatient brakes and the occasional shout from down the block. Here, it was just the sound of the wind against the siding and nothing else.
Peaceful, you told yourself. Serene. Exactly what you needed after the year you’d had.
You shuffled through the living room, stepping around half-opened boxes like they were sleeping pets you didn’t want to disturb. A mug of coffee warmed your hands. It was your one small victory for the day, since the coffeemaker had been packed in the wrong box and you’d had to dig for it like an archaeologist on a mission.
The local news murmured from the TV across the room. You didn’t know the meteorologist’s name yet, but she had the cadence of someone who had reported the weather since the dawn of time and expected everyone to take storms as seriously as she did.
“Blizzard warning remains in effect for the county,” she said, her voice calm but stern. “Residents should avoid unnecessary travel after dusk. Winds expected to reach—”
You lowered the volume before she could finish. You’d only been in this town for three weeks, and you were not built for snow like this. Your hometown saw snow, sure, but it was the light, fairy-tale stuff that dusted the ground and melted by lunchtime. This? The kind that could swallow whole cars.
You took a long breath, let it out slowly, and wandered toward the front window. Outside, winter had already started staking its claim. Heavy clouds crouched low over the rooftops, turning the world into a muted gray color. Snow drifted lazily in the wind. Nothing too dangerous yet. But enough to tell you it was coming.
Then you saw him. Your neighbor across the street. B…Brian? Ben? Brad? Rob? No…you snapped your fingers. Bob. That was it. You were pretty sure he’d said Bob that first day you were unloading the U-Haul. You’d been sweaty and trying not to drop a box labeled KITCHEN when he appeared at the edge of the driveway.
He stepped in and took the box before you dropped it before giving you a cautious smile and introducing himself.
Now he was out on his walkway, bundled to the chin in a worn brown coat and a hat pulled so low it almost met his eyebrows. Even from here, you could tell he moved with a careful, quiet focus. Steady hands on the shovel. Steady steps on the slick concrete.
You raised your hand in a little wave when he glanced toward your side of the street. Bob paused mid shovel, looked up, and gave a small, polite nod. You couldn’t help smiling back.
It had already become a routine in the short time you’d been here. Spotting him on his morning walk to the corner and lifting your hand in a wave. Catching him at the grocery store one aisle over and exchanging that simple smile or greeting. Seeing him carry takeout bags into his house on nights when you were debating whether cereal counted as dinner.
They weren’t conversations exactly. More like…small threads. Little acknowledgments weaving you into a life that still felt too big around the edges.
You took another sip of coffee and glanced toward the kitchen window as the lights flickered overhead. Just a quick pulse, but enough to stop your breath.
“Oh, no,” you murmured.
The power steadied, humming back to life. But it left a warning in its wake.
You checked your phone. The weather app pushed an alert: BLIZZARD WARNING – HEAVY SNOWFALL & HIGH WINDS EXPECTED. PREPARE FOR POSSIBLE POWER LOSS.
Snow you were prepared for. You were not prepared for a blackout. You had half a gallon of milk in the fridge. You had coffee. You had an alarming number of mismatched Tupperware lids. And that was about it.
Outside, Bob straightened up and glanced toward the sky, like he could judge the storm better than the meteorologist. He wiped the back of his glove across his nose and started shoveling again with quiet determination, like no matter what the weather did, he was going to make sure his walkway was clear.
You sighed, took another sip, and said aloud to no one, “Yep. It’s gonna be a day.”
A few hours later, the storm had finally moved in. Gusts of wind swept down the street, blowing the snow sideways, making it hard to see even just across the street. The lights of your old house flickered again. Then they died entirely, settling the house into darkness. You fumbled for your phone, its small glow illuminating half-packed boxes and the crumpled throw rug by the couch. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, and the radiator groaned, as if protesting the sudden cold. Shivering, you tugged on an extra sweater, wishing you’d unpacked more than a few days’ worth of belongings.
A soft knock at the door made your heart jump. Peering through the peephole, you spotted a figure dusted with snow, glasses fogged slightly, scarf loosely wrapped, dark coat dusted white.
“Hey,” he said softly when you opened the door, his voice calm and steady. “I noticed the lights went out across the block. Thought I’d check in. Make sure you’re okay.”
You motioned toward the unpacked boxes cluttering your living room, a small laugh escaping you.
“I’ll survive,” you said, tugging a blanket from a chair. “I’ve got some candles and extra blankets…somewhere. I’ll be fine for the night.”
Bob’s gaze lingered on the chaos for a beat, then he shifted slightly, snowflakes clinging to his coat. “If you want, you could…uh, come over to mine for a bit. Fireplace’s going, I’ve got extra blankets, and, well…just until the storm passes.”
You blinked, a little caught off guard by the offer. But there was something in his tone that was gentle and not even the slightest bit pushy.
“You really don’t mind?”
He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Not at all. I wouldn’t want you sitting here freezing.”
Grateful, you grabbed a small bag with some essentials. Warm socks. A phone charger. A book. Bob waited just inside the door, keeping a respectful distance. When you fumbled slightly with the bag strap, his smile widened just enough to make your cheeks heat before he reached out and offered to carry it for you.
Outside, the snow crunched underfoot, cold air biting at your cheeks and nose. Bob moved easily through the drift, guiding the way with gentle directions, chuckling softly when you stumbled over a hidden patch of ice.
Finally, you reached his front door. Bob stepped aside so you could enter first, brushing snow from his coat before closing the door behind you. The shift from the icy air outside to the warmth of his living room was almost dizzying. You blinked, taking in the space.
His house felt lived in. Not messy, just comfortably cluttered. There was a stack of aviation magazines on the coffee table with a pair of reading glasses resting on top. There were shelves on the wall lined with small model aircraft, each one displayed with care. Warm wood tones were everywhere. There were panels along one wall, and two plush brown couches sat in the center of the room. What appeared to be a handwoven blanket that someone’s mother or grandmother had made years ago was draped over the back of one of them. There were some subtle holiday decorations tucked around the room. A small wreath you noticed on the front door when you first came in, a string of warm white lights wound around the front window, and a half-decorated tree in the corner that looked like he’d started but then wasn’t quite sure how to finish. It was oddly charming. Like he’d tried to decorate it, gotten overwhelmed, and decided “good enough.”
Bob led you farther inside, rubbing his hands together as he stepped toward the fireplace. “Let me just…give this a little boost.”
You stood near the door, watching as he knelt in front of the hearth. The fire was still going, but it was now mostly soft orange embers beneath the logs. He grabbed a couple of pieces of wood from a basket and stacked them carefully. You watched as he leaned closer to the airflow and noticed the wrinkle of concentration between his brows. He gave a soft little breath to coax some sparks. Then smiled when a few flames kicked up and started licking at the fresh wood he had added.
Bob sat back on his heels and glanced up at you. “Should heat up the room in a minute. Uh…you can sit anywhere.”
You stepped toward one of the couches, running your hand along the back of it. “Your place is really cozy.”
His lips curved into a little smile as he stood. “Thanks. I’ve lived here about…six years? Bought it right before I got stationed in the area. Thought I’d fix up the place, but…” He glanced around the room and looked at the half-decorated tree, the unfinished trim along the doorway. “Turns out I’m better with planes than home improvement.”
“It has personality,” you said, settling onto the couch.
Bob hovered nearby for a moment, as if debating where to stand. “Do you need anything? Blanket? Water? Hot cocoa? Tea? I’ve got a…lot of tea. Too much tea, actually. I didn’t realize ordering online meant ‘bulk.’”
You smiled at the rambly earnestness. “Tea sounds great.”
That seemed to brighten him a little. “Okay. Stay put…I’ll get it.”
He headed into the kitchen, flicking on a battery-powered lantern hanging under a cabinet. Pots and cups clinked softly. You watched the warm light spill across the room as he moved around, his silhouette gentle and familiar even though you’d barely spoken before tonight.
You pulled your knees up, tucking your feet underneath you. The fire crackled. The wind pushed at the house again. But this time it didn’t put you quite as on edge.
Bob reappeared with two mugs, steam rising from both.
“Careful, they’re hot,” he warned, handing one to you. His fingers brushed yours. It was brief, warm, and just enough to make you inhale sharply.
He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, but he was polite enough not to make it awkward.
“Is the temperature okay?” He asked, settling onto the other end of the couch. Not close close, but closer than he needed to. “We can drag the couch even closer to the fire if you get chilly.”
“I’m good so far,” you said, smiling into your mug.
He nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Okay. Just holler if you need anything.”
You took a sip of tea. It was chamomile with something sweet, maybe honey. It was perfect.
“So…” he said, rubbing his palms on his jeans, suddenly shy. “How’re you settling in? Moving in the middle of winter’s gotta be rough.”
You laughed softly. “Yeah, I didn’t exactly plan that part very well. But the neighborhood seems nice. And quiet.”
“We’re a pretty quiet bunch,” he agreed, eyes flicking to you with a tiny spark of humor. “I guess I’m sort of the…fireplace guy of the block. Everyone comes over when the power goes out.” Then he blinked and backtracked, flustered. “Not…not everyone. Just…like…Mrs. Greeley next door sometimes. Or the family across the street. Not random people. You’re not a random person. I mean…you are, technically. But not…”
You giggled, covering your mouth.
He stopped, sighed, and ran a hand over his face. “I’ll stop talking now.”
“No, please don’t,” you said warmly. “It’s cute.”
His eyes darted to yours at the word cute, then quickly away. But the smile that followed was unmistakable.
“Well,” he said softly, “I’m glad you’re here. I’d have worried otherwise.”
That simple admission sent a pleasant little thrum through your chest.
You shifted, letting the fire soak into your skin. “So you really don’t mind the cold?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m used to every climate at this point. Perks of being in the Navy, I guess.” Then he gave you a sideways look, quietly proud but still humble. “I know how to make a fire, pitch a tent, tie a mean knot…useless stuff in everyday life, but great during blizzards.”
“I mean, tonight it’s very useful,” you said.
His smile widened. It was warm and a little bashful.
The fire crackled between you, soft embers bursting like tiny stars. When he leaned forward to add another log, the glow lit his profile, and you took in the gentle curve of his nose, the concentration in his eyes, the way his hands moved with easy confidence.
And for the first time since the blackout, you felt completely warm.
“So…what exactly do you do in the Navy?”
Bob straightens a little, like he wasn’t expecting the question, but is oddly pleased by it.
“I’m a Weapons Systems Officer,” he says, and then immediately keeps going. “So I sit in the backseat of an F/A-18, handle radar, target acquisition, electronic warfare. Basically, I’m the one who makes sure my pilot doesn’t fly blind or get us both killed. There’s a ton of tactical coordination involved, and—”
He stops. Blinks. A beat passes where he seems to rewind in his head and realize he just info-dumped on someone he really only just met ten minutes ago.
“Oh. Um. Sorry.” He huffs out a soft laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, uh…didn’t mean to go full brochure on you. Easiest way to say it is, I’m the guy who keeps an eye on everything so my pilot can do their job and fly the plane. Less glamorous than it sounds.”
You smile because his rambling was actually kind of adorable.
“No, it’s interesting,” you say, letting him off the hook. “You sound like you like it.”
He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of pride there. “Some days more than others. But yeah…it’s a hell of a job.”
His eyes came back to yours. They were warm, subtly checking in and making sure you weren’t overwhelmed.
The fire settles into a steady, glowing rhythm, the kind that makes the whole room feel smaller and safer. You pull the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders, letting the warmth seep into the places the storm stole it from.
Bob glances over at you, studying your face with that gentle focus of his.
“Hey,” he says softly, “are you hungry at all?”
The question is casual, but the way he asks it isn’t. It’s careful. Like he doesn’t want to assume, but he definitely wants to take care of you.
You hesitate only because you don’t want to impose, not because the answer is no. “I mean… I could eat. But you really don’t have to—”
He lifts a hand in a mild, polite shooing gesture. “You’re not imposing. I promise.” His voice warms a little, soft around the edges. “Stay right there, okay? Keep warm. I’ll get us something quick.”
You blink, surprised but touched. “Are you sure?”
Bob gives a small half-smile. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.”
He stands, smoothing a hand absently over the front of his sweater like he’s subconsciously checking himself before hosting someone. Then he points toward your blanket-covered knees. “Seriously. Don’t move. That fire’s just now doing its job.”
You watch him head toward the kitchen again, socked feet soft on the wooden floor. He flips on the same small warm-toned lantern as before, and the whole house picks up an extra layer of cozy, like someone dialed the mood lighting to “unexpectedly charming.”
He pauses once in the doorway and looks back at you, expression gentle. “If you need anything…even just a different blanket…just call out.”
You can’t help smiling. “I think I’m okay.”
He nods once, satisfied, then disappears into the kitchen. You hear the soft clatter of cabinets, the metallic hum of a pot hitting the stove, and the low sound of him humming under his breath. It’s barely there, but sweet in a way that makes your chest loosen.
Bob returns from the kitchen, balancing two steaming bowls and a pair of mismatched spoons, cheeks a little pink from the heat of the stove.
“It’s not much,” he warns, “but it’s warm.”
You take the bowl he offers, letting the heat seep into your cold palms. “Warm is perfect.”
The two of you settle onto the couch. Sitting close, but not enough to touch. The fire continues to crackle, throwing slow, orange light across the room. Outside, the storm keeps battering the house, heavy rain rattling the windows like it’s trying its luck.
For a minute, you both just eat. Small, quiet bites of soup that you definitely wouldn’t describe as “not much.”
“This is really good,” you say around your spoon.
Bob ducks his head, sheepish. “It’s my emergency recipe. I keep the ingredients around for late flights and bad weather. My mom used to make it when it was cold or we were sick.”
“Guess I got lucky, then.”
He glances at you over the rim of his bowl.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “So what made you decide to move here? Feel like no one moves here unless it’s for the base.
You take another slow bite. You glance at the fire, watching the flames lick up the wood. “I needed a reset. New job, new place…I wanted to actually choose my life instead of living where my parents raised me. Wanted to try getting out of my hometown for a bit.”
“That makes sense,” Bob murmurs. His tone is gentle and thoughtful. It’s clear he’s not just hearing, he’s actually listening and wanting to engage in conversation with you. “When you say you wanted to choose your life…what’s that look like for you?”
You exhale a quiet laugh. “Honestly? Something simple. Peaceful. Filled with people who don’t exhaust me. A place I don’t dread coming home to.” You shrug. “Feels kind of embarrassingly basic when I say it out loud.”
“It doesn’t,” he says quickly. “It sounds…nice.” He taps his spoon once against his bowl, considering. “I like quiet routines too. Most people assume pilots all thrive on adrenaline, but that’s not me. I love flying, but I also like landing and knowing exactly how the evening’s gonna go. That probably sounds boring.”
“It sounds comforting,” you counter.
His smile is small but real, the kind that flickers at the corners of his eyes.
The storm growls outside, a low rumble that vibrates through the room.
To break the silence that follows, you ask, “So, funny work story. You’ve gotta have at least one.”
He lets out a quiet snort. “Oh, I’ve got plenty, working with the people I do, there’s endless stories.”
He rests his head against the back of the couch for a second, thinking.
“Okay. There was this one time during survival training. This guy I was grouped with ate an MRE he found at the bottom of a supply crate. I think it was older than both of us combined, but he ate it anyway, cause he was starving.” Bob pauses, like he’s giving you time to judge that appropriately. “About an hour later, he starts sweating. Says his heart feels weird. Asks me if I know the signs of organ failure.”
Bob lifts his shoulders in a tiny shrug.
“So I sat with him. Y’know. In case he needed someone to, uh…save him from food poisoning.”
He pauses for another beat.
“He really thought it was the end for him. Made me write down his last words and everything.”
He pauses for another beat, eyeing you to gauge your reaction, like he’s making sure he’s not boring you.
“Turns out he wasn’t dying. It was just heartburn.” Bob’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a soft, warm little smile at the corner of his mouth. “We failed the test because he refused to ‘die in the woods.’ Instructor wasn’t happy, but I guess he learned to check expiration dates after that.”
You laugh, and when you glance over, he’s already looking at you. There’s something quietly dazzling in his eyes. Something tender. The firelight makes his glasses glint just a little.
You look away first. Not because it’s uncomfortable, but because it’s not. And that’s somehow more intense.
“Any good holiday stories?” You ask lightly.
He brightens at that. “My mom used to make these ridiculous gingerbread airplanes. They fell apart every single year. I mean, structurally unsound. But she kept trying.” He shakes his head fondly. “We always pretended each year’s disaster was progress.”
“That’s adorable,” you say, smiling into your bowl.
He nudges your knee very gently with his. Not intentional, probably. Just a little relaxed shift of weight. But you feel it anyway.
“What about you? What were holidays like for you?” He asks.
You tell him about your own childhood memories. What you loved. What you didn’t. Which gift was your favorite growing up.
Somewhere during a fourth story, you realize you’re rambling again.
You laugh nervously and shake your head. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
Bob shakes his head, smiling in that tiny, earnest way that feels like sunshine. “No. I like hearing you talk.” He pauses, clarifies gently, “You tell stories well.”
Your face warms. Because you like talking to Bob. Talking to him feels…effortless. Like matching a rhythm you didn’t know you even remembered.
You lean back against the couch, bowl warm between your palms. “This is nice,” you admit.
Bob nods once, quietly. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It really is.”
Just then, the fire pops loudly, and you jump without meaning to, a shiver sneaking up your spine. Before you can even pretend you’re fine, he reaches behind him for the folded blanket draped over the armrest.
“Here,” he says, offering it without fuss. “You look cold.”
You take it slowly, fingertips brushing his just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin. “Thank you.”
He gives a small nod, eyes flicking over you to make sure you’re actually warming up before returning to his soup.
For a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to the glow of the hearth and the soft sound of two spoons tapping empty bowls.
Bob finishes his soup and sets the bowl aside, glancing at you again.
“You doing okay?” He asks.
You swallow, realizing he means more than just temperature.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I really am.”
The two of you finish your soup, and Bob takes the bowls to the kitchen and rinses them. By that time, the temperature has dipped again.
Bob notices immediately. He starts to move quietly around the room, checking the vents.
“The heater should kick back on when the grid stabilizes,” he murmurs, hand hovering over a vent like he’s trying to warm it through sheer willpower. “But until then…sorry. It gets colder fast in here when the wind picks up.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” you say, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Pretty sure the storm isn’t your fault.”
He gives an embarrassed little laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah, I know, I just…I don’t want you freezing.”
Bob glances at the couch, then at the fire, then at you. His hands tuck into the pockets of his sweats.
“Um,” he starts, clearing his throat. “Would you want to move the couch a little closer? To the fire, I mean. Just for the warmth.”
You smile. “That sounds like a great idea.”
Together, the two of you brace against opposite ends of the couch. “Okay,” Bob says, eyes narrowing in exaggerated focus, “on three. One…two…three—”
The couch budges, but not gracefully. You both let out the same little grunt/laugh at the exact same time.
Bob flashes you a quick grin. “Teamwork.”
“Excellent form, Lieutenant,” you tease lightly.
His brows lift, amused. “Oh, you remembered the rank. I’m impressed.”
You sit back down on the couch in its new spot in front of the fire, and the heat hits instantly. You pull the blanket around your shoulders again. Bob stands there with his hands hovering at his sides.
You see him rub his own hands together, a sign that he’s feeling a little chilly.
“Um…I’ve got more blankets upstairs…” He offers, already half turning toward the stairs.
“If you don’t mind sharing this one,” you say gently, “I don’t mind either.”
He stops mid-step. Then turns back toward you. You see a tiny flicker of surprise that he tries his best to hide.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay. Yeah, sure.”
He sits beside you with a respectful three or four inches of space, then reaches hesitantly for the edge of the blanket. “Is this…okay?”
“It is,” you say.
He drapes it over both of your shoulders, careful not to brush too far, but your arms end up snugly pressed together anyway. His sweater radiates steady warmth. His knee bumps yours lightly.
Neither of you pulls away. Bob exhales, like his body is finally getting the memo that he’s allowed to relax around you. For a while, you don’t talk. You just sit there, sharing quiet and firelight and the occasional stolen glance you’re both pretending not to notice.
For a while, you don’t talk. You just sit there, sharing quiet and firelight and the occasional stolen glance you’re both pretending not to notice.
Then softly, you say, “It’s strange…moving here felt like a leap I wasn’t sure I’d land.”
Bob shifts slightly under the blanket, giving you his full attention. “What made you take it?”
You think. “I guess…I wanted to feel like I was choosing my life, not just falling into it.”
He hums thoughtfully. “I get that.”
“You do?”
He nods, his voice dipping a little lower. “When I joined the Navy, people thought I did it to follow the family path. But honestly…” He pauses, choosing the words carefully. “It was the first time I ever picked something for myself. And it felt really good to own that.”
You glance at him, and he’s watching the fire like the memory is half-lit in the flames.
“That must’ve taken courage,” you say softly.
He shrugs one shoulder but smiles, just a tiny bit. “Maybe. Or maybe it was just time for me to choose something for myself.”
Your shoulders brush again, your bodies moving subtly closer this time. The wind howls outside, rattling the front window.
Bob’s voice breaks the silence, soft as a sigh, “I’m glad you moved here.”
You feel that all the way down to your toes.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”
The fire settles into a soft crackle after that. The blanket is warm, the couch is warm, and Bob is very warm.
Neither of you talks for a while. It’s not awkward. Not even close. It’s the kind of silence that feels earned, like the two of you have slipped into the same wavelength without meaning to.
Eventually, you exhale and let your head tip the slightest bit toward him.
Just a test. Just to see if it feels as natural as you think it might.
Bob goes very still. You feel him catch his breath, a tiny stutter in his chest, like he’s afraid to move and ruin the moment.
You don’t pull back.
And after a second, he very slowly lets his shoulder ease into yours.
The fit is perfect. Matched. As if he was always supposed to be right here, supporting your weight, letting you rest.
Your body sinks deeper into the couch, into the warmth, and into him. The fire’s glow paints soft amber across the room, and paired with his steady, careful presence, your eyelids get heavier by the minute.
Bob glances down at you, eyes softening behind his glasses. You can’t see it, your gaze is fixed on the flames now, but he watches you with a quiet wonder, like he still can’t quite believe you’re letting yourself lean on him.
A tiny shiver rolls through you as the storm outside whips up a fresh gust. Bob shifts immediately.
“Here,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
He lifts the blanket at the edges, adjusting it around your shoulders with gentle, almost reverent hands. Making sure you’re tucked in. Making sure you’re warm.
You hum a sleepy thank you.
He freezes for half a beat, then you feel him relax again, just a small breath released through his nose.
Your head drifts further down, landing fully against his shoulder now. Warm. Safe. Natural. This time, Bob doesn’t tense at all. He lets you settle. Lets your breath fall into a soft, steady rhythm. Lets himself be the thing you lean on.
A few minutes pass like that, with the wind howling and the fire murmuring and your weight melting into him until your breathing softens completely.
You don’t notice when you fall asleep.
But Bob does. He glances down again, eyes warm and stunned and touched all at once. For a moment, he leans in slightly, letting his nose brush the faintest hint of your hair. He breathes you in, gentle and quiet, like he’s memorizing the moment but trying not to disturb it.
Then, very slowly, he tilts his head until it rests against yours. Just enough. Just a quiet, intimate lean that says: I’m here. You’re safe. This is okay.
His eyes drift closed.
Outside, the storm rages on.
Inside, the two of you sit haloed in firelight and shared warmth, wrapped in a blanket and something softer. Something new. Something delicate. Something that feels like the beginning of a story Bob might remember for a long time. Maybe even the rest of his life.
Summary: While visiting Austin to spend Thanksgiving with Glen and his family, he takes you to a Longhorns game at DRK. You show up in nothing but a sweatshirt, despite Glen very clearly telling you to bring a coat. The late November chill hits harder than you expected. Lucky for you, Glen's quick to shrug out of his jacket, pull you close, and keep you warm for the duration of the game.
Warnings: Some mild language. Lots of physical closeness/cuddling in public. Glen being a walking space heater and a slight menace.
Word Count: 1,240
Author's Note: This one came straight from the Glen at the Longhorns Game brainrot. Hope it gives you all the cozy fall vibes 🤠🧡
The hum of Austin is already buzzing by the time you and Glen arrive at Darrel K Royal Texas Memorial Stadium, and step out of his Dodge truck. Even from the parking lot, you can hear the band playing the Texas Fight song inside DKR, the brass and drums punching the cool November air. The late evening light hits the concrete of the stadium just right, painting everything in a natural burnt orange, including Glen.
He’s wearing black Tecovas, light wash jeans, and a burnt orange button down that he swears is his lucky shirt, layered under a thick charcoal colored jacket. A black Longhorns cap worn backwards tops the outfit off, and you could argue it should be illegal for someone to look that good going to just a football game.
You? You opted for jeans and a white sweatshirt with a burnt orange Longhorns logo on the front. You had opted to leave your coat at home, and you realized far too late that you weren’t equipped for the sudden drop in temperature.
Glen shuts the truck door and eyes you over the roof with that “I’m not gonna say I told you so… but I’m absolutely saying it” smirk.
“You cold yet?” He asks, voice warm enough to contrast the air.
“No,” you lie way too fast.
His eyebrows lift. “You sure? ‘Cause you’re already doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where your shoulders sneak up to your ears like you’re trying to disappear inside your shirt.”
You roll your eyes and pretend to adjust your bag. “Maybe I’m just excited. Ever thought of that?”
He grins then drapes an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side.
“C’mon. Let’s get inside. The crowd’ll warm you up.”
You hate that it does feel a little warmer with him pressed against you. Or maybe you love it.
By the time you find your seats in the lower section right off the field, the cold has started creeping into your fingers. You tuck your hands into your sleeves and blow into them, trying to act casual. Glen is watching the field, hands in his coat pockets, looking effortlessly comfortable.
A group of college kids behind you calls Glen’s name, excited and borderline feral. He laughs, takes a couple pictures with them, signs a poster, all while keeping one hand loosely on your back so you don’t drift from his orbit.
When he sits down beside you again, he nudges your knee with his.
“You good?”
“Mmhmm,” you hum, even though your teeth are barely not chattering.
He doesn’t say anything, but he definitely clocks it.
The game kicks off. The crowd roars. Glen’s whole face lights up as the Longhorns run the ball for a huge gain in one of the first plays of the game. You can feel the energy roll through him. He loves this. The place, the people, the team. And you love seeing him love it.
But then a breeze sweeps through the stadium. And you swear your soul leaves your body. You wrap your arms around yourself tighter. Glen’s head snaps toward you.
“Alright, enough,” he says with that bossy, teasing tone that tells you he’s done letting you pretend.
“I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.” He stands. “Arms.”
“What?”
“Arms up,” he repeats, already shrugging out of his coat.
You practically shrink into your seat. “Glen, no, you’ll get cold—”
“Sweetheart,” he says, pausing long enough to meet your eyes, “I am never cold.”
Which is true. The man runs roughly the temperature of a small sun.
Before you can argue again, he steps behind you and slips his jacket around your shoulders. It’s warm everywhere and the inner lining smells like him.
You slide your arms into the sleeves, and the coat swallows you instantly. The sleeve are longer than your hands, it’s broad across the shoulders, and very very warm.
Once it’s on, his hands settle on your upper arms, thumbs brushing lightly.
“There,” he murmurs against your ear over the crowd noise.
You pull the jacket tighter around yourself and glare at him half heartedly.
It continues to get colder as the sun drops. Even with the jacket, the chill nips at you. Glen notices. Of course he does. Before you can say anything, he lifts the arm closest to you and rests it casually across the back of your seat.
You try to play it cool. Then another breeze hits you and you cave, curling subtly into his side. His arm drops instantly around your shoulders, warming you instantly. He pulls you against him to try and share some of his body heat with you.
“You know,” he murmurs, lips close to your temple, “I did warn you.”
“Don’t,” you mumble, burrowing closer. “Do not start lecturing me right now.”
“Lecturing? No.” He squeezes you gently. “Gloating? Maybe a little.”
You shoot him a glare, but it’s soft, with no real heat behind it. He laughs, rubbing your arm with slow, comforting strokes. The noise of the stadium fades a little as you settle against him.
His body heat is unreal. It seeps through the layers like you’ve tucked yourself against a radiator in human form. Except this radiator smells really good.
You kind of hope the temperature drops even more, just so you can justify staying like this.
The game stays close. Fourth quarter rolls in, chill sharp enough to make your breath puff out visibly. Glen glances down at you, eyes softening at the sight of you tucked into his jacket like a little burrito.
“You wanna go?” He asks, voice warm against your hair.
“No.”
“You sure? We can beat the traffic.”
“I’m good.”
His lips curve. “You just want an excuse to stay plastered to my side.”
You don’t deny it. He seems deeply pleased by that.
Another gust hits. You flinch. He reacts immediately by sliding his hand down your arm, guiding you closer until your body is pressed flush against his chest. His opens his arms a bit, and he tugs you right into his chest, pressing you flush against him.
You look up at him, cheek brushing his collarbone. His eyes are already on you.
“Told you I’d keep you warm,” he murmurs.
“I swear you are a human space heater,” you whisper back.
“You love it.”
Glen shifts just slightly, enough that his cheek grazes your temple. Enough that if you leaned up an inch, your mouth would meet his jaw. His hand moves slowly up and down your arm, keeping the warmth flowing.
The stadium erupts when the Longhorns score, and Glen jolts upright with excitement, but his arm never leaves you. He cheers loud, proud, whole body vibrating with joy, then looks down at you with the widest grin.
The game ends with a Longhorns win. People file out buzzing with energy. You stand reluctantly, hating the idea of leaving his warmth. Glen notices instantly and just takes your hand.
As you walk down the stadium ramps, he bumps your shoulder gently with his.
“For the record,” he says, “next time I tell you to bring a jacket—”
“Oh my god.”
“—you’re gonna listen to me.”
“You are insufferable.”
He stops walking long enough to kiss your forehead. Soft. Warm. A little smug.
“But you’re warm,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “So it’s worth it.”
More Than Just Us Two: Chapter 6 - The Truth Comes Out
The restaurant was the kind of place that felt effortlessly comfortable with dim lighting, soft music, and the quiet clink of silverware instead of the dull roar of conversation. Booths lined the walls, and fairy lights traced lazy arcs along the ceiling. Cozy but not pretentious.
Jake had picked it, of course. Now he sat across from her, sleeves of his navy button up rolled to his forearms, a half grin playing at his lips as he told some story about a training exercise that had apparently gone sideways.
“—so then Rooster insists he can thread the needle between two incoming jets, right?” Jake was saying, gesturing with his fork. “And Javy’s yelling at him over the comms like we’re about to die, but the man’s cool as ice. And somehow he pulls it off. Barely.”
Hannah smiled, leaning her chin on her hand. “So what you’re saying is, this Rooster guy’s better than you.”
Jake froze mid bite, narrowing his eyes in mock offense. “You take that back.”
She laughed, the sound surprising her in its ease. “I’m just saying, it sounds like he might have you beat.”
“I let him have it,” Jake countered smoothly, pointing his fork at her. “You know, team morale and all that.”
“Right. Very generous of you.”
“Exactly.” He grinned, and she shook her head, smiling into her drink.
It felt easy now, being with Jake. They’d found a rhythm somewhere along the handful of dates they’d had. The nerves that used to cling to her before every day had started to fade, replaced by something steadier. She wasn’t waiting for him to prove himself anymore. He already had, in ways she hadn’t expected.
She caught herself watching him for a moment too long. She noticed the way the candlelight caught in his hair, the warmth behind his eyes when he laughed. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed feeling this…comfortable, even a little hopeful, when it cam to men and a relationship.
Jake looked up, catching her gaze. “What?”
“Nothing.” She smiled, shaking her head. “Just thinking you clean up pretty well.”
He smirked. “So you do notice.”
“Sometimes,” she teased.
“Good to know my efforts don’t go unappreciated.”
Jake leaned back, looking more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. “So how’s work this week? Still wrangling that new project?”
Hannah groaned. “Don’t remind me. Half my team forgot what a deadline is. I swear I spend more time babysitting adults than actually doing my job.”
“Sounds familiar,” he said dryly. “Except my coworkers have access to multimillion dollar aircraft.”
That made her laugh again, the sound soft and genuine. For a fleeting second, Hannah thought maybe this, whatever this was, might actually last.
Then her phone buzzed against the table where it lay face down. Hannah picked it up, seeing who it was. Maddie. Hannah hesitated and then she placed it face down on the table, forcing a smile as she looked at Jake.
“Sorry. My sister.”
Jake shrugged. “You can get it if you need to.”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, too quickly.
The phone buzzed again. Then again.
Jake glanced at it, eyebrows lifting. “Persistent. You sure you shouldn’t—”
Hannah’s stomach tightened. Maddie wasn’t the type to keep calling unless something was wrong. She sighed, picking up the phone. “Sorry, just one sec.”
There was a tiny burst of static, then a small, bright voice filled her ear.
“Mommy! Mommy, guess what!”
Relief flooded her chest and panic followed right behind it. “Ava?”
“I read a whole book! By myself!” Ava’s excitement buzzed through the line, high and breathless. “Well, almost by myself. Aunt Maddie helped with the big words, but I did most of it!”
Hannah couldn’t help smiling. “That’s amazing, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”
Jake looked up from his drink, curious, his smile spreading at the sound of the tiny voice carrying through the receiver.
“I wanted to tell you before bed,” Ava went on. “Are you coming home soon?”
“Soon,” Hannah said softly. “But you need to be good for Aunt Maddie, okay?”
“Okay!” A pause. “Mommy?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I love you.”
The words hit her square in the chest, simple and unguarded. She closed her eyes, smiling despite the sudden lump in her throat. “I love you too, baby. Go get ready for bed, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay! Bye, Mommy!”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
She hung up and set the phone down gently, pulse still racing.
When she ended the call, Hannah set her phone down and exhaled, trying to steady herself. The warmth from Ava’s little voice still lingered, soft and sweet, and for a fleeting second she forgot where she was…until she looked up.
Jake was watching her, elbows resting on the table, his expression unreadable.
“She sounds cute,” he said after a beat, voice lighter than his eyes. “But…did she just call you ‘Mommy’?”
The words hit her stomach like a stone. For a split second, Hannah froze. Then nodded. “Yeah. She did.”
Jake leaned back slightly, processing that.
“Didn’t realize you had a kid,” he said carefully.
Her fingers clasped around the edge of her napkin. “I know. I should’ve told you sooner.”
He didn’t say anything, and the silence between them stretched, quiet but taut.
“So she’s what…three? Four?” Jake asked after a moment, his tone softer now, genuine curiosity laying under the shock.
“Yeah,” Hannah said, nodding. “Four going on fourteen. She’s…smart. Funny. She loves stories and asks way too many questions.”
He gave a quiet laugh, but it faded almost as soon as it came. “You raise her on your own?”
“For the past year or so.” She traced the rim of her glass. “Her dad passed away last year. It’s been me and her since.”
Jake’s expression shifted, a flicker of something like sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Thanks.”
He hesitated, eyes on his hands. “Must be…a lot.”
“It is,” she said truthfully. “But she’s worth every bit of it.”
Jake nodded slowly, still turning it over. “You didn’t think to tell me sooner?”
Hannah’s heart stuttered. “I thought about it. But I’ve had people bail before, once they realized dating me meant also caring about her. I just…wanted to know where this was going first.”
He leaned back, eyes dropping to the table. “Guess I can’t blame you for that.”
The words were kind, but the warmth was gone. He wasn’t angry, just retreating, drawing quiet boundaries she could suddenly feel. And Hannah knew, without him saying it, that the night was winding down.
When the check came, he insisted on paying, polite as ever. He still pulled out her chair and held the door, still offered a faint smile as they stepped outside. But the spark between them, the feeling that it was so easy and effortless just an hour ago, was now something tentative and uncertain.
He walked her to her car, hands shoved in his pockets instead of intertwined with hers. It was a subtle change that Hannah noticed but didn’t mention.
“Thanks for dinner,” she said, trying to catch his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, voice even. “Of course.”
She smiled weakly. “Drive safe?”
“Of course. Let me know when you get home.”
* * * * *
Jake’s POV
The drive back to his house was quiet except for the hum of the tires and the faint sound of the radio, some soft country song that felt too on the nose, so he shut it off halfway through.
He replayed the night in his head, every word, every glance, every pause. The way Hannah’s face had softened when she’d said her daughter’s name. The way her fingers trembled just slightly as she set her phone down. The apology in her eyes before she even said the words.
A kid. A daughter. A whole little human that depended on her.
He hadn’t seen that coming.
Jake prided himself on being good at reading people. Call it a skill honed from years of cockpits and competition. You learn to look for the small things: what someone says, what they don’t. Hannah, though…she’d never seemed like she was hiding something. Guarded, sure. But that was half her charm. She didn’t throw everything on the table like most people did. You had to earn pieces of her.
And he had liked that. Still did.
But this? This was big.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw as he hit a red light. His first thought? How didn’t I know? They’d gone out five times, talked for hours over texts and snapchats, shared stories about family, childhood, work. He’d told her things he didn’t usually talk about. But she hadn’t mentioned Ava. Not once.
The light turned green. He didn’t move right away.
It wasn’t that she had a kid. He didn’t think less of her for it. He just didn’t know what it meant. What he was supposed to do with that kind of information.
He’d never pictured himself in that kind of role. Stepfather. Partner, whatever label fit. His life didn’t exactly lend itself to stability. Deployments. Transfers. The Navy always came first; that was the deal. And Hannah…she deserved someone who could put her and her kid first.
Still, the image of her talking to Ava, her voice soft and face glowing with love, had lodged somewhere deep in his chest.
Jake exhaled hard, gripping the steering wheel.
“You’re in over your head, Seresin,” he muttered to himself.
He could still hear his dad’s voice, clear as day: You can’t have it all, son. The job or the family. You pick one and do it right.
For a long time, Jake had believed that. Maybe he still did.
He’d built a life around being the guy who didn’t stick. No mess, no expectations, no heartbreak. Easy. Clean. Until Hannah showed up with her sharp humor and her tired eyes and her laugh that hit like sunlight breaking through clouds, and suddenly easy didn’t feel so satisfying anymore.
Now he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her voice had cracked when she said, I just wanted to be sure before I brought someone into her life.
It wasn’t manipulation. It wasn’t deception. It was honesty. He hated how much he respected that.
By the time he pulled into his driveway, his stomach was in knots. He sat in the truck for a long moment, hands still on the wheel, headlights cutting through the dark.
He could walk away. No one would blame him. She’d understand. Hell, she’d probably even expect it based on the way she had looked at him earlier. But that thought landed heavier than he liked. Like just the thought of breaking things off with her made him feel sick to his stomach.
He’d been on dates before. Plenty. He’d made women laugh, bought dinners, sent texts that meant nothing. But none of them had made him feel like this…like he was standing on the edge of something that actually mattered.
And maybe that was the problem.
He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing briefly. Hannah and Ava. Two names now tangled together in his head.
He could still hear Ava’s tiny voice on the phone, so full of joy. I read a whole book by myself!
Jake smiled despite himself.
He finally killed the engine and sat in the dark, the night pressing in. The house in front of him looked hollow: neat, organized, lifeless. Just a place to sleep between flights.
He wondered what Hannah’s house looked like. He’d seen the outside, but he wondered what the inside looked and felt like. He pictured toys in the corner, crayon pictures on the fridge, a light left on in the hallway for a little girl who couldn’t sleep.
Jake exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell are you doing, man?”
No answer came. Just the distant hum of the base in the distance, and the echo of a woman’s laugh he couldn’t quite let go of.
* * * * * *
Hannah’s POV
The drive home felt longer than it should have. San Diego blurred past in streaks of gold and red. Headlights, taillights, streetlights all bleeding together in the dark. Hannah kept both hands tight on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather.
She could still feel the echo of Jake’s silence, how it had filled every inch of the space between them after she told him.
He hadn’t said anything cruel. He hadn’t said much at all. Just the kind of careful, measured things people said when they were trying to be decent.
But he hadn’t looked at her the same after. The warmth had drained from his eyes, replaced by something more guarded. Not disgust, not disappointment, just distance.
She’d felt it most when they left the restaurant. Normally, he’d offer her his hand, his arm, always a small touch, steady and grounding. Tonight, his hands stayed in his pockets.
He’d walked her to her car because he was polite, not because he wanted to. No kiss. No second or third kiss because he just couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye. No asking about the next date and when he could see her again.
She kept replaying it like maybe she could find something she’d missed: a soft smile, a hint of hope, any sign that he hadn’t already decided that this wasn’t what he wanted anymore.
But there was nothing. Just that look in his eyes when she had finally told him the truth.
Her phone sat silent on the passenger seat. No text, no call. Usually there’d be at least three from him.
By the time she pulled into her driveway, her stomach was a knot. The porch light was on, casting a gentle glow across the front steps. Maddie must’ve turned it on for her.
When she stepped inside, the familiar hum of the house was waiting. Ava’s toys were scattered across the rug. A small Cinderella blanket was folded on the couch, and the faint smell of lavender shampoo came from the bathroom down the hall. Maddie appeared from the hallway, still in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, a mug of tea in her hands.
“You’re home early,” Maddie said, studying her sister’s face. “How was dinner?”
Hannah kicked off her heels and hung her purse on the hook. “It was…fine.”
Maddie blinked. “Fine? You’re using the f-word again?”
Hannah tried to laugh but it came out shaky. “Yeah. Fine.”
Maddie’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Spill. What happened?”
Hannah sighed, sinking onto the couch. “He heard her call me.”
“Oh.” Maddie sat beside her. “And?”
“And he asked. I told him the truth.”
Maddie winced. “How’d he take it?”
Hannah stared at her hands. “Like I’d just told him I had a second life somewhere. He wasn’t mean about it. Just…quiet. Distant. Like he was rewiring everything he thought he knew about me.”
Maddie frowned. “Did he say anything?”
“He asked a few questions. How old she was. If I was raising her alone.” Hannah’s voice softened. “I told him about…about her dad. I think that’s when he shut down. After that, he barely said ten words.”
Hannah shook her head. “I knew it was a risk. I just thought maybe—” she paused, exhaling slowly, “—maybe he was different.”
“He is different,” Maddie said gently.
“Maybe not enough.”
The room fell quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. Hannah leaned back, eyes tracing the familiar lines of her ceiling. She could feel the tears threatening, hot behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
“I should’ve told him sooner,” she murmured. “But every time I thought about it, I panicked. Because what if he walked away before he even met her? Before he even knew me?”
Maddie’s tone softened. “You were protecting Ava. That’s what you do.”
“Yeah, and maybe I protected her right out of something good.”
Maddie sighed. “You don’t know that.”
Hannah laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it. “He didn’t hold my hand when we left. Didn’t even hug me goodnight. You know how he is…always touching, always teasing. Tonight he couldn’t even look at me the same way.”
Maddie’s face fell. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence for a beat. Then Maddie nudged her knee. “You want me to say it?”
“What?”
“That if he’s going to bail because you have a kid, he’s not worth your time?”
Hannah gave her a tired smile. “I’ve already told myself that about thirty times since I got in the car.”
Maddie smiled softly. “Good. But I’ll say it again anyway. If he doesn’t come around, that’s on him, not you.”
Hannah nodded, though her chest ached. “I just…I thought he might not run away. Like this would be the one that stayed..”
Maddie squeezed her hand. “Give him time. He looked at you like you hung the moon before tonight. That doesn’t disappear in a few hours.”
Hannah wanted to believe her. She really did. But as she glanced toward the dark hallway, toward Ava’s door, faintly ajar, and her throat tightened.
She’d done the right thing, she told herself. Honesty was better than pretending.
But she couldn’t shake the quiet, heavy fear settling in her chest. The kind that whispered that maybe, this time, the truth had cost her something she wasn’t ready to lose.
Hannah leaned her head back, and looked up at the ceiling again. For a second she thought she could keep it together. Then her breath hitched.
“Mads,” she whispered, voice splintering, “I really liked him.”
Maddie’s hand stilled on her arm.
“I mean…I really liked him,” Hannah said again, shaking her head as the first tear slipped free. “I wasn’t even looking for anything. I didn’t think I could. And then he just…” Her voice broke. “He made me feel…light again. Like I was allowed to be happy.”
Maddie pulled her in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“It’s the first time I’ve felt that since—” Hannah couldn’t finish. Her voice cracked on the name she didn’t say. The one that still haunted her in quieter moments.
“Since Ava’s dad,” Maddie finished softly.
Hannah nodded into her sister’s shoulder, tears streaking her cheeks. “And now it’s gone. Just like that.”
Maddie held her tighter. “It’s not gone. Maybe just…paused. Maybe he’s trying to figure out what to do with something bigger than he expected.”
Hannah gave a watery laugh. “That’s generous.”
“You always were bad at taking a little hope,” Maddie said gently. “But maybe keep some, just in case.”
Hannah wiped her cheeks, exhaustion creeping in where the tears had been. “I’m tired of being brave about everything.”
“I know.” Maddie brushed a strand of hair from her face. “But you’re not doing this alone. You never have.”
For a long while they just sat there, the house quiet around them. Eventually Hannah’s breathing steadied, her head resting on her sister’s shoulder.
She didn’t say it out loud, but the thought pressed heavy in her chest. Being with Jake had woken something in her. A softness she’d thought she’d buried with her grief. And now she wasn’t sure which hurt more: losing him, or realizing how much she’d needed what he’d given her, even if she only had it for a little while.
Summary: When you, a rookie entertainment journalist, lands a last minute interview with Glen Powell, you’re determined not to mess it up. But what starts as another routine press junket turns into something quieter, and far more real, over a shared cup of bad hotel coffee.
Warnings: Some brief discussion of burnout, emotional fatigue, and professional stress. But other than that this one is pretty mild.
Word Count: 3,508
Prompt: Coffee date - “Coffee or tea?” + Glen Powell (RPF)
Summary: When you, a rookie entertainment journalist, lands a last minute interview with Glen Powell, you’re determined not to mess it up. But what starts as another routine press junket turns into something quieter, and far more real, over a shared cup of bad hotel coffee.
Warnings: Some brief discussion of burnout, emotional fatigue, and professional stress. But other than that this one is pretty mild.
Word Count: 3,508
Prompt: Coffee date - “Coffee or tea?” + Glen Powell (RPF)
Author's Note: This is my third and final submission for a Fall Writing Challenge that I'm doing as part of The Written Brain Discord. Hope you all enjoy it!
You weren’t supposed to be here, not really. The assignment had belonged to your senior journalist until a scheduling conflict landed it in your inbox late last night.
“It’s low stakes,” she’d said over Slack, like interviewing one of Hollywood’s most in demand leads wasn’t a career landmine waiting to happen. “Just get a quote or two, make it clean, make it quick.”
Still, you’d spent half the night rewriting your questions, cross checking facts and the ‘Do Not Ask’ list his publicist had sent over, and trying to memorize sound bites from other interviews so you wouldn’t accidentally repeat the same five questions he’s answered a million times. Your notebook pages were filled with tidy columns of ink and nerves.
Now, sitting outside the suite on the Four Seasons conference floor, you bounced your heel in time with the clock on the wall. The hallway was quiet except for the muffled hum of the air conditioning and the faint click of heels passing in the distance. Everyone else from the press lineup had already left smiling, confident, already beginning their drafts for their pieces.
You were the last slot of the day. The afterthought.
When the door finally opened, Glen’s publicist appeared first, tablet in hand.
“Try to keep this one brief,” she said, smiling the kind of professional smile that meant don’t push your luck.
You nodded quickly, trying to sound like you belonged here. “Of course. Just a few questions.”
Inside, the suite looked like the few other press junket setups you’d been to: two armchairs angled toward each other, a small round table between them, a discreet camera pointed your way. But there was something human about the mess too. Half a croissant abandoned on a napkin, an empty espresso cup perched precariously on the edge of the table, a jacket tossed over the back of one chair.
And there he was. Glen Powell with movie star posture and tired eyes. The lighting softened him, catching in the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He stood when you entered, stretching subtly, like his body had forgotten how to be still.
“Hey,” he said, easy grin returning to his face like someone flipping a switch as he extended a hand to you. “You’re my last one of the day, right?”
“Lucky me,” you said, before realizing how that might sound.
He laughed, the kind of laugh that made the tension in your shoulders ease a notch. “Or lucky me. Depends how you write it.”
You both sat. The camera operator gave a nod, signaling they were ready. You clicked on your recorder, asked your first question, something about his new film’s message, how it balanced humor and heart. He answered flawlessly. Polished sound bites, the same kind you’d probably seen scattered across TikTok and entertainment blogs all week.
Still, every now and then, his rhythm faltered. He rubbed his thumb over his knuckle, shifted forward in his chair. The façade held, but you could see the edges fraying.
Halfway through your second question, his publicist slipped a note onto the table, whispering that he had five minutes left. He looked up at her, then back at you, and smiled apologetically.
“You know what?” He said, leaning back, voice dropping low like a secret. “We’ve been doing this here all day. Can we get out of this room for a second?”
You froze. Out? As in he’s done? Your heart lurched in your chest. Maybe your questions were too boring, too rehearsed. Maybe you’d already lost his attention two minutes in. You could practically see the headline now: Junior reporter fumbles exclusive interview with Glen Powell, offers nothing of substance but mild secondhand embarrassment.
You tried to smile, but your throat tightened. “Oh. Of course, I can wrap up—”
He blinked, frowning faintly. “No, no, not that kind of out.”
You paused, unsure. He gestured toward the door, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I mean, get out of this room. I’ve been in this chair since sunrise. There’s a café downstairs. Let’s do the rest of this over coffeethat doesn’t taste like printer ink.”
For a moment, you just stared at him, relief washing through so fast it almost made you dizzy.
“Oh,” you said, the word coming out on a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Coffee sounds…good.”
“Great,” he said, rising easily, stretching his shoulders as if shaking off the day. “Let’s make it a field interview.”
His publicist looked startled but resigned, muttering something about “fifteen minutes” before returning to her phone.
As you followed him into the hallway, your pulse still hadn’t quite slowed. You tried to hide the small tremor in your hands as you gathered your things. The recorder felt suddenly heavier in your pocket, like a reminder of how close you’d come to disaster.
The elevator doors closed around you both, sealing the quiet. Glen leaned against the mirrored wall, the tension gone from his posture.
He caught your reflection and smiled, softer this time. “You look nervous.”
You let out a half laugh. “You’ve done this a few hundred times. I’m just trying not to screw up my first big piece.”
“Then let’s make it a good one,” he said, and something in his tone, a hint of steadiness and warmth perhaps, untied the knot in your chest.
When the elevator chimed open, the lobby greeted you with the smell of roasted coffee and faint piano music.
“Coffee or tea?” Glen asked, glancing back at you as the café came into view.
“Coffee,” you said immediately.
He grinned, holding the door open with a quiet kind of charm. “Knew I liked you already.”
The line wasn’t flirtatious exactly, more like a weary kind of sincerity, but it lingered all the same. And for the first time that day, the story you were about to write felt less like an interview and more like a moment.
Glen gives a two-finger salute to the barista who recognizes him without making a scene. You’re grateful for that; you had braced for phone cameras and whispering tourists, but the room seems to agree, silently, to let him be a person.
He steps to the counter first. “Two black coffees,” he says, then glances at you. “Unless—”
“Black’s perfect,” you say, because it is, and because you don’t want to be complicated. He looks relieved and slides his card across the counter. You reach for your wallet out of reflex.
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “I invited you. My treat. Also, selfishly, if you hate it, I’ll feel less bad.”
You drift toward a corner table while he waits for the cups. The chair you choose faces the hallway through a slat of the ficus leaves, giving you a quiet slice of lobby life: a family with matching suitcases, a woman in heels reading emails like they owe her money, a bellhop maneuvering a cart piled with garment bags. You set your recorder on the table beside your notebook out of habit, and flip to the page where you’ve scribbled your next questions.
Glen arrives with two steaming cups and a handful of sugar packets. “I didn’t know if you…?” He fans the little paper rectangles like a deck of cards.
“Just a splash of milk,” you say.
He nods, reaches for the milk jug, and when you go to grab your cup, his knuckles brush yours. The contact is nothing more than incidental warmth, but it startles you anyway. He notices. His mouth tilts, a flicker of a smile he doesn’t force.
“Hot,” he says, meaning the coffee, maybe, but you feel your face agree.
You clear your throat and bring your professional voice back online.
“Okay,” you say, tapping your pen against the page. “So…let’s talk about the film. You’ve mentioned before that you’re drawn to characters who are charismatic but flawed. What was the hook for you here?”
He leans back, cradling his cup. “I like people who think they’re the hero of their own story. Or, maybe more accurately, people who are terrified they aren’t.”
It’s a good line. You nod, scribble it down, give him the soft “mm-hmm” that tells him you’re listening while you check your recorder to make sure it’s capturing and realize, with a cold swoop of panic, that the red light isn’t on.
You press the button. Nothing. Dead. You’d charged it last night, but the little battery icon blinks its accusation anyway.
You look up too fast, and he sees the worry on your face before you can smooth it out.
“Everything okay?” He asks, and he sounds like a person, not a headline.
“Just—” You smile, too bright. “Gonna grab a backup.” You dig in your bag for your phone with hands that suddenly feel unfamiliar.
Your fingers finally close around your phone. You pull it out and tap the voice memo app with more force than necessary. The little waveform springs to life, a wobbly blue snake.
Glen watches you set it beside the dead recorder.
“Rough day?” He asks, and there’s no teasing in it now.
“First big piece,” you admit before you can stop yourself. You hear how naive it sounds and wince. “I swear I’m usually more prepared.”
He follows your gaze to the dark screen of the recorder and then back to you. “You know,” he says, leaning forward a little, elbows on the table. “If you didn’t get that part, we can just keep talking. Off the record.”
You blink. It takes a second for the words to rearrange into sense. “Off the…oh.” You glance at your phone. The blue line is still humming. You lock it and flip it face down.
He smiles like you’ve passed a test you didn’t know you were taking.
“I’m not trying to tank your piece,” he says. “We can get you quotes. I’ll say the line about not trusting people who get out of life clean. I’ll even pretend it’s the first time I’ve said it.” The smile turns self aware. “But if we only do that, I’m going to go back upstairs and forget this ever happened. And I don’t want to do that, because I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy talking to you.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The pen in your hand stops its anxious tapping. You slide your coffee closer, and he nudges it the last inch so you don’t have to reach. It’s a dumb, thoughtful gesture that feels like opening a window.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Off the record.”
“Off the record,” he echoes, and the words settle between you like a treaty.
You risk a sip. It’s too hot and a little bitter; you burn the tip of your tongue and try not to make a face.
He sees that too. “We can ask them to add milk,” he offers.
“This is fine,” you say, swallowing, then smile because the honesty feels nicer than the performance. “It’s terrible, but it’s fine.”
He laughs, head tipping back. “That’s junket coffee for you. Looks like coffee. Smells like coffee. Soul of a burnt tire.”
“Perfect pull quote,” you say, and then catch yourself. “Kidding. Not writing that down.”
“Thank you,” he says, amused. “My publicist would spontaneously combust.”
The barista calls a name; milk foams, spoons clink against ceramic. A couple in the next booth debates whether to Uber to the airport or risk the taxi line. The café is busy enough to blur the edges of your conversation, to make it feel like you’re tucked into a pocket of quiet.
He watches steam curl off his cup. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped a notch. “You know the thing about these days? They’re a magic trick. You learn how to disappear and leave something behind that looks like you.”
You look at him, surprised. “Like a stand in.”
“Yeah.” He nods, eyes still on the coffee. “And look, I’m not ungrateful. It’s a privilege to do this. I know how many people would kill for the chance. But…you can start to feel like a really charismatic screensaver.”
“That’s such a specific dread,” you say, half laughing. “And I get it.” You hesitate, then add, “Sometimes interviews feel like speed dating with a timer. You forget who you were five minutes ago because you’re trying to match whatever version of yourself they’re hoping shows up.”
He tilts his head, studying you. “Does it ever get lonely?” he asks. “Writing about people you don’t really know?”
The question lands with a clean weight. You look at your face in the black sheen of coffee and see yourself distorted by steam.
“Yeah,” you say. “It does. There’s this moment, every time, where I realize I’ve built a person out of quotes and context and a publicist’s email, and I’m going to send it into the world with my name on it, and…what if I got them wrong? What if I flattened them into something easy because I was scared to ask for something real?”
He’s quiet a second, then nods slowly. “I think about that in reverse. Like what have I made easy for people to digest?”
You don’t realize you’ve reached for a sugar packet until your fingers brush his again. He’s already sliding it toward you, like he anticipated it. You laugh softly, a little breathless. “Thanks.”
“Force of habit,” he says. “My mom would swat me if I didn’t offer the sugar first.”
“Texas mom?”
“Is there any other kind?” He grins. “She’ll argue with a fencepost if it’s wrong, and she’ll feed you even if you swear you’re full.”
“That sounds…nice.”
“It is.” He pauses. “You from here?”
“Not here-here,” you say, stirring the coffee. “Grew up two states over. Moved around a lot. Chasing internships. Chasing bylines. Chasing… I don’t know. A version of my life that felt earned.”
He watches your hands, the spoon tapping the ceramic. “And did you?”
“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes I file a piece and it lands and I think, okay. That. That’s what I meant. And sometimes I read the comments.” You make a face. “Which is my fault.”
“Never read the comments,” he says, mock stern. “Rule number one.”
“I know.” You shrug. “But they’re right there.”
He leans in, elbows on the table, voice dropping. “I have a folder on my phone. Screenshots of texts from family and friends. Coworkers. Reminders that I have a support system and not everything I do is bad.”
You smile despite yourself. “That’s… actually brilliant.”
“It’s stolen,” he says. “From a friend who stole it from a therapist. But it works.”
You picture a folder full of font-scraps and goofy encouragements and feel something in your ribs unclench.
“My best friend sends me memes anytime I get passed up for an article,” you say. “Half of them are cats with anxiety. The other half are aggressively kind.”
“I’ll take aggressively kind,” he says. “We need more of that.”
You sip your coffee again. It’s cooled just enough to stop burning.
“So if you weren’t doing this,” you ask, “what would you be doing?”
He thinks for a moment before looking over at you. “Not sure. Guess I always kind of saw myself doing this in some form. Maybe if Hollywood hadn’t worked out I would’ve gone back to Texas, worked on something on a smaller scale. But I suppose you want an actual answer so maybe…opening a taco truck. But, like, a really pretentious one. Twelve-hour brisket, handmade tortillas, someone’s nonna’s salsa recipe I’m definitely not qualified to be guarding.”
“You’d get canceled day two,” you say.
“Oh, absolutely.” He laughs. “But I’d be so sincere about it.”
A message buzzes his phone face up on the table: Wrap meeting moved up. Another buzz: You okay? Need you in five. You watch the light strobe against the porcelain, then go dark.
He sighs, but doesn’t reach for it. “Guess that’s our cue.”
“You can go,” you say, though the words feel heavier than you want them to. “I have enough to write something. We can do follow-ups later.”
“We’ll get you the quotes,” he says. “That’s easy.” He nudges your phone with one finger. “But keep that off for a second.”
You flip it a little farther away. “Okay.”
He looks at you like he’s choosing something. When he speaks, it’s slower. “There was a week, a few years ago, where I thought I’d blown it. Big role fell through. Someone said I wasn’t ‘good enough’ to carry a movie. And I—” He stops, exhales. “I didn’t realize how much I had tied my worth to the next yes.”
“I called my dad,” he says. “Expecting a pep talk. And he goes, ‘Well, son, I never thought you were a movie star anyway.’” He grins at your face. “I know. Brutal. But then he said, ‘You’re a worker. You show up. You love people. That’s who you are. The rest is noise.’ And I just—” He taps his chest lightly. “Something in here unclenched. I stopped trying to be shiny and started trying to just be myself.”
“That’s the difference between you and everyone else that does what you do,” you say, almost to yourself. “Liked versus known.”
He nods. “I want the people who know me to still recognize me when the lights are on. That’s the goal. The rest is…garnish.”
Your mouth tips without permission. “Garnish for the brisket tacos.”
“Exactly,” he says, delighted you brought it back. “Cilantro. Controversial, but I stand by it.”
Another buzz from the phone; the screen lights with a new message. They’re waiting in the suite. He winces, finally picks it up, thumbs a quick reply, then sets it down again like it burned.
“Do you ever wish you could just…” He gestures vaguely toward the door, the hotel, the city. “Walk out and not have anyone notice?”
“Yes,” you say. “And no. I mean, sometimes I want to disappear. But also…I’ve wanted this job for so long.” You glance at your flipped phone. “I don’t want to get what I asked for and then pretend I didn’t ask for it.”
He watches you for a moment, and there’s that flicker again, approval maybe? Or relief.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says. “You care more than you need to. That’s usually the right problem to have.”
You huff a laugh. “Tell my therapist that.”
“Text me her number,” he says easily, then catches himself. “I mean…if you ever want to talk off the record again.” He reaches for one of the sugar packets he didn’t use and slides it across the table. On the blank white paper, he writes a number in neat, quick strokes. Then a name you already know. Below it, he adds: for when you forget how to breathe. He underlines it once, light as a fingertip.
You stare at the packet like it’s a trick. “Your publicist is going to…”
“Combust,” he finishes, amused. “She’ll be fine. She loves me. Against her will, but still.”
Another buzz. He glances, sighs, then looks back at you. “Okay. I should go charm some executives.” He says it like he’s about to put the costume back on. He stands, and you do too. For a beat, you just stand there, coffee cups cooling, the café noise soft around you.
“Thank you,” you say. It comes out steadier than you feel. “For…this.”
“Thank you,” he says, and he means it in a way that isn’t performative. He reaches past you, and you think he’s going for his cup, but instead he slides yours a fraction closer to your side of the table again, like he wants to make sure you won’t leave it behind. “For the record, you ask better questions when you forget to record.”
He holds the door for you with his hip, and you step back into the lobby’s echo. The rope of sound: piano, suitcases, and low conversation wraps around you. The publicist is already striding toward him, phone in hand, grateful and brisk.
“Fifteen minutes,” she says, pointed but not unkind. “We’re late.”
“On my way,” he says, then turns to you again. “You’ve got my number.”
You lift the sugar packet. “I do.”
He walks backward a step, that switch-flip smile warming back to life, then he does something softer. It’s barely a nod, just a quick glance that feels like a promise kept.
You stand there for a moment, the sugar packet warm between your fingers, the recorder dark and useless in your bag, the phone waiting patiently under your palm. The café’s noise rises and falls behind you. You can still feel the ghost heat of his knuckle against yours.
You take another sip of coffee. It’s cooled to something almost pleasant. You flip your phone over, open a new note, and type the first line before you can overthink it: Sometimes the best interview starts when you forget to record.
Summary: A storm chase turns into something neither of them planned. She joined Scott on the road just to feel close to him again, but when the skies open up and the sirens start, she’s forced to face more than her fear of thunder. Inside a small field cabin, with the storm pressing in and tempers fraying, old wounds crack open. By the time the clouds break, what’s left between them is raw, fragile, and maybe worth saving.
Warnings: Severe weather/thunderstorm anxiety in reader mentioned. Emotional conflict and raised voices. Brief discussion of grief (mention of Scott’s father’s death). Mild language.
Word Count: 3,549
Prompt + Pairing: Thunderstorms - “Hold me.” + Scott Miller
Note: This is my second submission for a Fall Writing Challenge that I'm doing as part of a Discord that I'm in with some other talented writers. This is my first time writing for Scott, so hope you guys enjoy!
Late afternoon painted the Oklahoma sky the color of a bruise: yellowed at the edges, purpling toward the center where a wall of cloud stacked heavier and heavier. Heat shivered off the two lane blacktop. The air tasted like pennies.m
She had never liked storms. She had tolerated them from the safety of her apartment with thick curtains and the safety of weather alerts delivered to a phone that could be turned face down.
She had not, until today, volunteered to sit inside a truck aimed at the belly of one.
Scott’s left hand rested loose on the steering wheel. The other hand flicked across the tablet in the dash mount: tilting, pinching, zooming through bands of color she understood only as danger. The radio crackled with terse voices and numbers that meant nothing to her, and everything to him.
“You said we’d watch from a distance,” she said. She had meant for it to sound light, teasing. It came out tight, small.
“We are,” he said, squinting toward the horizon. “Mostly.”
The wind lifted and pressed, a slow inhale from the west that swayed the tall grass and bumped the truck in a way that made her grip the handle over the window. Beyond the fenceline, a field of wheat swam in one direction, then another, like someone had dragged a giant hand across it. A grain bin squatted alone by a rusted windmill, blades idling.
Scott glanced over. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” A lie with a heartbeat. She loosened her fingers one at a time. “How far is ‘mostly’?”
He blew a breath through his nose, and her stomach sank because that told her she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“We’ll keep a healthy margin. Storm’s moving faster than the morning models, but we’ve got outs.” He tapped the map. “If she turns, we peel south. If she strengthens, we drop back and let her pass.”
If she strengthens. The way he called the storm “she” like a dance partner would have charmed her on any other day. Today it felt like a dare.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” she said.
“I’m not.” He pointed with his chin. “Look at that inflow tail…textbook. She’s maturing.”
Thunder rolled from somewhere far enough away that you felt it before you heard it, a pressure change against the skin, the hollow of the throat. The first fat drops hit the windshield like thrown pebbles. He flicked the wipers on. They squeaked across glass that had seen too many miles.
She watched his jaw as he drove. She noticed how it worked when he was thinking, how the corner of his mouth tipped up when the screen of the tablet lit up with coordinates he liked.
He was beautiful when he was like this, all economy and intent. He was terrible, too, because when the storms came, they took the rest of him. They took the part that remembered to text back, to sleep, to eat something besides beef jerky and gas station coffee. There had been too many nights lately where the bed had felt like a raft and she’d been the only person on it.
“You could’ve just come home,” she said, softer. “I would’ve made you real food.”
He drummed his fingers once on the wheel, gaze never leaving the road. “After this cell.”
“You said that last week.”
“And I meant it last week.” He tipped the tablet toward her again. “I can’t walk away from this. None of us can.”
“I’m not ‘none of us.’ I don’t need a photo of a green blob to feel alive.”
That landed. His mouth flattened. “That’s not fair.”
“No? How many days were you home in the last two months?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The storm answered for him, the wind snapping a loose plastic tarp on a stacked hay bale hard enough to make her flinch. Somewhere to the north, a siren wound up, that warbling alien sound that made your gut drop even if the danger sat in someone else’s backyard.
Scott’s knuckles went white on the wheel. He swallowed. “I told you what storm season is like.”
“I know.” She stared out past her reflection in the glass, past the fuzzed line of cottonwoods marching along a creek. Lightning stitched the distant cloud, silent for a count of two, three, then cracked so loud it felt like a slap. She lost the number on purpose after that.
They continued driving for another ten or fifteen minutes. She didn’t pick up on all of the words and terms being traded between Scott and the others on the radio, but she knew enough to put together that this storm wasn’t going to produce a cell. Just a lot of rain, thunder, and lightning.
He slowed to take a gravel turnoff. The truck shuddered as tires ground stone.
“We’re going to hole up,” he said, as if conceding something. “Old field station down this way. Used it a couple years back. Roof’s solid. Good sightline to the west.”
“Great,” she said.
They passed a farmhouse with a porch sagging toward a patch of mud, the swing bucking in the wind like it wanted to tear free. A black lab barked from behind a wire fence, all frantic tail and worry. She wondered whether anyone was home to let it back inside, whether anyone was watching the sky through the same kind of tight throat she had.
“You remember your first big storm?” She asked, a truce shaped question.
He cut her a sideways look that held a smile he hadn’t fully committed to. “Sure. Ten. Mom tried to make a game of it. Blankets over the table, flashlight castle, snacks. Dad kept sneaking to the door to look. I kept sneaking under the table to watch him.”
“And now you’re the one sneaking to the door.”
“I don’t sneak,” he said, a touch of pride. “I stride.”
That made her snort, tension loosening by a thread. “How bold of you.”
“Very.” He pointed ahead. The road kinked around a stand of scrub oak and opened on a clearing where a squat, cinder block building hunched into the earth: half cabin, half utility shed, a torn NOAA sticker blistered on the door. The roof flashed dull tin beneath the first sheets of rain.
“You’ve stayed here?” She asked.
“Sheltered for a few hours.” He eased the truck into the grass beside the building and killed the engine. The sudden silence made the storm louder: wind trying the door seams, rain hammering the hood. “We’ll wait for it to pass, then reassess.”
Reassess. Another word he lived by. Another word that left everything open. It usually got brought up in conversations when she would ask when he was coming home.
He pulled the keys free, and for one second, just one, he looked like the version of himself she got on slow mornings: soft around the eyes, mouth relaxed.
Then he was in motion, voice practical. “Grab your bag. Flashlight’s on top. Watch your step.”
She nodded. The door fought her when she pushed it open, wind pressing it back like a hand on her chest. Rain slapped her bare forearm with shocking cold. She made it to the building in a low trot, shoes slipping in the churned mud. Scott was there ahead of her, shoulder to the door as he jimmied the old lock with familiarity, then shoved it open.
It was dim inside. A single narrow window, a wooden table, and a metal shelf of obsolete equipment. The place had the feel of a bunker, or a chapel. The kind of room where you could hear yourself be afraid.
Scott swept the light across corners, then found the lantern and thumbed it on. Yellow light puddled in the center of the room, catching on dust motes that lifted and drifted like startled birds. He checked the window latches, his movements efficient. Outside, the world began to blur, rain thickening to a sheet that turned the trees into charcoal smudges.
She hugged her arms. The air changed, a sudden drop that made the hair stand up along her forearms. She knew enough to know that wasn’t nothing.
“Barometer’s falling,” Scott said, unnecessarily. The radio on his belt muttered someone’s callsign, then dissolved in static.
“Does this thing…have a basement?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No basement. Interior wall’s there.” He pointed to a low hallway, the bathroom door at the end. “We’ll be okay. We’ve got cinder block, we’ve got distance, we’ve got options.”
“We had options on the road when we could have gone home,” she said, then winced at the sharpness of her own voice.
He set the lantern down a tad too hard on the table. The handle clanged, thin and bright. “You asked to come.”
“I asked to see you.”
“I’m right here.”
“Are you?” It slipped out before she could swallow it.
It hung between them, bright as lightning, impossible to ignore. The wind shoved the building hard enough to groan the studs. The air went weirdly still in the space of a breath, and then the rain tripled, a drumming so loud it turned sound into touch. Scott’s head snapped toward the window, eyes narrowing. She could see the math happen behind them: the tilt and spin of things he couldn’t share fast enough to make sense to her.
“I said we’d keep a margin,” he murmured, as if to himself.
“What does that mean right now?”
“It means we stay put.” He stepped closer to the window, then checked himself and stepped back. He looked at her, finally looking, as if he’d remembered she was in the room and not an extra weight in the passenger seat. “I’m not trying to scare you.”
“It’s not your intent that scares me.” She swallowed. Her mouth was dry, her tongue tasting like tin. “It’s the part where you stop existing for anyone but the storm.”
He flinched like she’d physically touched him. For a second, warmth flickered in his face. Remorse, maybe? Then thunder lifted the roof a fraction, and the moment blew apart.
A limb somewhere outside cracked and fell. The lantern shivered on the table. He moved, instincts taking him through a quick inventory: door secure, hallway clear, bathroom open, flashlight set within reach, then back to her.
“Hey,” he said. Not the storm voice. His voice. “We’ll ride it out. It’s going to be fine.”
She stared at his hand and thought about all the nights she’d wanted that hand and got a voicemail instead. She thought about the morning coffee gone cold on a counter waiting for a text that said on my way. The building creaked and the sky leaned, and the sound reached into her bones. She put her hand in his anyway.
His palm was calloused, warm. He squeezed once, just enough to ground her, then let go. The wind roared again; rain needled the window. The radio hissed, then died. Somewhere in the storm, a siren’s wail found them and threaded through the walls, long and thin.
He took a breath like he was about to say something and didn’t. She did the same. The room filled with everything unsaid, and the storm took the rest.
“Interior hall,” he said finally, gently. “Just in case.”
She nodded and moved with him toward the doorless square of the hallway, the lantern throwing their shadows long and joined on the peeling linoleum. Behind them, the cabin kept breathing. Ahead of them, the air smelled like wet concrete and old paint.
The next flash split the world in half: white light, then darkness, then a boom so deep it felt like it rolled straight through her chest. She jerked without meaning to. The lantern on the floor rattled, its halo trembling.
Scott barely blinked. He was watching the radar on his laptop, jaw set, pupils wide in the dim glow. She hated that steadiness almost as much as she envied it.
“Do you even hear that?” she asked.
He frowned. “What?”
“The thunder. The walls moving.” Her voice shook, breath catching between words. “How can you sit there like you love it?”
He looked up at her, eyes flicking between her face and the window. “Because I do.”
That made something hot rise in her chest. “You love this? You love nearly dying?”
“It’s not like that,” he said quietly. “Storms don’t scare me.”
Her arms folded tight, nails biting her own skin. “Then what does?”
He met her eyes. No hesitation. “People.” A pause. The storm filled the space his words left behind. “They always leave.”
The words landed like a slap she hadn’t braced for. All the breath went out of her. She felt it first as disbelief, then ache, then anger trying to save face.
She laughed once, sharp. “Maybe because you make it so damn easy to.”
The power cut mid-heartbeat. Darkness swallowed the room. Only the hiss of rain, only their uneven breathing. The generator coughed once, then quit for good.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. She stared at the shape of him in the dark, the faint outline of his shoulders against the gray windowlight. There was nothing else left to say. Anything she could say would just fall into the noise and drown.
She turned away first. She moved from the hall where Scott had taken her back to the living room, and sat down on the edge of the couch, palms pressed to her knees. In her head, she told herself the same thing over and over. Just get through the night. Get through the storm, then you can go home. He can chase every storm from here to Kansas for all you care.
Another boom shook the floorboards. She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t expect him to reach for her.
The rain carried on like it meant to wash the world clean, and she sat in the dark, counting the seconds between flash and thunder, waiting for quiet that didn’t come. Lightning painted the room silver for a blink, then black again.
The radio crackled. A voice, faint under the static cut through: “Rotation confirmed… funnel about a mile north of you—moving at roughly 30mph.”
Her head snapped up. Scott’s didn’t. He was still hunched over the laptop, light from the screen ghosting across his face. Calm. Focused. Too calm.
“You heard that,” she said. Not a question.
He nodded once, eyes on the map. “Yeah.”
“And you weren’t going to say anything?”
“It’s tracking northeast. We’re fine.”
“‘Fine’?” Her voice cracked on it. “There’s a tornado—”
He didn’t look up. “A funnel. Not on the ground.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. She pressed her palms to her knees to steady them, but the shaking didn’t stop. Outside, the wind had turned to a long, low howl that rose and fell like something alive. The windows rattled in their frames.
She curled tighter on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest, arms wrapping around herself until her knuckles ached. Every gust felt like it would rip the roof clean off. Every flash was too close. She buried her face in the crook of her arm, the smell of dust and sweat and fear thick in her throat.
Across the room, Scott finally looked away from the laptop. He could see her shoulders trembling in rhythm with the thunder. Guilt crept up the back of his neck, a slow, heavy thing.
Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”
She gave a short, breathless laugh. “You really have to ask?”
He pushed a hand through his hair, searching for words, for something that might reach her through the noise. “I know it’s rough. But we’re safe here. The structure’s solid, and—”
“I hate this,” she cut in, voice shaking. “Every sound, every flash, every…” she gestured wildly toward the window “...all of it. It feels like it’s never going to stop.”
Scott’s eyes softened, guilt threading through the edges.
“It does stop,” he said quietly. “Eventually.”
Another crack of thunder tore through the sky, so close it shook the table. She flinched hard, pressing her forehead to her knees. For a heartbeat, the whole cabin felt like it exhaled with her.
She didn’t look up when she said it. “Hold me.”
The words were small, lost under the rain. He thought maybe he’d misheard until she said it again, this time louder, raw, breaking open. “Just…just fucking hold me, please, Scott.”
He froze. The fight still hung between them, sharp and unspent. He didn’t know if reaching for her would help or reopen the wound.
But then he saw her hands shaking where they clutched her sleeves, and that decided it.
He crossed the few feet between them and sat on the edge of the couch. She didn’t move toward him, but she didn’t move away either. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, slow and cautious, the way you touch something that might shatter.
For a moment she stayed stiff, breath shallow. Then her body gave, a tremor running through her as she folded into him. Her fingers caught in his shirt. She hated that she needed this, that she still wanted to feel safe in the same arms that kept walking her into her biggest fear.
She hated him for it. And she hated herself more for melting against him anyway.
The thunder rolled again, further off this time. The wind rattled but didn’t roar. His hand rubbed slow circles against her back, like muscle memory. Neither of them spoke. The fight, the fear, the exhaustion…they all just hung there, heavy as the air outside.
He didn’t say sorry. She didn’t ask him to.
All she thought was: Just get through this. Survive the storm. After that, you can go home. He can keep chasing whatever he wants. Just not you.
But for now, she stayed where she was, breathing in the smell of him, the steady drum of rain against the tin roof, and the quiet, fragile fact that he was holding her.
* * * * * *
The first thing she noticed was the quiet. No thunder rolling its weight through the floorboards, no rain beating against the roof. The light filtering through the window was no longer that ominous green tint but now a soft pale gold as the sun started to set.
Scott’s chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep there, curled against him on the couch, but at some point exhaustion had won. The storm had emptied her, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat had kept her anchored until she drifted.
Now she stirred, blinking blearily, her body stiff and warm under the tangle of his arm around her waist. His shirt was damp against her temple, smelling faintly of rain and old wood smoke.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly, voice still thick with sleep.
She lifted her head, just enough to see his face. His hair mussed, eyes tired but soft. There was a faint bruise of guilt beneath them.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to…” She trailed off, unsure what she was apologizing for. For falling asleep, for yelling, for being scared. Maybe all of it.
He shifted slightly, arm still draped around her. “You needed the rest.”
For a while they sat in the hush, the kind that only comes after chaos. Then he said, low, “I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him. “For what?”
“For making you feel alone in this,” he said. His gaze stayed on the window, where the trees bent lazily in the new breeze. “You were right. I get lost out there. Chasing’s…it’s the only thing that ever made sense after my dad died. And sometimes I forget there’s anything outside of it.” He swallowed. “Forget there’s anyone.”
The words were steady, but the regret underneath them was plain. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, weighing her next words carefully.
“I know you love it. I don’t want to take that from you,” she said. “I just…” she hesitated, the truth raw in her throat. “...I can’t keep feeling like I’m competing with the sky.”
He turned toward her then, brow creasing. “You’re not. You’re…you’re the reason I come back.” His voice softened. “I just need to do better at showing it.”
The corner of her mouth lifted into a tired smile. Not quite forgiving him yet. But closer to forgiving him than before. “That’s a start.”
He nodded once, like he meant it. His hand brushed along her arm, tentative, as if asking permission. She let him.
They sat that way for a while, just sitting in the quiet, enjoying the feeling of being in each other’s arms. Then he stood, heading for the door. She followed him outside. The air felt almost new. Literally the calm after the storm.
They stayed tangled in the silence until it started to feel like peace instead of aftermath. When Scott rose, she rose too. The door groaned open, and sunlight spilled in across the floor.
Outside, the air was clean and unfamiliar, the kind you only get after everything breaks and then holds together again. The calm after the storm, in every sense.
Summary: Caught in the rain and stranded on the side of the road, you’re forced to accept help from the one person you swore you’d never need again, Tyler Owens. What begins with a wrecked truck and rain-soaked clothes turns into a night of quiet confessions, old wounds, and the reminder that sometimes the heart doesn’t let go, even when you tell it to.
Warnings: Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Mentions of past breakup. Vehicle accident due to storm (no graphic injuries). Stranded in a storm. Crying. Emotional vulnerability. Mutual pining. Exes to lovers kind of.
Word Count: 4,184
Prompt + Pairing: Caught in the rain - “My hands are cold.” + Tyler Owens
Note: This is a submission for a writing challenge that I'm doing as part of the Written Brain Discord Group (run by the lovely @echoingbirdsofprey). Thanks so much for having me as a part of this challenge! Went a little (or a lot) out of my comfort zone with this one.
Rain hammered down on Highway 64 like it wanted to wash it right off the Oklahoma state map. Sheets of water blurred the fields into smears of gray and green, and you stood there in the mess of it. Your boots were sinking into the mud on the shoulder as you stared down into the ditch at your truck, or at least what was left of it.
You had been driving when the wind got the better of you, the back end of your truck fishtailing before being tossed into a ditch like it was a toy. Your storm chasing equipment and personal items that had been in the truck now laid scattered across the gravel, grass, and mud. Camera rig worth thousands? Destroyed. Scanner? Probably destroyed. Even the duffel bag with the last of your clean clothes was torn apart and the clean clothes that had been inside now laid in a mud puddle.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, rain slicking down your face, and tried not to think about the reality of the situation. Everything you’d built. Everything you’d spent four years of college and seven years in the field to build, was drowning right in front of you.
Lightning forked somewhere to the south. Thunder rolled a second later, a little too close for comfort.
You fumbled at your pocket out of instinct, dragging out your phone. The screen was spider webbed with cracks, water bleeding into the glass. When you tried the power button, it buzzed weakly, then died altogether, the last glow fading into black. You stared at your reflection in the fractured screen before the rain blurred it, a sick little twist curling in your stomach. No truck. No gear. No way to call for help.
Headlights cut through the storm behind you. You turned, blinking against the glare, and your stomach sank. Familiar rigs. You didn’t need to see the logo zip tied to the front of the Dodge Ram 3500 to know who it was.
Of course. Of all the people barreling down this road tonight, it had to be them.
One of the passenger windows rolled down as the first truck slowed. A voice cut across the storm. “Ain’t that…?”
The tires hissed as the lead vehicle braked hard. The taillights painted the road in red, brake lights glowing through the curtain of rain. You froze, every muscle gone tight as a silhouette climbed out of the driver’s side.
Tyler Owens.
He made his way over to you and just stood there for a beat, the rain plastering his shirt to his shoulders. You hadn’t seen him in months, not since the breakup. The sight of him now, taller than you remembered, rougher around the edges, sent something sharp through your chest.
“Truck’s totaled?” His voice carried over the rain, low, steady.
You swallowed hard, keeping your chin up like the pride might hold you together. “Looks like it.”
He glanced past you at the twisted frame in the ditch. No judgment in his face, just calculation, like he was already figuring out the next steps. That had always been the way he was. He planned his way through things. Always thinking about the next steps or the next move.
Behind him, Dani leaned out the window of the old RV. “We stopping or what?”
Tyler didn’t even look back. “Yeah, we’re stoppin’.”
The decision landed heavy in your chest. For all the pride you wanted to hold onto, you felt your knees loosen with relief. He didn’t have to do this. Not after the way things ended. The words you’d flung like knives, all sharp edges and spite.
You’d wanted to hurt him that night, and you had.
If there was any justice, you’d still be standing here alone in the rain. You didn’t deserve him pulling over. You didn’t deserve the quiet steadiness in his voice.
He stepped closer. Close enough that the rain hitting his jacket spattered against you. Close enough that you remembered exactly how he smelled, clean soap and gasoline and some stubborn cedar cologne that never washed out.
“You okay?” he asked, and it was softer this time.
You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”
The lie didn’t hold. Your teeth were knocking together from the cold, hands trembling so hard you couldn’t shove them deeper into your soaked pockets. He caught it, of course. Tyler had always been good at catching things you didn’t want seen.
His eyes dropped to your hands. “You’re shaking.”
“I said I’m fine,” you muttered. The words slurred against a shiver, and then quietly you let slip, “My hands are just cold.”
It hung between you, fragile as glass.
For a second, he just watched you, jaw tight like he was trying to decide if he had any right to cross that line again. Then he reached out, no hesitation left, and wrapped your hands up in his. Rough palms, calloused fingers. Warm, so warm.
Your breath caught, chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with the storm. The rain pounded on, relentless. But for one dizzying moment, all you felt was Tyler’s hands closing around yours, steady and sure, as if the world hadn’t torn the two of you apart months ago.
“C’mon,” he said, guiding you toward the truck. Boone swung the passenger door open without a word, hopping out so you could slide in.
Tyler reached into the back and came up with a tan Carhartt jacket, worn soft at the seams from years of use. You opened your mouth to protest. You didn’t need his help, and you definitely didn’t need his pity. But then another shiver racked through you, violent enough to make your teeth clack. Tyler didn’t wait. He draped the jacket over your shoulders, tugged it close.
The warmth hit fast, almost unbearable against your soaked skin. You swallowed hard, gaze fixed on your mud streaked boots, but you could feel his eyes running over you, not in judgment but in quiet assessment. Making sure you weren’t bleeding, broken, or hiding something worse behind the mask you were holding together.
Your hands twisted in the heavy fabric, fingers knotted in the zipper.
“Thank you,” you murmured, voice catching. Then softer, the truth you hated spilling out anyway: “I know I don’t deserve it.”
For a moment, only the rain filled the silence. Then Tyler’s laugh came low and humorless, his words cutting clean through you.
“Yeah, well…turns out I actually do have a heart in this old body.”
You flinched at the echo. The memory of that night…your voice sharp, spitting that he was heartless, that he cared about nothing but storms and himself…came back like another thunderclap. You’d said it because it was easier than saying you were scared of needing him more than he needed you.
You hadn’t thought he’d carry it all this time. But now, staring at the shadow of hurt in his eyes, you knew he had.
“Tyler–” you started, but the apology crumbled in your mouth, useless as wet paper.
“Boone, you good to catch a ride with Lily?”
Boone nodded as he looked at his best friend and then turned to walk toward the old gray van parked behind Tyler’s truck and the RV.
Tyler then shut the passenger door gently. Rain rattled on the roof of the cab as he walked around the front of the truck and climbed in.
“What are you doing?” You asked as you watched him turn the ignition and prepare to drive off.
“You’re not staying out here,” Tyler said. Not a question, not a debate. “We’ll come back and get your truck in the morning once it stops raining. With all the mud, they won’t be able to get it out tonight anyway.”
Pride lifted its head, mean and reflexive. “I can figure it out.”
“You already did,” he said, quiet, nodding toward the ditch where your life was bleeding out into muddy water. “Now let me figure out the next part.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to make this cost you more, as if penance might balance the ledger. But your phone was a dead, cracked paperweight at this point. Your duffel was split and drowning, and you were shaking so hard your knees kept kissing. Practicality won the round.
You swallowed. “Okay.”
He nodded like that settled a small, private war. “Seatbelt.”
He pulled away from the shoulder and back onto the highway. The wipers started their metronome. Thunk. Sweep. Thunk. Cutting lanes through the downpour. You watched your ruined truck recede in the side mirror until the rain swallowed it.
The cab filled with a thick, almost comfortable quiet, broken only by the radio hiss and the rasp of wet fabric as you shifted. The heater pushed warm air across your legs. Your fingers, cocooned in his jacket cuffs, prickled as feeling returned.
“You hurt anywhere?” he asked finally, eyes on the road.
“No,” you said, too fast. “Just cold.” You rubbed your hands together inside the sleeves. “Phone’s dead. Screen’s gone.”
He flicked a glance your way. “Saw that.”
“It’s fine,” you said. “Stuff’s replaceable.”
He made a noncommittal sound. “You’re not stuff.”
Static came across the radio, the convoy checking in, names and mile markers and wind reports. Tyler answered, low-voiced and calm. It had always steadied you, how he could hold a dozen moving parts in his head and still make room for you. You pressed your knuckles into the jacket’s hem until the edge bit your skin.
“Where are we going?” You asked, because practical questions were safer than the other kinds running through your head right now.
“Buckhorn Motor Lodge,” he said. “It’s close and the roof doesn’t leak. Much.”
You almost smiled. “High bar.”
“We’ve both slept worse,” he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he remembered the night you’d crashed in a Walmart lot and he’d stacked hoodies under your head because your pillow was wet.
Silence settled again. Outside, the world reduced to gray and white and the bright, violent veins of lightning. Inside, you tracked the wiper arcs the way you used to trace the lines of his palm.
“Why’d you stop?” The question slipped out smaller than you intended.
“Because you were standing in the rain,” he said, like it was obvious. Then softer, “And because it was you.”
You stared out the window. Gravel spit under the tires. You felt the apology again, the shape of it crowding your throat, but when you tried to pull it free it snagged on every old barb. You’d thrown those words to win an argument that should never have been a war.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” you managed. “Back then.”
He breathed out through his nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Mm.” He checked the mirror, guided the truck around a branch half sunk across the lane. “You were mad. I was dumb. Storms make folks say things they’d never say in the sun.”
“That doesn’t make it not true,” you said. The rain had a way of stripping you bare. “I wanted to hurt you.”
“Mission accomplished,” he said. There was no edge, just fact.
The simplicity of it knocked you sideways. You pulled the jacket tighter, burrowed into its collar like you could hide there. The heater hummed. Your bones slowly stopped buzzing.
“You bleeding anywhere?” He asked. “Hit your head at all?”
You shook your head. “Just bruised pride.”
“That’ll heal if you let it.” He cut a look at you.
You snorted. “I’m not great at ‘letting.’”
“Yeah,” he said, like he was smiling around an old ache. “I remember.”
The radio popped. Boone again: “Road’s slickin’ up ahead. Might want County 3 instead of 9.”
“Copy,” Tyler said, thumb on the mic button. He eased back on the gas, blinked the blinker, and guided you onto the next road, more trees than shoulder, the kind of lane that disappeared under water if you blinked. He was steady on the wheel, hands at ten and two, a picture of patience that made your chest tight.
“You still running with Dalton?” He asked.
“Was,” you said. “Budget cuts, some sponsors flinched. Took my own rig out last month.” Your throat closed. “Took being the key word.”
His knuckles went pale on the wheel for half a second, then smoothed out. “You’ll get another.”
“I’ll get a lot of things,” you said. “Eventually.”
“You’ll get what you chase,” he said, and it sounded like a promise. “You always have.”
Lightning hit somewhere close. The truck shook, a quick, muscular tremor. You flinched. Tyler’s hand came off the wheel, hovered halfway to your knee before he seemed to remember it wasn’t his place anymore. Then he quietly put it back on the wheel like nothing happened.
“Heater working okay?” He asked. “You warm enough?”
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Jacket’s helping.”
“Keep it on a little longer,” he said. “You’re still shaking.”
You looked down. Your hands had steadied some, but the fine tremor hadn’t left you completely. You tucked them under your thighs for some additional warmth, and to keep you from figeting
“Tyler?” You kept your eyes on the road ahead.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean it. The heartless thing.”
“I know,” he said, after a moment that felt like a crosswind.
The lodge’s neon sign bled through the rain. BUC HORN M TOR L GE. half the letters out, all the charm still hanging on. Tyler pulled under the narrow overhang, killing the wipers but leaving the engine running and the heater on your legs.
“Stay put,” he said.
“Tyler–”
“You need to warm up.” He gave you a look, not unkind but one that told you this wasn’t up for debate for him. “Just let me do this, please.”
You sat on your hands and let him. He jogged inside, and disappeared behind the glass door. The rain slackened, not gone completely, just less vicious. You watched water slide down the windshield in thin, meandering rivers on glass until the cab light blinked again and he was back, shaking rain from his hair and holding a cracked antler key fob.
“Only three rooms left,” he said, voice even, like he’d already sorted it. “Dani and Dexter are doubling up. Boone and Lily said they’re good too.” His eyes flicked to you. “That leaves one.”
You blinked at the fob. “So…?”
“So you take the room.” He hooked a thumb toward the lot. “I’ll crash in the RV.”
You frowned. “I can take the RV. You’ve been driving all night. You need a good bed, especially with your back problems.”
He shook his head, a humorless huff of breath escaping. “Heater in that rig isn’t worth a damn. It’s supposed to drop into the fifties tonight, and you’re already shivering. Not putting you out there.”
“Tyler—”
“No.” His tone softened, but the steel stayed. “You’re not sleeping in the cold.”
The jacket felt heavier on your shoulders. You hated how much relief curled into your chest, hated it enough to push back. “I’m not letting you freeze.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Tired. Stubborn. Familiar. “Then we share.
Your breath snagged, the words heavier than they should have been. “Share.”
He didn’t flinch. “We’ve done harder things.”
The joke fell flat under the weight of the past, but the truth of it lingered. You let out a slow breath, nodded once, and curled your fingers around the antler fob when he offered it.
“Like adults,” you said, steady as you could.
“Like adults,” he echoed, though the look he gave you held the ghost of everything the word couldn’t cover.
You slid out of the truck, boots splashing, jacket clutched tight, while Tyler grabbed his duffel from the backseat. He guided you toward the door with a hand at the small of your back.
The door to Room 12 groaned when he pushed it open. Stale air rolled out, tinged with cigarette smoke and something faintly floral. One bed. Two nightstands. A round table that had seen better years and a TV bolted to the dresser. The carpet was an indeterminate brown.
Tyler tossed your ruined duffel onto the table and disappeared into the tiny bathroom. You heard cabinets open, the hiss of a faucet, then he came back with a stack of thin towels. Without a word, he held one out.
“Thanks,” you said, voice low.
He only nodded, setting the rest on the bed. Then he crouched by his own bag, rummaging until he surfaced with a folded shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He hesitated, then held them out too.
“Dry clothes,” he said. “They’re mine so hopefully that’s not a problem, but they’re dry and clean and better than what you’ve got.”
You stared at the bundle. The soft, faded cotton of one of white Hanes t-shirts. Underneath a pair of the black sweatpants you used to steal when you were together. Your throat tightened.
“Tyler, I can—”
“Don’t argue,” he said gently, though his eyes stayed on yours long enough to make the air heavy. “Please. Not tonight. Just…let me do this for you.”
You took them. The weight in your arms was more than fabric.
He gestured toward the bathroom. “Go ahead. I’ll…uh. Give you a minute.”
You slipped inside, shutting the flimsy door behind you. The mirror over the sink was old and the reflection wasn’t great in some spots, but it was enough to see the streaks of mud on your cheek, the wild tangles of wet hair, the exhaustion etched around your eyes. You looked wrecked. You looked like someone who hadn’t been okay in a very long time.
You peeled the wet clothes off piece by piece, each heavier than the last, and piled them in the corner. Mud streaked your skin, grit sticking in places the towel couldn’t reach. The shower knobs squealed when you turned them, water sputtering out in a thin stream that warmed to only halfway between cold and tolerable.
Still, you stepped under. The lukewarm spray rattled against your shoulders, washing the dirt down the drain in weak brown swirls. It wasn’t luxury, but it stripped the storm from you, layer by layer, until only the ache remained. You braced a hand against the cracked tile, head bowed, letting the water run over you a few minutes longer than you should have.
When you finally stepped out, steam ghosted the mirror. You toweled off in quick, rough strokes, skin prickling as heat fought its way back into your bones. Tyler’s shirt went on soft and oversized, the hem grazing your thighs. The sweatpants cinched high but hung loose around your hips. The ache of familiarity in them wasn’t lost on you.
The motel room had gone quiet after both showers, quiet in a way that was heavier than the storm outside. The rain had softened to a steady patter against the window, the neon sign buzzing faintly through the curtains.
You sat cross legged on one side of the bed, hair damp, Tyler’s shirt and sweats swallowing your frame. Across from you, Tyler leaned back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent, a towel draped over his shoulders. He’d pulled on a clean Henley and sweatpants, but he looked just as tired as you felt.
The silence stretched. Not hostile. Just uncertain. The kind of silence that comes when both of you know what you want to say, but neither wants to risk saying it first.
You picked at the seam of the comforter, tracing the threads, willing your chest to stop aching.
Tyler’s voice broke the quiet. Low, even. “Texted your mom.”
Your head snapped up. “What?”
He shrugged, eyes on his hands. “Didn’t want her worrying when she couldn’t reach you. Told her what happened. Told her you’re safe, staying with us tonight.”
A lump formed in your throat. You hadn’t even thought of your mom in the chaos, hadn’t thought of how she’d panic when your phone went dark.
You blinked hard. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Maybe not.” He glanced at you then, eyes steady. “But felt like it was the right thing.”
You dropped your gaze, fingers tangling in the blanket. The kindness stung almost worse than the cold had.
He wasn’t done. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you into town. Get a new phone. Then we’ll head out and figure your truck situation.”
The words spilled out before you could stop them, “Why are you doing all this?”
Tyler froze for a second, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice a notch quieter. “Because I never stopped worrying about you.”
The dam cracked. You swallowed, throat thick, but the tears came anyway, hot and sharp after so many months of holding them back. You pulled the heel of your hand across your cheek, feeling completely embarrassed about crying in front of your ex.
“Hey.” His voice softened. He didn’t reach for you, not yet, but he didn’t look away either. “You can let it out. No one here but me.”
“That’s the problem,” you whispered.
The words hung in the air, raw and trembling. You clamped your mouth shut before more could spill. Tyler’s jaw flexed. He leaned back against the headboard again, eyes on the ceiling.
“I don’t know what you thought, after we split. But I never stopped checking the radar where you were headed. Never stopped keeping one ear open in case something went wrong.”
You stared at him. “Even when I said those things–”
He cut you off gently. “Words hurt. I won’t lie about that. But worry doesn’t quit just because you do.”
The tears blurred your vision again, spilling hot and fast. You pressed the sleeve of his shirt to your face, hating yourself for it, hating how it smelled like him and comforted you as you fell apart.
He shifted then, not closing the distance fully but enough that his presence filled the space between you. One hand braced on the bed, not touching you, not forcing, just there.
“You don’t have to believe me tonight,” he said quietly. “But I never stopped caring if you made it home.”
Something in you broke all the way. You leaned into the mattress, into the warmth of him beside you, your body giving out before your pride could catch up. He didn’t move at first, just let you rest there, shoulders brushing. Then, slowly, his arm settled around your back, cautious, steady.
You let out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he murmured. “Me too.”
The words seemed to settle something in him, because the next thing you knew, his arm tightened gently around you, pulling you closer. You let yourself lean into him, cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest.
He didn’t push you to talk. He just held you, steady and quiet, while the storm moved further down the county roads. Your shoulders shook until they didn’t, the tears burning themselves out in waves, each one leaving you a little more hollow, a little more tired.
At some point your breathing evened, eyelids too heavy to keep open. You fought it, pride whispering you shouldn’t let yourself rest here, not in his arms again. But your body betrayed you. Sleep came anyway, soft and slow, dragging you under.
Tyler felt the shift, the way your weight melted fully into him. He glanced down, damp strands of your hair sticking to your temple, your face finally peaceful in a way he hadn’t seen in months.
He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a kiss so light it was almost just a breath. His chest rose and fell, and then he whispered into the dark, words meant only for the hum of the heater and the steady tap of the rain.
“I never stopped loving you.”
He didn’t expect an answer. To be honest, he didn’t want one, not tonight. He just sat there, holding you while you slept, his confession vanishing into the quiet.
Something inside him, something that had been wound tight for months, finally loosened. Your weight against him was an anchor, steady and real in a way the road and the radar never were. He felt your breaths even out against his chest, each one smoothing the sharp edges of his own. The tension in his shoulders bled away, the coil in his jaw unclenching as he let his head tip back against the headboard.
Storms always made him restless, heart hammering, thoughts racing with every shift of the sky. But now, with you curled against him, the world outside could rage as it pleased. He could breathe. He hadn’t realized until this moment how much he’d missed that. Missed you. How much the silence had cost him when he’d pretended he didn’t.
His hand rubbed a slow line down your back, not to wake you, just to remind himself you were really there. The rise and fall of your chest matched his own, and for the first time in too long, Tyler Owens felt peace in the stillness.
It was late, the house finally quiet. Ava was asleep, and Hannah sat at the kitchen table with her laptop open and untouched. Her phone lay beside it, screen glowing with Jake’s last message from days ago.
He hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t bombarded her with calls or texts. Just that one line about how he’d wait, and silence since. The restraint was both a relief and a weight pressing at her ribs.
She stared at the message until the words blurred. She should let it go. She should cut it off before it became something she couldn’t control. But the memory of the taco stand, his easy grin, and the soft press of his lips on her porch wouldn’t leave her.
Her thumb hovered before she finally typed. Dinner sometime this week?
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
The reply came faster than she expected.
Jake: Thought you’d never ask. How’s Thursday?
Her pulse jumped. Thursday works.
Jake: Great. I’ll pick you up at seven.
Nothing fancy, she typed quickly, almost panicked at the thought of him showing up in a suit and whisking her to some five-star place.
Jake: Tacos again? 😉
She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. Surprise me. But keep it casual.
Jake: Copy that. Casual, but unforgettable.
She shook her head, closing her laptop with a sigh that was half nerves, half something she didn’t want to name yet.
Down the hall, Ava murmured something in her sleep, and Hannah’s chest tightened. She told herself this was fine. It was just another dinner. Just another evening out. A second date didn’t mean a commitment, right?
* * * * * * * *
DATE #2
Hannah spotted him first. He was leaning against the wall outside the little coastal café, sleeves pushed up, hands tucked in his pockets, looking every bit like the kind of man women slowed down to stare at. He caught sight of her just as she crossed the street, and the grin that spread across his face was enough to quicken her steps and her pulse at the same time.
“Right on time,” Jake said, pushing off the wall.
The café was all mismatched chairs and chalkboard menus, the kind of place where no one cared if you stayed for hours over one cup of coffee. Hannah felt herself relax as soon as she slid into the booth. It didn’t feel like a production, like something she had to brace herself for.
Jake glanced at the menu, then back at her. “You want your coffee black, right? No sugar, no cream.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that?”
“That’s how you were drinking it at the coffee shop that one day, right? No cream. No sugar.”
“Pretty sure I had a latte that day.” She said as she was trying to eye Jake up. “But yes. I like it black without all the sweetness.”
“I’ll take a sweet tea, please. And for her, one black coffee and—” he looked at her—“a muffin? Or am I making assumptions?”
She bit back a smile. “Blueberry.”
He ordered for them, and when the server left, Hannah shook her head. “You really think you’re smooth, don’t you?”
Jake leaned his elbows on the table, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Darlin’, I don’t think I am. I just am.”
She laughed before she could stop herself, the sound bubbling up lighter than she expected. Banter had always been his weapon of choice, but tonight it didn’t feel like a battle like it did with the people on base, with Hannah it felt like play.
Conversation flowed between them as easily as the coffee. Jake told a ridiculous story about a squadmate who’d once gotten stuck in a locker room after a prank gone wrong. Hannah shared more about her job and how settling in in San Diego was going.
By the time their mugs were empty, Hannah realized her shoulders had loosened, the knot of guilt and hesitation not gone but quieter. She wasn’t bracing herself for impact anymore. She was…enjoying herself.
Outside, the air was soft, the smell of the ocean drifting on the breeze. They lingered on the sidewalk, neither quite ready to call it a night.
Jake rocked back on his heels, hands sliding into his pockets. “So, second date, how’d I do?”
Hannah tilted her head. “It was nice to see you again, Jake.”
“High praise,” he said solemnly, though his grin betrayed him.
They stood there, the silence stretching but not uncomfortable. Finally, Jake leaned a little closer. “So when do I get to see you again?”
The last time he’d asked, she’d hesitated, scrambled for excuses, let the fear win. Tonight, the answer came easier than she expected.
“Next week,” she said, surprising herself with how natural it felt. “Maybe Tuesday.”
Jake’s smile spread slow, warm, and triumphant. “It’s a date.”
He brushed a kiss against her cheek before stepping back, and the simple gesture left her warmer than the soft ocean breeze.
Jake turned like he was about to head for his truck, hands sliding into his pockets. Something in Hannah rebelled against letting the night end there.
“Jake-”
He stopped, glancing back, brow arched. “Yeah?”
Her heart hammered, but she lifted her chin anyway. “That’s not how you kiss someone after a good date.”
His grin broke wide and slow, green eyes sparking. “No?”
Before she could second guess herself, she stepped forward, caught the front of his shirt, and kissed him. It was just enough to feel the warmth of his mouth and the way he inhaled like she’d knocked the air out of him.
When she pulled back, her pulse was racing. Jake’s laugh was low, pleased, and a little stunned. “Damn, Hannah. You’re full of surprises.”
* * * * * * * *
DATE #3
The diner was small, tucked on a side street with a neon sign that flickered more often than it glowed. Hannah had expected something flashier, if she was honest. Jake Seresin didn’t exactly scream “greasy spoon” kind of guy. She’d half-braced herself for some rooftop cocktail lounge or a trendy steakhouse with waiters in pressed suits.
Instead, the server set down two towering plates of burgers and fries, the smell of grilled onions and toasted buns filling the narrow booth. Jake rubbed his hands together like it was Christmas morning.
“This,” he declared, eyes gleaming, “is peak dining. No reservations. No dress code. And fries so good they’ll change your religion.”
Hannah snorted, picking up her burger. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And charming,” he corrected smoothly, leaning back with a grin that said he expected no argument.
But Hannah bit into her burger anyway, and the sound she made must’ve given her away because Jake’s grin turned smug. “Told you.”
“Don’t get cocky,” she warned, but he just popped a fry into his mouth and winked.
They slipped into easy conversation between bites, Jake telling her about growing up in Texas—his mom’s peach cobbler that supposedly ruined him for all other desserts, his dad teaching him to throw a football in the backyard. Hannah found herself laughing more than she expected, especially when he admitted he’d once broken his neighbor’s window and blamed it on the dog.
The server dropped the check midway through, and Jake slid it off the table without hesitation. Hannah reached for it at the same time, their fingers colliding.
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“Why not?” she challenged. “I can pay for my own dinner.”
He gave her a look that was equal parts stubborn and amused. “Sure you can. But not tonight. Tonight’s on me.”
“Chivalry is outdated,” she shot back, raising her brows.
“Chivalry,” he said with a grin, “is alive and well, sweetheart. Now let me take care of this one.”
She rolled her eyes but let go. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, tucking the check away, “you’re still sitting here.”
When the server walked away, Jake leaned across the table, his voice pitched low. “You should laugh more often, you know. It’s criminal how good you sound.”
Heat crept up her cheeks, her pulse skipping at the way he was looking at her—not cocky now, not teasing, but steady. She ducked behind her fries, but the damage was done. Her laugh carried across the room loud enough to turn a few heads, and Jake sat back looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“See?” he said softly. “Better than dessert.”
When they finally left, the cool night air wrapped around them. Jake held the door for her, his hand brushing the small of her back as they stepped onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t pushy, just casual—but it left her oddly aware of how close he was.
“You’re something else, Hannah Reid,” he said, almost to himself.
She glanced at him warily. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Both,” he said with a grin, holding her gaze for just a moment longer than she expected.
For the first time that night, Hannah didn’t feel the urge to pull away.
* * * * * * * *
DATE #4
If the diner had surprised her, the arcade bar blindsided her.
“I’m too old for this,” Hannah protested as Jake pushed open the door. The room glowed in a haze of neon and nostalgia, rows of blinking pinball machines, the rhythmic clack of air hockey, music from the eighties thumping low in the background.
“You’re thirty two, not eighty two,” Jake said, grinning as he steered her toward the skee-ball machines. “Besides, competition keeps you young.”
“I didn’t agree to compete.”
“Too late,” he said, sliding a stack of quarters into her hand. “Loser buys.”
She tried to hold her ground, but the spark in his eyes was impossible to resist. By the third round, Hannah was laughing so hard she could barely aim, while Jake groaned dramatically as another one of her balls rolled perfectly into the fifty-point slot.
“This machine’s rigged,” he accused.
“Or,” she said, smug and breathless, “I’m just better than you.”
Jake pressed a hand to his chest, feigning devastation. “You wound me, darlin’. Right in the ego.”
He fed more quarters into the machine anyway, determined to even the score. He didn’t.
When she beat him again, he stared at the scoreboard, then at her, shaking his head. “You’re dangerous.”
She tilted her chin. “Still think you could take me at air hockey?”
Jake’s grin returned full-force. “You’re on.”
An hour later, they were seated side by side at the bar, sharing a plate of loaded nachos, both pretending not to notice their knees brushing. Hannah stole the last chip, and Jake caught her wrist with a mock glare.
“Cheater.”
“Strategist,” she corrected, smirking.
Jake laughed, the kind of laugh that turned heads. “You’re something else. Hannah.”
“You’ve said that before,” she teased.
“Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “I meant it both times.”
* * * * * * * *
DATE #5
They met at the shore just as the sun began to dip, painting the water in streaks of gold and rose. The wind tugged at Hannah’s hair, carrying the faint scent of salt and sunscreen.
“Back where it all began,” Jake said as they walked, hands tucked into his pockets.
“You mean where you tackled me in broad daylight?”
He winced, laughing. “See, when you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
“It was bad,” she said, but she was smiling.
They fell into step beside each other, shoes in hand, the waves rolling lazily against the sand. For a while, neither spoke. It wasn’t an awkward silence though, just comfortable.
Jake finally said, “You ever notice how the ocean never looks the same twice?”
Hannah glanced at him. “You’re getting philosophical on me now?”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Just saying, every time I’m out here, it’s different. Kind of nice, you know? Nothing stays the same, but somehow it’s still…steady.”
The words lingered, soft and honest, carried on the wind.
When her hair blew across her face, Jake reached out instinctively, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, lingering just long enough to make her breath hitch.
“Better,” he murmured.
She met his gaze for half a heartbeat too long before looking away, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
They kept walking, the last light of day fading around them, their joined shadows stretching long across the sand. And when his fingers brushed hers again, she didn’t pull away this time.
* * * * * * * *
By the time Hannah slipped off her sandals and hung her keys on the hook by the door, the house was quiet. The scent of lavender lotion drifted down the hall. Maddie was curled on the couch, wineglass in hand, the picture of smug domestic victory.
“Your child is asleep, fed, and bathed,” Maddie announced. “You may now shower me with praise.”
Hannah smiled, kicking off the sand-dusted heels. “You’re a saint.”
“I know.” Maddie lifted the bottle. “You also look like someone who just had a really good date.”
“It was fine,” Hannah said, failing spectacularly at sounding casual.
“Fine,” Maddie repeated, pouring a second glass. “You’re glowing, and you hate that word.”
Hannah sank onto the couch beside her sister, taking the glass. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t fine. Maybe it was…” She searched for a word and sighed. “Nice. Really nice.”
Maddie smirked behind her glass. “You’re doomed. Tell me everything.”
Hannah tried to play it off, but the words tumbled out anyway. She told her sister about the walk along the beach, the way he’d remembers how she took her coffee, the way he makes her laugh until her stomach hurt.
“He listens,” she said finally, twisting the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Like, actually listens. And he’s funny without being obnoxious. Confident, but not—”
“Not an ass?” Maddie offered.
“Exactly.” Hannah laughed. “He’s just…good. He surprises me. I keep waiting for the moment it all feels fake, but it never does.”
Maddie watched her for a long beat, then smiled, slow and knowing. “You like him.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re smitten.”
“I’m—” Hannah started, then stopped, realizing arguing would only make it worse. She groaned, covering her face with her hands. “God, maybe I am. But he’s not like the other guys, Mads. He doesn’t talk over me. He doesn’t try to outdo me. He just shows up. And it feels easy.”
Maddie leaned back, sipping her wine, her expression soft. “You sound happy.”
“I’m terrified.”
“That’s close enough.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the house still around them. The kind of still that only came after a good day.
Then Maddie asked it, gentle but inevitable. “Does he know about Ava yet?”
Hannah stiffened, glass halfway to her lips. “Not yet. But I will. When it’s right.”
Maddie’s brow lifted. “And when is that, exactly?”
“When I know it’s real,” Hannah said quietly. “When I know he’s not going to run.”
Maddie nodded, but her eyes held a flicker of worry she didn’t voice.
After she left, Hannah rinsed the glasses and stood at the sink, staring out into the dark backyard. The smile still lingered on her lips, soft and stubborn, even as that familiar ache of guilt crept back in.
More Than Just Us Two: Chapter 4 - Cracks in the Wall
The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, rich and grounding, but Hannah's thoughts were anything but steady. She leaned against the counter, hands wrapped around the mug, staring out the window at the pale blue morning sky.
It was ridiculous, how much of last night kept replaying in her mind. The laughter over tacos, the easy rhythm of conversation, the feel of his hand in hers as they walked along the beach. And that kiss. Soft, careful, just long enough to leave her breathless.
She let out a laugh under her breath, shaking her head.
"You're acting like a teenager," she muttered.
Except she wasn't a teenager. She was thirty-two years old, a single mom with a mortgage, a preschool tuition payment, and a daughter whose world rested on the foundation she provided. Hannah took a sip of coffee, guilt pressing in heavier than the steam rising from her cup.
She thinks she liked Jake. Okay not just liked. She'd been smiling at her phone for weeks, answering texts she told herself she should ignore, and now here she was, still tasting him on her lips the morning after a date she swore she'd never agree to.
But liking him was the problem.
Guys like Jake...cocky, attractive, the kind of man who lit up an entire room...did't sign up for baggage. And baggage was exactly what she had, in the form of a four-year-old with big brown eyes and curls that bounced when she ran. Ava was everything, and Hannah wasn't about to risk someone waltzing in and out of her daughter's life just because she was lonely.
The smart thing would be to end it now. Cut it off before it went further. Before Ava noticed Hannah smiling at her phone or humming in the kitchen, before she asked questions Hannah couldn't answer.
Hannah set the mug down and pressed her palms flat against the counter, eyes closing tight. She'd survived this long on her own. She didn't need Jake Seresin's smile, his charm, or the way his hand had felt steady and safe at the small of her back.
"Stop it," she whispered to herself, grabbing the mug again like caffeine could drown the flutter in her chest.
It was better to cut it off. She repeated the thought like a mantra. Better to cut it off now.
But as she took another sip of coffee, her heart betrayed her. Because the truth hummed underneath all the guilt and fear, stubborn and undeniable.
She didn't want to cut it off.
And that scared her most of all.
The knock came just as Hannah was pouring her second cup. She set the mug down quickly and hurried to the door, her heart lifting the moment she opened it.
"Moooommy!"
Ava launched herself forward before Hannah could bend down, wrapping little arms tight around her waist. Hannah crouched anyway, hugging her close and breathing in the faint scent of pancakes clinging to her curls. The tension in her chest loosened instantly.
"Hi, baby. Did you have fun with Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Maddie?"
Ava nodded so hard her pigtails nearly smacked Hannah in the face. "Grandpa let me have two pancakes with whippeded cream and I told him that you always tell me no whippeded cream but he said 'don't tell Mommy.'"
Behind her, Maddie stepped inside, juggling a tote bag full of Ava's things. She kicked the door shut with her heel and raised a brow. "So. How was your big night?"
Hannah shot her a look over Ava's shoulder. "Good morning to you too."
Maddie grinned, unrepentant, and set the bag down. Ava wriggled out of Hannah's arms and dashed down the hall toward her room, already narrating plans for her stuffed animals' tea party. The sound of her chatter faded as her door clicked shut, leaving Hannah and her sister in the quiet kitchen.
"Well?" Maddie pressed, leaning against the counter. "You've got that look."
"I do not."
"Uh-huh." Maddie poured herself a cup of coffee like she owned the place. "That's the same look you had after prom with Ryan McAllister. Except this time you're older and smarter, and hopefully the guy drives something better than a rusted out Toyota."
Hannah groaned, dropping into a chair. "It was just dinner."
"And probably a walk. And maybe a kiss," Maddie said knowingly, sipping her coffee.
Hannah's head snapped up. "How do you-"
"Please. I've known you your whole life. If a guy so much as holds your hand, you come home looking like you've been struck by cupid himself. Don't bother lying."
Heat climbed Hannah's cheeks. She buried her face in her mug. "Fine. There was a kiss. Happy?"
Maddie smirked. "Ecstatic. Now tell me if you're gonna see him again."
"I don't know." Hannah's voice softened, guilt creeping back in. "I like him, Maddie. I do. But that's the problem. Guys like Jake...he's...he's not looking to be a dad. He's not at that point in his life, I can just tell. And Ava, she deserves stability. Not someone who's gonna charm his way in and then disappear when things get complicated."
Maddie tilted her head, studying her. "Okay, but how does he feel about Ava? Not how you assume he feels? Like what's he said about her?"
Hannah froze, fingers tightening around her coffee mug. "He...hasn't. He hasn't said anything about it. Not yet anyway."
"What do you mean, not yet?"
"I haven't told him." The words tumbled out faster than she intended.
Maddie blinked. "Wait, you've been texting this guy for weeks, went on a date, kissed him, and he doesn't even know you have a daughter?"
Hannah winced. "I know how it sounds."
"It sounds like you're keeping a pretty huge part of your life hidden," Maddie said gently, but not without an edge. "And you hate liars, Han."
"I'm not lying," Hannah shot back. "I just...haven't said anything yet. There's a difference."
Maddie leaned against the counter, arms folded. "What happens when he finds out? Because he will. And then what? You think he's gonna be thrilled you kept Ava a secret?"
Hannah stared down into her coffee, heart pounding. "He's seen her. At the beach, at Target. He knows she exists."
"That's not the same thing," Maddie said, her tone softening but her eyes sharp. "He probably assumes she's your niece or something. Guys don't always put the pieces together."
"Then maybe he's not paying attention," Hannah muttered.
"Or maybe you don't want him to," Maddie countered.
The truth of it stung. Hannah pressed her lips together, fighting the burn of guilt in her chest. She pictured Jake's grin at the taco stand, the way he'd looked at her on the beach, the softness of his kiss. He didn't know, really know, what came with her.
"Look, Han," Maddie said, quieter now. "You don't owe him everything on the first date. But Ava's not just some detail you can slip into conversation whenever it feels convenient. She's your world. And if he's gonna be in your life, he needs to know she comes first."
"I know." Hannah's voice cracked on the words.
"Then what's holding you back?"
Hannah set her mug down with a shaky breath. "Because I like him. And if I tell him now, he'll run. Most guys do. It's easier to just...end it myself before Ava ever gets attached. At least then I'm the one pulling the plug."
Maddie studied her for a long moment before sighing. "Or crazy thought, you give him the chance to prove you wrong."
Hannah didn't answer. She couldn't. Because the thought of Jake walking away once he knew about Ava twisted her stomach into knots. But the thought of him staying, really staying, was somehow even scarier.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
The Hard Deck was buzzing, the way it always was on a Friday night. Rooster had claimed their usual table near the pool tables, already halfway through a beer, while Fanboy and Bob bickered over who was up next for darts. Javy leaned back in his chair, scanning the room with the kind of casual ease that came from knowing half the women in the bar would smile back if he looked long enough.
"Two o'clock," Javy murmured, tipping his chin toward the bar.
The guys followed his gaze. A brunette in a red dress was laughing with the bartender, her smile wide, shoulders bare. Exactly the kind of girl Jake Seresin usually noticed first.
"Dibs," Rooster said, but his grin slid slyly toward Jake. "Or you gonna make a move, Hangman? She's your type if I've ever seen one."
Normally, Jake would've been halfway across the room already, charm loaded and ready. But tonight, he just took a sip of his beer, eyes dropping back to the phone on the table. A new text notification blinked, and he unlocked the screen without thinking.
"You've got to be kidding me," Rooster drawled. "Ignoring a girl in a red dress for what? Candy Crush?"
"Not Candy Crush," Fanboy said, craning his neck. "He's smiling. Who's got you grinning like that, Hangman?"
Jake scoffed, too late to hide it. "No one."
"Bullshit," Javy said, sitting forward with interest. "You've been glued to that phone all week. Spill it."
Jake leaned back, trying for nonchalance, but the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him. "I went on a date, okay?"
The table went still for a beat. Then Rooster barked out a laugh so loud half the bar turned. "A date? And you're trying to get another one? As in dinner with the same woman twice? Stop the presses."
"Shut it, Rooster," Jake muttered, though his lips twitched despite himself.
"Who's the unlucky lady?" Fanboy teased.
Jake shrugged, keeping it vague. "Just someone I met. Local."
Javy raised a brow. "And? Are you seeing her again?"
"I don't know yet," Jake admitted.
"Translation: he wants to," Rooster said smugly.
Jake shot him a look, but didn't bother denying it. Instead, he glanced down at his beer, thumb brushing over the condensation on the glass. The memory of her laugh at the taco stand, the way her hand had fit in his on the beach, the soft press of her lips on her porch—it all played back uninvited.
It wasn't just that she was gorgeous, though she was. It was the way she'd looked at him like she could see past the bravado. Like she didn't buy the act, but she wasn't put off by it either. That was dangerous.
"She must be something," Bob said quietly, with the kind of observant weight only Bob could pull off. "You haven't even glanced at the brunette in red."
Jake smirked, shaking his head. "Maybe I'm just raising my standards."
Rooster snorted. "Standards? More like you're getting whipped already."
The table erupted in laughter, and Jake let them have their fun, tipping back his beer to hide the grin tugging at his mouth. He could take the ribbing. Because for once, it wasn't about the chase.
For once, it felt like he'd actually found something worth slowing down for.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
Her phone buzzed just as she was stacking the last of the clean dishes into the cabinet. Hannah wiped her hands on a towel before checking the screen, already expecting another work email.
Instead, Jake's name lit up her phone.
Jake: Survived taco hangover yet?
Her lips curved before she could stop it. She typed back quickly, Barely. I think you oversold the "best in San Diego" claim.
The reply came seconds later.
Jake: Blasphemy. I should never trust a woman who doesn't respect al pastor.
She snorted and leaned against the counter, thumbs flying. Maybe I just have higher standards.
Jake: Ouch. Guess I'll have to prove myself on round two. Dinner Friday?
Her breath hitched. She stared at the message longer than she should have, biting her lip. Round two. Another date. Another chance to let him deeper into a life she wasn't sure she was ready to share.
Finally, she typed: I'm busy Friday.
The three dots blinked for a moment before his reply came:
Jake: Saturday then. I'll pick you up at seven.
Her heart thudded. He made it sound so easy, like she hadn't just been wrestling with the weight of what this could mean.
She typed back quickly: I'm busy Saturday too.
A longer pause this time. Then his answer:
Jake: Okay. I'll wait.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
Jake stretched out on his couch, a half empty bottle of beer balanced on the table, the muted glow of the TV flickering against the walls. Some game replay droned in the background, but he wasn't watching. His phone sat on the cushion beside him, screen dark, taunting him with its silence.
Most of the time, women didn't need chasing with Jake. They laughed at his jokes, leaned in closer, slipped him their number before he even had to ask. He knew the game, and knew how to win it.
But Hannah...Hannah was playing on a field he didn't even recognize.
Jake tipped his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. Maybe she wasn't interested, and the kiss had been a fluke. Maybe she'd gone home and decided she didn't want anything more than tacos and one walk on the beach. He could live with that, he supposed.
But that wasn't what it had felt like.
He thought about her laugh, low and surprised, and the way she'd tucked her hair behind her ear when she got flustered. The way she smelled faintly of vanilla and salt air when he'd leaned close. He couldn't remember the last time a first date had left him curious. Wanting more, but not in the usual way.
Hannah made him want to sit still. To pay attention.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and grabbed his phone again, unlocking it out of habit. Their thread of texts was right there, her name glowing up at him. The last thing she'd sent was a simple, Busy this weekend.
He thumbed over the keyboard, debating. He wanted to ask what she was doing, why she was brushing him off.
Instead, he set the phone face down on the table and blew out a breath. She was just cautious. She just needed a little more time.
It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit, the thought of waiting. Because Jake Seresin wasn't used to waiting.
But for Hannah? He found himself thinking he just might.
After Hannah had given Jake her number in that Target aisle, Hannah had half expected Jake to blow up her phone with cocky one-liners. But he didn’t. He texted once, later that night. Something simple and flirty, but light.
Then there was another message a few days later. And then another after that. Against her better judgment, she started looking forward to them. Their exchanges slipped into a rhythm. Her sarcasm meeting his easy wit, quick back and forths that made her laugh more than she wanted to admit.
Still, she dodged his attempts to meet in person. She’d say she was busy. Or that work was crazy. And it went on like that for a few weeks.
Then suddenly the messages stopped. No Snapchats. No texts. Nothing.
Two days passed. Then five. Then a week. Then it got to a point where it had been a few weeks, and as the silence stretched longer, the more it bothered her. Hannah told herself it didn’t matter. He was a pilot. He had a life. She had hers. But every time she checked her phone and found nothing, an ache settled deeper in her chest.
Nearly three weeks later, his name lit her screen again.
Jake: Sorry for the radio silence, Sunshine. Short deployment. Back now. Did you miss me?
Her breath caught, the relief flooding her so fast she had to sit down. The giddiness that followed, the little flutter that refused to be ignored, was worse.
Because it meant something she’d been denying.
She had missed him.
And that was the moment Hannah realized she was running out of excuses.
Two days later, after staring at his latest teasing message far too long, she finally texted back: Fine. One date.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
Hannah had tried on three different outfits before she even admitted to herself that she didn’t know what she was doing. The first dress felt too formal. The second outfit, jeans and a blouse, made her look like she was headed to a PTA meeting. By the third, she threw her hands up and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “It’s one date.”
Her sister poked her head into the doorway, holding Ava’s overnight bag. “Correction: it’s one date with a Navy pilot who’s been flirting with you for weeks and survived a deployment without you blocking his number. That’s basically fate, Hannah.”
Hannah shot her a look, but the knot in her stomach only tightened. “It’s just dinner. That’s all.”
Her sister grinned. “And maybe a kiss if you don’t overthink it.”
Ava padded back into the room while Hannah was fussing with her hair in the mirror. She stopped short in the doorway, eyes going wide.
“Mommy,” she whispered, like she’d just discovered treasure. “You look…beautiful.”
Hannah blinked, startled. “I do?”
Ava nodded so hard her little blonde curls bounced.
“Like a princess.” She tugged at the hem of Hannah’s dress with sticky fingers. “Can you twirl?”
A laugh escaped before Hannah could stop it. “I don’t think this is a twirling dress.”
“Yes it is,” Ava insisted, already spinning in her own little pajamas to demonstrate.
Hannah crouched, hugging her close. “You always know just what to say, you know that?”
Just then, the doorbell rang. Her parents stood on the porch, her dad with his hands in his pockets, her mom already cooing over Ava. They swept inside with the kind of energy that filled every corner, and soon Ava was chattering about pajamas and bedtime stories as her mom helped her into shoes.
Her dad lingered by the door. “So this pilot…he’s…respectable?”
“Yes, dad. Wouldn’t be going tonight if he wasn’t.” Hannah grabbed her purse, trying not to sound defensive.
Her dad’s brow furrowed anyway. “I just don’t want you or Ava hurt.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “Me either.”
Ava trotted over, hair bouncing in pigtails. “Are you going on a date, Mommy?”
Heat rose in Hannah’s cheeks. “It’s just dinner, sweetheart.”
Ava tilted her head, suspicious in a way only a four-year-old could be. “With the man who made you fall down at the beach?”
Her dad’s head snapped around. “Excuse me? He knocked you over?”
Hannah’s sister burst out laughing. “Oh, you should’ve seen it…total wipeout. Guy ran straight into her.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Hannah said quickly, cheeks heating. “It was an accident.”
“Still,” her dad muttered, folding his arms. “Doesn’t sound like the smoothest first impression.”
“Trust me,” her sister teased, “he made up for it with the second…and the third…and fourth.”
“Not helping,” Hannah hissed, but Ava giggled, oblivious.
“Go with Grandma,” Hannah said quickly, kissing the top of Ava’s head. She crouched down to fix the strap of her shoe, stalling. “Be good, okay?”
“Okay,” Ava chirped, then grinned. “Don’t fall down again.”
The joke landed like a pebble in Hannah’s chest. She laughed for Ava’s sake, but her throat tightened anyway. Nights apart were rare. The idea of Ava sleeping in another bed, waking up in the dark without her there, it pulled at the frayed edges of Hannah’s resolve.
Her mom touched her shoulder gently. “She’ll be fine, honey. We’ve got bedtime stories and chocolate chip pancakes in the morning.”
“I know,” Hannah said, voice thinner than she wanted. She smoothed a hand down Ava’s curls, committing the warmth of her daughter’s little body to memory like she was going away for longer than a few hours. Guilt pricked sharp, whispering she was selfish for wanting this…for even trying to date when Ava was still so young.
Ava tugged at her sleeve. “Mommy, it’s just one sleep.”
That undid her. She swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Right. Just one sleep.”
Her dad cleared his throat, eyes softening despite his earlier suspicion. “We’ll take good care of her, Hannah. Go…try to have a nice time.”
Hannah straightened, forcing herself to smile. “Yeah. I’ll try.”
But as she watched them walk toward the car, Ava waving wildly from her grandmother’s arms, the guilt lingered, heavy and uninvited, right alongside the flutter of nerves about the man who would be knocking on her door any minute.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
The doorbell rang at exactly seven.
Hannah froze in the hallway, fingers tightening on the strap of her purse. She smoothed her dress again. It was a soft navy cotton dress that hit just above her knees, casual enough to claim she wasn’t trying too hard, but paired with sandals and earrings that showed she absolutely was. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, a hint of mascara, gloss on her lips. Not too much, not too little. Still, her heart rattled against her ribs.
“Deep breath,” she muttered to herself.
She opened the door to find Jake Seresin leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d been posing for the cover of GQ. He wore a crisp white button down rolled at the sleeves, dark jeans, and scuffed boots that looked well worn rather than careless. His hair was neatly combed but already wind-tossed at the edges, like it refused to be tamed.
“Hey, Hannah,” he said, voice warm as the sunset light spilled across the porch.
Her throat went dry. “You’re on time.”
He grinned, tilting his head. “Wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting.” His eyes traveled down and back up, not leering but appreciative, landing on her face with a glint that made her pulse skip. “You look…” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “Beautiful.”
Heat crept up her neck. “It’s just a dress.”
“Sure,” he said easily, “and the Grand Canyon is just a hole in the ground.”
She rolled her eyes, locking the door behind her before he could see her smile. “Do you always lay it on this thick?”
“Only when it’s true.”
Jake offered his arm as they stepped off the porch, and after a beat of hesitation, Hannah slipped her hand through. The contact was warm, steady, grounding her even as it rattled her.
At the curb, his truck gleamed under the streetlight, spotless like it had been washed just for tonight. He opened the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish. “Your chariot awaits.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her voice softened as she climbed in.
Jake leaned an elbow on the open door, watching her adjust her seatbelt. “You nervous?”
She shot him a sideways look. “No.”
He smiled knowingly. “Liar.”
Hannah huffed, looking out the windshield instead of at him. “This is just dinner, Jake. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”
He nodded, closing the door gently. But when he rounded the truck and slid into the driver’s seat, the grin hadn’t faded.
“Relax,” he said as he turned the key, engine rumbling to life. “It’s just dinner. I promise I don’t bite…unless you ask.”
Her head snapped toward him, scandalized, but his laughter filled the cab, easy and bright. And despite herself, Hannah felt the knot in her stomach loosen, just a little.
Hannah had braced herself for a fancy steakhouse, maybe a place where the menu didn’t bother listing prices. It would’ve been exactly the kind of move she expected from Jake Seresin: loud, flashy, performative.
Instead, twenty minutes later, they pulled into a gravel lot in front of a tiny taco shack lit up with string lights. A handful of picnic tables were scattered outside, half full of locals in flip flops and baseball caps.
“This is it?” she asked, half skeptical, half curious.
“This,” Jake said proudly, “is the best al pastor in San Diego. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
He came around to open her door, offering a hand like she was climbing out of a limo instead of his truck. “Don’t worry, Hannah. I only bring the best dates to places with neon cacti in the window.”
She rolled her eyes but let him help her out. “You’ve really set the bar high.”
The smell was the first thing that hit her. Spiced meat sizzling on the grill, fresh cilantro, corn tortillas warming. They took a few minutes to scan the menu before ordering. When the plates came, piled high and dripping with flavor, he carried them to a picnic table under the lights.
Hannah took her first bite, and her eyes widened despite herself.
“Okay,” she admitted. “You weren’t lying.”
Jake smirked, leaning back with his soda. “I never lie about tacos. That’d be blasphemy.”
They ate in companionable silence for a moment before Jake spoke again, softer. “You seem more relaxed now.”
“Food helps.”
“Noted. Tacos over flowers.”
She took another bite rather than answer, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.
Conversation flowed more easily as the plates emptied. Jake asked about her job, about her favorite books growing up, about the first concert she’d ever gone to. None of it felt like filler. He actually listened, nodding, laughing at the right spots. And when he told ridiculous tales about his squadmates, or about the time he almost missed a flight because he’d locked his keys in his car, he made her laugh so hard she had to cover her mouth with her napkin.
For a man who projected cocky charm like a spotlight, there was something quieter here. Something thoughtful.
When they finished eating, Jake suggested a walk. The air had cooled, the sky painted in pinks and oranges as the sun dipped toward the water. They strolled along the edge of the beach, shoes in hand, the tide rolling in gentle waves.
When they finished eating, Jake suggested a walk. The air had cooled, the sky painted in pinks and oranges as the sun dipped toward the water. They strolled along the edge of the beach, shoes in hand, the tide rolling in gentle waves.
“So,” Jake said after a while, “was this better than you expected?”
Hannah glanced at him warily. “What makes you think I had low expectations?”
He grinned. “You’ve got that look. Like you were bracing for me to drag you somewhere loud and expensive just to show off.”
Her mouth twitched. “Am I wrong?”
“Maybe not about the showing off part,” he admitted, smirking, “but I figure tacos and a walk beat linen napkins and a wine list. Less pressure. Better food.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “You’re full of surprises.”
He bumped her shoulder lightly with his. “Good ones, I hope.”
Hannah didn’t answer right away. The ocean hissed against the sand, and for a moment she let herself enjoy it. The simplicity, the quiet. No one tugging at her hand. No responsibilities looming. Just the two of them, and the sun sinking into the horizon.
“You might get partial credit,” she said at last, and Jake’s grin widened like she’d just handed him a trophy.
They’d wandered farther than either of them realized, the taco stand lights now a faint glow behind them. The horizon burned with streaks of orange and pink, the ocean catching every color and tossing it back in restless waves.
Hannah slowed, folding her arms loosely as she watched the tide roll in. The air smelled of salt and something sweet from a bonfire farther down the beach. For a moment, she let herself be still.
“Beautiful,” Jake murmured.
She glanced sideways at him. “The sunset?”
“Sure,” he said easily, though his eyes lingered on her face.
Heat pricked at her cheeks. She turned back to the water, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush.
A cool breeze swept in, tugging strands of hair from her shoulders. Before she could react, Jake stepped behind her, his arms sliding lightly around her waist. Not tight, not possessive…just there, warm and steady, his chin hovering near her temple.
Her breath caught.
“Relax,” he said softly. “Just watching the view.”
For a dangerous second, she leaned back into him, letting herself imagine what it would be like to have this kind of warmth at her back more than just once. Then she caught herself, easing forward again, heart racing.
“Don’t get used to this,” she warned, forcing her voice steady.
He chuckled, low and pleased. “Too late.”
They turned back toward the lot as the first stars blinked to life above the water. Jake walked close beside her, their shoulders brushing now and then. After one of those casual bumps, his hand grazed hers. For a beat, he let it hang there, fingertips brushing, like he was testing the waters.
Hannah’s first instinct was to pull away, to keep the safe distance she’d worked so hard to build. But the warmth of his palm lingered, steady and sure. And when his fingers curled lightly around hers, she didn’t stop him.
They walked the rest of the way like that, hand in hand, neither of them saying anything about it. Just the hush of the waves, the soft squish of sand beneath their feet, and the awareness pulsing between them like its own current.
At the truck, Jake opened her door, his thumb brushing her knuckles before letting go. The absence of his hand left her oddly unmoored, like she’d just set something down she wasn’t ready to give back.
The ride back was quieter than the drive out. Not uncomfortable. Just weighted. Hannah sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring out at the streetlights flickering pas, aware of Jake’s hand resting casually on the wheel.
She told herself not to read into it. It was just dinner, just a walk, just a taco stand strung with lights. And yet her pulse had its own ideas, quickening each time his eyes flicked her way.
When he pulled into her driveway, neither moved right away. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, and Hannah stared at her front porch, heart racing like she was a teenager again.
Jake finally cleared his throat, shifting toward her. “Thanks for letting me steal a couple hours of your night.”
“You didn’t steal them,” she said, trying for steady. “I gave them willingly.”
That earned her a grin, softer than his usual swagger. “Good to know.”
She reached for the door handle, but Jake was already out of the truck, circling around to open her side. He offered a hand as she stepped down, and she took it automatically, their fingers brushing longer than necessary.
They walked up the porch steps slowly, neither rushing the inevitable goodbye. At her door, Hannah turned, words tangling in her throat.
“This was…” she started, then faltered.
Jake leaned one shoulder against the frame, studying her. “Better than you expected?”
Her mouth curved despite herself. “Maybe.”
The air stretched between them, taut and breathless. Jake shifted closer, hesitating just enough to give her the chance to retreat. Hannah’s pulse spiked. Every instinct told her to step back, to keep the line firm, to remember why she couldn’t afford this.
But she didn’t move.
Jake leaned in, his lips brushing hers lightly at first, almost like he was testing the waters. The kiss deepened only when she met him halfway, her breath catching at the way he kissed more carefully than she thought he would.
When he pulled back, Hannah’s chest rose and fell too quickly, her skin tingling.
“Goodnight, Hannah.” He gave her hand one last squeeze before stepping back.
She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her. For a long moment, she leaned against it, fingers brushing her lips, breathless and conflicted. She knew she shouldn’t want this. She knew it was dangerous.
But the smile tugging at her mouth refused to fade.
More Than Just Us Two: Chapter 2 - The Universe Has Jokes
Content Warnings: mild strong language, very light mention of grief.
A few days after the beach run in, Hannah was running errands at the grocery store. She had successfully made her way through the store and just needed to get the trunk loaded up. The paper bag was already starting to give way. Hannah could feel it sag in her arms, corners digging into her forearms as she balanced two cartons of milk, a loaf of bread, and a stubborn watermelon that refused to sit still. She’d thought leaving Ava with her parents for the afternoon would make errands easier. It hadn’t. Without a four-year-old to distract her, she’d gone aisle by aisle, piling her cart higher than her common sense.
Now, in the heat of the grocery store parking lot, she was juggling the weight of her overconfidence.
She set the bag against her hip, reached with her free hand to pop the trunk, and heard the sound. Rattle, roll, scrape.
Her cart.
Hannah spun just in time to see it breaking free, the front wheels catching a gust of wind and wobbling toward the slope of the lot. Her heart leapt into her throat. A week or two of groceries, already teetering, ready to topple.
“Dammit, ” She lunged forward, the bag in her arms groaning as the bottom sagged another inch. Bread slid sideways, threatening to spill. She tried to grab for the cart’s handle one handed, missed by inches, and winced at the telltale sound of paper tearing.
Perfect. Just perfect. And then, suddenly, the cart stopped. A hand closed around the handle, strong and sure, halting its escape just before it rolled into the bumper of a shiny black truck.
“Got it,” a voice drawled. “Though you look like you could use an extra set of hands.”
Relief flooded her, chased immediately by mortification. Hannah hugged the bag tighter, eyes on the carton of milk threatening to slip free.
“Thanks—” she started, then looked up.
Of course.
Jake Seresin stood there, wind-tousled and tanned, looking like he’d strolled out of a magazine spread on casual Saturdays. T-shirt clinging to his chest, aviator sunglasses perched on his head instead of on his nose, green eyes bright with amusement.
Hannah’s stomach dropped.
“You again,” she muttered.
“Me again,” he said easily, stepping closer. Before she could protest, he plucked the bag straight from her arms. “You’re about two seconds from wearing this milk. Here.”
She bristled, watching as he set the bag gently in the trunk like it weighed nothing. “I had it.”
He leaned an elbow against the cart handle, grin lazy. “Sure you did.”
Hannah exhaled sharply through her nose, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Well…thanks. For the cart. And the bag.”
“Anytime,” he said, and he meant it. She could tell by the way his voice dipped softer on the word.
She busied herself with rearranging the rest of her groceries, loading them into the trunk as fast as possible. If she kept moving, maybe he’d get bored and leave.
“So,” Jake drawled, hands finding his hips, “what are the odds we keep bumping into each other like this?”
“Small town,” she replied curtly, slamming the trunk shut.
“San Diego isn’t exactly small.”
She opened her door, slid behind the wheel, and buckled her seatbelt in record time. “Well, then maybe you should start shopping at a different grocery store.”
His grin widened, unbothered. “Or maybe fate’s trying to tell you something.”
“Fate needs a new hobby.” Hannah started the engine, forcing her voice into polite finality. “Thanks again, Jake.”
His name lingered in the air like a dare.
He stepped back, giving her room to pull out. “See you around, Hannah.”
She didn’t answer. Just pressed the gas, steering out of the lot without a glance in the rearview mirror.
But when she did glance a block later, she saw it anyway. Jake Seresin, standing in the lot with his hands on his hips, watching her car disappear into traffic.
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A few days after the grocery store run in, Hannah had finally started to settle into a routine. She was at a local cafe trying to get some remote work done after dropping Ava off at daycare. The hum of the cafe was steady and soothing, steam hissing from the espresso machine, the low murmur of conversation, indie music floating from a corner speaker. Hannah had claimed a small table by the window, laptop open, papers spread out beside her latte.
She leaned into the rhythm of her work. Emails answered. A presentation draft shaping up. Between sips of lukewarm coffee, she almost felt like her old self, the version of Hannah who’d existed before preschool schedules and dance practice, before she carried the weight of holding everything together on her own.
The ache flickered quickly, the way it always did when memory brushed too close to what she’d lost. She shoved it aside, eyes back on the screen. Focus. Always forward.
The door chimed, but she didn’t look up. Not until she caught the sound of a laugh she’d already learned to recognize.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.
Jake Seresin had just walked in. He scanned the room, spotted her instantly, and lit up like someone had just handed him a winning lottery ticket. With a casual confidence that made her stomach tighten, he sauntered over.
“You again?” he said, leaning on the back of the chair across from her. “Either this town’s small, or fate’s working overtime.”
Hannah didn’t glance up from her laptop. “It’s called coincidence.”
“Coincidence.” He slid into the chair anyway, ignoring her lack of invitation. “Happens three times in a week, that’s more than coincidence.”
She finally looked at him, arching a brow. “You keeping track?”
“Hard not to,” he said, grinning.
Hannah exhaled, shutting her laptop halfway. “Look, I’m trying to work.”
“Perfect. I’m great background noise.”
“More like a distraction.”
“Best one you’ve had all day, I bet.”
She bit back a smile, turning her focus firmly to her cup. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Occupational hazard,” Jake said, leaning back in his chair, relaxed. “When you fly at thirty thousand feet, confidence’s not optional.”
“There it is,” she said, dry as toast. “The pilot thing.”
His grin didn’t falter. “What gave it away? The tackle at the beach or the grocery store heroics?”
“Neither,” she shot back. “The fact that you can’t stop talking about yourself.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.” She reached for her laptop, but he wasn’t deterred.
He tilted his head, unbothered. “If I asked for your number, would you call that persistence or harassment?”
“Neither,” she said crisply, sliding her papers into her bag. “I’d call it wasted effort.”
Jake leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Wasted effort? Harsh.”
“I don’t hand out my number to men who make a habit of tackling me in public places.”
“That was once.”
Hannah rolled her eyes, standing. “I’m not interested, Jake.”
“Yet here you are smiling,” he said, nodding at her mouth.
Her lips flattened instantly. “That was not a smile. That was disbelief.”
“Disbelief looks good on you.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder, shaking her head. “You’re relentless.”
“And you’re stubborn.”
“Works out fine for me.”
He leaned back in his chair, grinning up at her. “Tell you what, one day you’re going to give me your number. I’ll wait.”
“Wouldn’t hold your breath. You’ll be waiting a while.”
“Lucky for me,” he said smoothly, “I’ve got great lungs.”
Hannah groaned, already moving toward the door.
As she left, Jake watched her go, his smirk lingering. She was sharp, quicker than most people he met, and he liked the way her sarcasm matched his note for note. He knew when he was being dismissed, but somehow, with her, it didn’t feel like defeat. It felt like the start of a game.
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Target was supposed to be safe.
Hannah steered the cart down the seasonal aisle, half-listening to Ava babble from inside the seat about which Halloween costume she wanted this year. Her sister pushed the cart beside her, phone in one hand, smirk hovering at the ready.
“Do you even need half this stuff?” her sister asked, eyeing the growing pile of paper towels, snacks, and a set of throw pillows Hannah swore had jumped into the cart on their own.
“It’s Target,” Hannah muttered. “You don’t come here for what you need. You come here for what you didn’t know you needed until you saw it.”
Her sister laughed, but the sound cut off as her gaze flicked over Hannah’s shoulder. “Speaking of what you don’t know you need…”
Hannah frowned before turning around to see what her sister was looking at.
Mother fucker.
Jake Seresin, in jeans and a Henley, stood at the end of the aisle with a basket hooked in one arm. His smile spread slow and smug across his face.
Her sister straightened, delighted. “Oh, this is too good.”
“Not a word,” Hannah hissed.
Jake stopped in front of them, basket dangling from his arm. “Okay, four times. You can’t keep pretending the universe isn’t trying to tell you something.”
“Maybe the universe needs better hobbies,” Hannah shot back, crossing her arms.
“Or maybe it just likes proving me right.” He leaned a little closer, voice low. “You and me? It’s not coincidence anymore.”
Her sister’s grin widened, and Ava, oblivious, piped up from the cart: “That’s the man who made you fall down at the beach!”
Jake chuckled.
“Guilty.” He tipped an imaginary hat toward Ava. “Glad she forgave me long enough to let me keep running into her.”
“I haven’t forgiven you,” Hannah said, sharp.
“Sure you have,” he countered, unbothered. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”
Her sister elbowed her, stage whispering, “Give him a break. He’s cute.”
“Cute isn’t everything,” Hannah muttered.
“Neither are throw pillows, but you just bought two of them,” her sister shot back.
Jake smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Smart sister. I like her.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Hannah snapped.
“Too late.” He set his basket on the floor, folded his arms, and looked right at her. “All I’m asking for is your number. If you give it to me, I’ll stop bothering you in parking lots and coffee shops and grocery stores. I’ll call it a fair trade.”
“You’ll stop bothering me?”
“Scout’s honor.” He held up a hand, the picture of innocence, except for the glint in his eyes that told her he had no intention of giving up once he had it.
Her sister leaned on the cart handle, enjoying the show. “For my sanity, Hannah. Please. Just give him your number so we can all move on.”
She closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and rattled off the digits before she could stop herself.
Jake’s grin spread triumphant, slow and dazzling, like he’d just scored the winning touchdown. He repeated the number back to her, voice smooth. “Got it. I’ll be in touch.”
Hannah glared. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t,” he said confidently, retrieving his basket. “I’ll prove it to you.”
With that, he strolled away, humming to himself, basket swinging at his side.
Her sister watched him go, then turned back to Hannah with a wicked grin. “You know, for someone who’s ‘not interested,’ you’re awfully red right now.”
“Shut up,” Hannah muttered, grabbing the cart handle. But her stomach was still fluttering when she pushed it toward the checkout line.
The line at checkout crawled, Ava drumming her heels against the cart while Hannah unloaded items onto the conveyor belt. Her sister had wandered off toward the dollar section, no doubt filling her arms with things they didn’t need.
Hannah swiped her card, shifted bags into the cart, and reached for her phone when it buzzed.
Unknown Number: You didn’t think I was gonna wait a whole day to use this, did you?
Her stomach dropped, and then, annoyingly enough it fluttered. She tapped the screen open, lips tugging against her will into the smallest smile.
Unknown Number: It’s Jake. The guy you keep “accidentally” running into. Or maybe it’s fate. Jury’s still out.
A laugh slipped from her before she could stop it.
“Why are you smiling like that, Mommy?” Ava asked from the cart, peering up at her with wide, suspicious eyes.
“I’m not smiling,” Hannah said quickly, straightening her face.
“You are,” Ava insisted. “Your cheeks are doing the thing when they get all pink. Like me when I wear makeup.”
Hannah’s cheeks heated, and she tucked her phone into her pocket. “Just a message from work.”
Her sister reappeared just in time, arms full of dollar-bin treasures, and shot Hannah a knowing look. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” Hannah said firmly, pushing the cart forward.
But when her phone buzzed again in her pocket, she felt the corners of her mouth betray her all over again.
More Than Just Us Two: Chapter 1 - Collision Course
By ten in the morning, the sand was already hot enough to sting through her flip-flops. Hannah juggled a cooler in one hand, a folded beach chair under her arm, and her daughter’s sunscreen sticky fingers tangled in her free hand. Ava tugged her forward, eyes wide at the sight of the glittering Pacific.
“Mommy, it’s so big!” she squealed, already wriggling like she could break free and sprint toward the water.
“Not without sunscreen,” Hannah said, tightening her grip. She shot her sister a look over the pile of towels and umbrellas she was carrying. “A little help here?”
Her sister only laughed. “You’re the one who insists on packing like we’re settling in for a weeklong expedition. It’s a few hours, Hannah.”
“A few hours with a four-year-old who burns like paper,” Hannah countered, shifting the cooler higher on her hip.
Ava giggled at the exchange, then pointed toward a group of men down the beach. They were tossing a football, their voices carrying over the crash of the waves. Tan, broad-shouldered, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Look, Mommy! They’re playing catch!”
“Uh huh,” Hannah said, not bothering to glance twice.
She knew San Diego was a military town. With six or seven bases in the greater San Diego area between the Navy, Marines, and Coast Guard. She’d grown up around that kind of swagger: loud, competitive, trouble. She knew the type. And those kind of men were not her problem. Not anymore.
They staked out a spot near the waterline, spreading towels and wrestling with the umbrella until it stood at a stubborn angle. Hannah slathered sunscreen across Ava’s cheeks and shoulders while her daughter squirmed and complained about the smell.
“Hold still or I’ll do your ears twice,” Hannah warned, trying not to laugh when Ava yelped dramatically.
Her sister stretched out on her towel with a sigh of contentment. “See? Isn’t this better than unpacking boxes?”
Hannah adjusted her sunglasses, scanning the waves. Better? Maybe. But the weight of everything…the new house, the new job, the new routine…sat heavy on her shoulders. She’d come to the beach to make memories for Ava, not to relax. Relaxing wasn’t really in her vocabulary anymore.
Still, when Ava darted toward the wet sand with her bucket and shovel, squealing with joy, Hannah admitted, albeit silently to herself, that maybe this was the right place to start over after all.
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A few hours later the sun was high and bright. The football arched high against the cloudless sky, a perfect spiral launched from one end of the beach to the other. Jake narrowed his eyes, tracking it as he sprinted across the sand. The guys were already hollering behind him, Rooster shouting for him to “drop it, Hangman!” but Jake wasn’t about to miss.
He lengthened his stride, sand spraying behind him, focus sharp as the ball dipped lower.
At the same time, Hannah was jogging up the beach, sunglasses slipping down her nose, cursing herself for forgetting the cooler’s extra water bottle. Ava’s chatter had been endless, and Hannah had tuned it out just long enough to miss her daughter asking for a drink. Rookie mistake. Now she was racing the heat to get back before her sister started in with I-told-you-sos.
Her head was turned toward their umbrella, her hand adjusting the strap of her bag, when the world slammed into her.
“Whoa!”
The impact knocked her off balance, sand giving way under her feet. She let out a startled gasp as she hit the ground hard enough to feel grit stick to her skin.
“Oh, shit! Sorry!” The voice was low, warm, and laced with a slight drawl that somehow managed to sound both apologetic and amused. “Are you okay?”
Hannah groaned, pushing herself up on her elbows. Sunglasses tilted sideways on her nose, her hair falling loose from a messy bun, skin covered in sand now. She looked more annoyed than hurt.
“I’ve had softer landings,” she said dryly, batting his hand away.
Jake’s mouth quirked. Sharp tongue. Noted. “Guess I literally swept you off your feet.”
She rolled her eyes, brushing sand from her arms. “Guess you need better aim.”
Behind them, the guys whistled and whooped. Jake ignored them, crouching closer. “Really, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She stood, dusting off her shorts. She clearly wanted to be anywhere but here.
Jake should’ve let her go. Instead, he held out his hand again, palm open. “At least let me do this part right. I’m Jake. Jake Seresin.”
Hannah hesitated, sunglasses slipping lower on her nose as her eyes flicked over him. Broad shoulders dusted with sand, sun catching in his blond hair, the kind of easy grin that probably got him anything he wanted. He was too much. Too tan, too charming, too confident. Exactly the kind of man she’d promised herself she’d never waste time on again.
She arched a brow. “Do you usually tackle strangers before you introduce yourself?”
His grin widened. “Only the pretty ones.”
That earned him a sharp laugh. It was half disbelief, half exasperation as she finally took his hand for the briefest shake.
“Hannah.”
“Just Hannah?”
“Yup.” She said before she pulled back and started walking back toward Ava and her sister.
“Let me make it up to you,” he called after her.
She didn’t slow. “Don’t worry about it.”
Jake studied her for a beat longer than necessary. Something about her, maybe the way she held herself, shoulders squared despite being knocked flat, or the flicker of humor in her eyes when she’d snapped back at him that made him pause. She wasn’t like the women who usually lingered when he smiled. She was already stepping away.
“Hangman!” Coyote shouted, waving. “You playing or what?”
Jake glanced between his teammates and the retreating woman. Sun caught in her hair as she bent to pick up a bag, shoulders squared like she’d already forgotten him.
But Jake hadn’t forgotten her. Not even close.
He jogged back toward the guys, ball tucked under his arm, but his eyes drifted once more toward the umbrella where Hannah sat down beside a woman who looked enough like her to be family, and a little girl. Probably her sister and a niece if he had to guess.
By the time Hannah made it back to their umbrella, she was still brushing sand from her arms. Ava looked up from her sandcastle, eyes wide.
“Mommy, what happened? Did you fall down?”
“Something like that,” Hannah muttered, twisting the cap off the water bottle and handing it over.
Her sister, however, was grinning like a cat who’d just found the cream. “Oh my God. Please tell me that was on purpose.”
Hannah shot her a glare as she sank into her chair. “What was?”
“You just got tackled by the hottest guy on this beach. And you didn’t even ask his name?”
“I don’t need his name. I need a shower.” Hannah shook sand from her towel with a snap, refusing to meet her sister’s gleeful expression.
“Oh, come on. Blond hair, muscles for days—”
“Temporary,” Hannah cut in firmly. “Guys like that? They’re fun until they’re not. They disappear faster than sunscreen in July. And I’m not interested.”
Her sister leaned back, smug. “Mhm. Keep telling yourself that.”
“Seriously.” Hannah adjusted her sunglasses, tilting them like a shield. “I came here for Ava, not to get body slammed by some overconfident flyboy named Jake with a pretty smile.”
Ava had been sipping water with both hands, but now she piped up, matter of fact: “That man was looking at you, Mommy.”
Hannah froze, the bottle halfway back to her bag. “Excuse me?”
“He was!” Ava insisted, sandy curls bobbing as she nodded. “He looked at you like…like when Grandma looks at cake.”
Her sister snorted so loudly it drew a glance from the family on the next towel over. “She’s not wrong.”
Hannah felt heat creep up her neck. “He was not looking at me. He was looking at the football.”
“Sure,” her sister said, laughter still bubbling. “The football with legs and a ponytail.”
“Unbelievable,” Hannah muttered, pulling her hat lower. “Can we please change the subject?”
Ava, oblivious to her mother’s mortification, returned happily to her sandcastle.
“I think he was nice,” she added. “Even if he made you fall down.”
Hannah groaned, sinking lower into her chair. “I repeat: not interested. End of discussion.”
But despite herself, she found her gaze drifting down the beach, where the group of men had picked up their game again. And maybe, just maybe, the blond one glanced her way one more time.
She snapped her head back toward Ava’s sandcastle, cheeks burning. Definitely just her imagination.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded in a rhythm Hannah knew well: Ava digging endless holes in the sand, her sister stretched out with earbuds and a book, Hannah hovering somewhere between relaxed and hyper aware. She reapplied sunscreen twice, refilled water bottles, and kept a constant eye on the tide inching closer to Ava’s little kingdom of sand.
Every so often, a burst of laughter carried down the beach from the group of men with the football. They were impossible to ignore. They were loud, slightly sun burned, and all competitive swagger.
Hannah told herself she wasn’t paying attention, but her eyes betrayed her, darting toward them whenever a cheer went up. The blond one who had bowled her over was impossible not to notice. Jake ran like the beach belonged to him, lean and quick, with a grin that flashed whenever he caught the ball. More than once, she caught him scanning the crowed like he was checking for someone.
“Mommy, look!” Ava held up a shell, her face glowing with triumph. “It’s a treasure!”
Hannah crouched beside her, brushing a thumb across the smooth edge. “That’s a good one, baby. We’ll take it home.”
Ava slipped it into her bucket with a decisive nod, then scampered back toward the water. Hannah’s heart squeezed. This was why she came. For moments like these, for the small victories that made Ava beam. Not for some pilot with a reckless smile.
By late afternoon, the sun was starting its descent, painting the horizon gold. Ava was sandy, sticky, and yawning, her bucket of treasures clutched tight. Hannah shook out the towels, folded the chairs, and began the familiar dance of packing everything back into the car.
As they trekked toward the lot, the group of men was dispersing too. Hannah kept her focus on Ava’s hand in hers, on her sister complaining about carrying the umbrella, but movement caught her eye as they crossed the boardwalk.
Jake jogged past, hair damp with sweat, T-shirt slung over one shoulder. He slowed for half a step, just long enough to flash her a quick grin. Easy, unbothered, the kind that lingered whether she wanted it to or not.
“Mommy,” Ava whispered as they reached the car, “he smiled at you again.”
Hannah’s pulse jumped. She fumbled with the keys, her voice firmer than she felt. “He smiles at everyone.”
Her sister muffled a laugh as she helped load the cooler. “Mhm. Sure he does.”
Hannah buckled Ava into her seat, determined to ignore them both. By the time she slid behind the wheel, she had her composure back. It didn’t matter if he’d smiled. Or looked. Or if for half a second something in her chest had sparked.
This was about Ava. About stability. About building a new life that didn’t have room for chaos. She started the car, pulling away from the beach with the conviction of someone who absolutely, definitely wasn’t going to see Jake again.
Hannah’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel as she coasted down another quiet street lined with palm trees, the kind of picture perfect neighborhood that looked like it had come straight off a postcard. The sun was blindingly bright, bouncing off stucco walls and the hoods of parked cars.
From the back seat, Ava’s voice piped up for what felt like the twentieth time since they’d crossed the city limits.
“Are we there yet?”
Hannah smiled despite herself. “Almost. I promise.”
“But you said that like…forever ago.” Ava’s little sneakers kicked the back of her seat in protest. “I’m hungry.”
“You have snacks,” Hannah reminded her, though she reached blindly into the tote bag riding shotgun, fishing around until her hand found the pack of Goldfish. She passed it back without looking, two years of practice letting her execute the move like muscle memory.
“Thanks, Mommy.” The crinkle of the bag was followed by a satisfied crunch. A beat later, Ava added, “How much longer is almost?”
“Two minutes. Maybe three.”
“That’s not fair.”
Hannah bit back a laugh. Ava’s patience was nonexistent. She had inherited that from her father, Hannah thought, the corner of her smile wobbling. She blinked hard, pushing the thought away as she turned down the last street.
The house appeared about halfway down the block. A neat, single story with pale blue shutters and a front porch just big enough for a couple chairs. Standing on the porch were her parents and her sister bouncing and waving as they waited for her and Ava to arrive.
Hannah parked at the curb and just sat there for a moment, her chest tight. She hadn’t seen them since the funeral. A lump rose in her throat at the memory, but she swallowed it down. This wasn’t supposed to be about endings anymore. This was supposed to be about beginnings.
“Mommy, we’re here!” Ava squealed, already trying to unbuckle herself before Hannah could get the car in park.
“Hold on, monkey.” Hannah twisted in her seat, catching Ava’s straps before she could wiggle free. “You have to wait for me, remember?”
Ava huffed but stilled, wide eyed and impatient. Hannah grabbed her keys, stepped out, and rounded the car. When she opened the back door, Ava practically launched herself into her arms.
Her mother was already hurrying down the steps, tears shining in her eyes. “Oh, Hannah, you made it.”
Hannah’s chest ached as she hugged her mom one armed, still balancing Ava on her hip. Then came her dad’s firm embrace, her sister squealing as she stole Ava away for her own hug. The swirl of greetings, questions, and laughter wrapped around Hannah like a blanket.
“You look tired,” her mom fussed, brushing a stray hair from her face.
“Thanks, Mom,” Hannah said dryly, though her lips twitched.
“You look good, kiddo,” her dad amended, giving her shoulder a squeeze. His eyes softened in a way that made her throat close up again.
Her sister, meanwhile, was crouched on the lawn, Ava chattering in her ear about the car ride, the snacks she’d had on the way, and the new house. The sight tugged something loose in Hannah’s chest, a reminder of why she’d come home.
“Come on inside,” her mom urged. “We’ve got lunch waiting inside. And yours and Ava’s rooms are already set up. Well mostly.”
Hannah blinked. “Set up? Mom, I sold almost everything before we left. The movers barely had anything to haul out here besides clothes and toys.”
Her mom waved a dismissive hand. “Which is why we helped out. The store delivered your furniture last week, your dad and I made sure it was put together. And I may have picked up a few extras.”
“A few extras?” Hannah repeated, skeptical.
Her sister snorted. “Translation: half of Target’s home section is now living in your house.”
Hannah groaned. “Mom…”
Her mom didn’t even look guilty. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing crazy. Just dishes, towels, some curtains…and Ava’s room. She deserves a proper space. Every little girl needs a room that feels like hers.”
At the mention of her name, Ava perked up, skipping up the porch steps. “Did you buy me toys, Nana?”
“Maybe a couple,” her mom said, eyes twinkling.
Hannah sighed but let herself be tugged toward the door. She’d wanted to do everything on her own, to prove she could start over without leaning too hard on anyone. But watching Ava’s eager little face as she dashed inside, the idea of her daughter walking into a bedroom already warm and welcoming…maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and fresh paint. Boxes were stacked neatly in the corner of the living room, but the house didn’t feel empty the way Hannah expected it to. Curtains already hung in the windows, a rug softened the hardwood floors, and a vase of flowers sat cheerfully on the counter.
“Mom,” Hannah murmured, her chest tightening. “You didn’t have to…”
Her mom only patted her arm. “Come see Ava’s room.”
That was all it took. Ava bolted down the hall ahead of them, her little sneakers squeaking on the floor until she found the door with her name spelled in colorful wooden letters. She pushed it open with a dramatic gasp.
“Mommy! Look!”
Hannah followed her inside and stopped cold. The walls were painted a pale lavender, shelves already lined with picture books and stuffed animals. A small white bed was tucked into the corner, topped with a quilt patterned in stars and moons. Beside it stood a dollhouse big enough to swallow half of Ava’s toy collection.
Ava twirled in the middle of the room, her face glowing. “It’s mine! It’s all mine!” She launched herself onto the bed and bounced, curls flying. “Grandma, you got me a castle!”
Her mom laughed, leaning against the doorframe. “Every princess needs one.”
Hannah swallowed past the lump in her throat. She’d pictured starting over in a bare, echoing house. Then slowly piecing a life back together one paycheck at a time. Instead, her daughter had walked straight into a space that already felt like home.
“Thank you,” she whispered, so quiet only her mom heard it.
Her mom squeezed her hand. “New chapter, sweetheart. You don’t have to do it all alone.”
Hannah nodded, though a flicker of guilt tugged at her ribs. She wanted to do it all alone. But seeing Ava’s joy, the guilt loosened its grip just a little.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
The next morning, Hannah discovered that “getting out the door on time” was going to be its own full-time job.
“Shoes, Ava.”
“I am putting them on,” her daughter protested, sitting cross-legged on the rug with one sneaker half-laced and the other upside down on the wrong foot. “See?”
Hannah crouched, gently untangling the mess. “That one goes on your left foot, kiddo.”
Ava giggled. “Oops. I was just testing you.”
“Sure you were.” Hannah tied the knot with practiced fingers, then reached for her coffee on the counter. It was lukewarm by now, but she took a swallow anyway.
“Do I have to go?” Ava asked, voice small.
Hannah softened. She brushed a curl off her daughter’s forehead. “Just for a little while. You’ll make friends, I promise. Remember how you liked the playground when we visited a few weeks ago?”
Ava perked up a little. “They had a slide. A fast one.”
“Exactly. And I bet there’ll be kids who love it too.” Hannah forced cheer into her voice, even as her stomach clenched. Leaving Ava with strangers always felt like peeling off a piece of herself.
Traffic was light, the sun already bright and hot when they pulled into the preschool lot. Ava held Hannah’s hand as they walked toward the cheerful building, her little backpack bouncing with each step.
Inside, the hallway buzzed with chatter and the smell of crayons. Teachers greeted parents by name, stooping to welcome each child. Ava pressed closer to Hannah’s leg, suddenly shy.
“Good morning!” A young teacher with kind eyes crouched in front of them. “You must be Ava. I’m Miss Delgado.”
Ava ducked her head, mumbling something into Hannah’s jeans.
“She’s usually not this quiet,” Hannah said, smiling apologetically.
“That’s okay,” Miss Delgado assured her. “First days are a lot. Would you like to see our art corner, Ava? We’ve got paints and stickers.”
That caught her attention. Ava peeked up, eyes wide. “Stickers?”
“Lots of them.” The teacher offered her hand.
Ava hesitated, then slipped her small fingers into Miss Delgado’s. She glanced back at Hannah, torn between excitement and nerves.
“You’ll be great, monkey,” Hannah whispered, crouching to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be back this afternoon, okay? Have fun.”
Ava nodded solemnly, then let herself be led into the classroom. Hannah lingered at the doorway longer than necessary, watching as her daughter immediately gravitated toward another little girl at the sticker table. Within seconds they were trading sheets like seasoned diplomats.
Relief mingled with a sharp pang in Hannah’s chest. Ava was going to be fine. She always was. It was Hannah who had to learn how to let go, one school day at a time.
Back in the car, silence pressed around her. The empty booster seat in the rearview mirror felt too big. Hannah gripped the steering wheel, inhaled deeply, and reminded herself: this was why she’d moved back to California. To give Ava roots, family nearby, a chance to feel normal.
Still, as she pulled out of the lot, she couldn’t shake the echo of Ava’s small hand slipping out of hers.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
By the time Hannah found her way through the tangle of freeways and into downtown, her nerves had twisted into a tight knot. She’d worn her safest outfit: navy slacks, a white blouse, flats that wouldn’t kill her feet if she had to trek across a parking garage twice. Her hair was scraped into a bun, neat enough to look competent but quick enough to wrangle in five minutes flat.
The office building was glassy and modern, nothing like the squat brick headquarters of her old job. She gave her name at the front desk, clipped on a visitor badge, and followed the intern with the nervous smile through a maze of cubicles.
Her new manager, a brisk woman named Kelsey, shook her hand firmly. “We’re so glad you’re here. We’ve been juggling your workload between two people. I’ll have them bring you up to speed.”
Translation: hit the ground running.
The next four hours blurred into a crash course of passwords, project briefings, and hastily scribbled notes. Everyone was polite, but no one had time to linger. Hannah kept nodding, trying to absorb it all, praying she wouldn’t forget something crucial by the end of the day.
The afternoon dragged. New email notifications piled up faster than she could click. A glitch in one of the spreadsheets cost her half an hour. At one point she realized she’d been nodding along to someone’s detailed explanation of workflow but hadn’t processed a single word.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, her smile felt glued in place. She gathered her bag and all but bolted for the preschool, praying Ava hadn’t noticed how long the day had been.
Ava was waiting by the cubbies, already in her jacket, swinging her backpack. Her whole face lit up when she spotted Hannah.
“Mommy!” She launched herself forward, nearly bowling Hannah over.
“Well, someone had a good day.”
“I made a best friend,” Ava announced solemnly. “Her name is Lily. We both like purple and peanut butter crackers.”
“Sounds like destiny,” Hannah said, helping her into the car.
On the way out of the preschool lot, Hannah glanced at the clock on the dash and winced. Nearly six. No wonder Ava was starting to wilt.
“Hungry, monkey?” she asked.
“I’m starving,” Ava groaned, dramatic as ever. “Like…my tummy is eating itself.”
Hannah bit back a laugh. “Okay, that sounds serious. Emergency fries it is.”
They swung through a drive-through, the smell of salty French fries filling the car before they’d even reached the first stoplight. Ava balanced the Happy Meal box on her lap, chattering about her new best friend between bites of nuggets.
They had to stop for groceries on the way home. Hannah’a list was short: milk, bread, fruit. But somehow Ava nearly tripled the amount of items on their “must have” list. She insisted on riding in the car, but then would squirm to get down every time she saw something she thought they “had to have”.
By the time they got to the checkout, Hannah’s head throbbed again. She tried not to think about how much she was about to spend. The move had basically drained her savings, and she knew things would be tight until her first paycheck hit her bank account.
“Can I have a cookie?” Ava chirped as they waited for the older couple in front of them to finish checking out.
Hannah glanced down and saw Ava eyeing a display of assorted cookies the grocery store had strategically placed right by the checkout. Hannah didn’t really want to give in, but the look Ava was giving her made it impossible to say no. Hannah handed her one, watching her daughter take a blissful bite, chocolate smearing her cheek. For all the chaos, for all the exhaustion, she couldn’t imagine not having this.
For all the chaos of moving, for all the exhaustion she’d been feeling over the past few months, for all the exhaustion she knew was sure to come…she couldn’t imagine not having this.
Still, as she shoved the cart toward the parking lot, she caught herself thinking about her coworkers. Some of them had talked about happy hours, trivia nights, those kinds of things. She hadn’t been invited, of course she hadn’t. She was brand new. But even if she had been invited, the answer would’ve been the same.
No. No babysitter. No time. No space for herself. No social life.
Just Ava. Always Ava.
🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴 🌊 🌴
By the time they got home, the sun was slipping low over the rooftops. Ava had conked out in her booster seat, one arm flung dramatically across her face like a tiny actress mid monologue. Hannah carried her inside, still clutching the cookie half eaten in her sticky fist, and managed to get her into pajamas without waking her.
Dinner was simple. Mac and cheese from a box, eaten alone at the kitchen counter after she’d tucked Ava in. The house felt quieter than it should have, the empty rooms humming around her like a reminder of all the boxes still unpacked.
She rinsed dishes, stacked them carefully in the sink, and wandered into the living room. The curtains her mom had insisted on buying swayed in the night breeze from the cracked window. The couch looked inviting, but her body buzzed with too much exhaustion to relax.
Instead, she sat cross-legged on the floor with her laptop open, scrolling through emails and half started to-do lists. It was ridiculous. She should have been off the clock, but there was something about being new at a job that made her feel like she had to prove herself twice over.
Her phone lit up beside her. Notifications piled across the screen: her college roommate posting vacation photos from Greece, another friend celebrating an engagement, old coworkers tagging each other at a bar near the office.
Hannah scrolled with numb fingers, a hollow ache tugging at her. Her life wasn’t built for that anymore. No spontaneous trips, no casual drinks after work. Just preschool schedules and grocery runs and making sure the mortgage got paid.
She shut the phone off and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling until her eyes stung.
A sound carried down the hallway, Ava’s sleepy little voice, humming nonsense in her bed, half a dream leaking into the quiet. Hannah smiled, the ache softening.
This was enough.
It had to be.
Love, real love, the kind that didn’t burn out or break apart, just wasn’t in the cards for her. And that was fine. She had Ava. She had her family. She had a new start.
Besides, she thought wryly, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes, it wasn’t like love was just going to smack her in the face on the sidewalk.
Single mom Hannah Reid came to San Diego for a fresh start, not a fling. Then she literally runs into Jake “Hangman” Seresin at the beach, and then again at the grocery store. And then the coffee shop. And, okay, maybe fate’s got a sense of humor. Jake’s charming persistence finally wins her over, but Hannah’s holding one very big secret: Ava, her four-year-old daughter. Jake never saw himself as the “dad type.” Yet when he meets Ava, the cocky fighter pilot who never sticks around suddenly finds himself wrapped around a tiny finger, and realizes that maybe, just maybe, the best landing of his life isn’t on a runway at all.
A/N: Based off the song below as I've been wanting to write this one for a bit. Please enjoy. Also another note, as I haven't really been on here much. From now on I'll be posting my one shots on here and my series will only be on a03 and Wattpad. I will share a link to my two series and it would be wonderful if you haven't read those, if you'd take a peek at them. I know character x original character isn't everyone's cup of tea but I've put my heart and soul into those stories. I'm trying some new stuff with all these oneshots but I don't have a regular schedule for them so they'll just kind of be posted whenever I get to them. If you want consistent posting you'll have to read my series. Thanks y'all! And if you'd like to be added to my tag list please DM me. Also, if you're interested in joining our Writer's Discord, The Written Brain, please DM and we'll be happy to send you an invite!
The rumble of the diesel engine was the only sound besides the distant clap of thunder. It was the middle of June in Arkansas and hot as hell, even in the middle of the night.
Tyler Owens was on his own tonight, chasing a big cold front that dropped the temps and dropped three different funnels, two of which he caught. One though had nearly taken him to the pearly gates in the sky. His heart was still pounding from that one.
He stopped at a sign and turned but something caught his eye in the headlights making him slam his foot on the brake and pull to the side of the road.
There was a woman. She looked soaked and chilled to the bone. Tyler put the truck in park and leaned over the center console to pop the handle and open the door. He examined the woman, and before she could get rained on any more he motioned for her to get in.
“Climb in. I ain't gonna hurt'cha.” He said softly.
You climbed in.
Tyler studied you for a moment. You were obviously wet, and you'd clearly walked through the rain to get to where he picked you up. You had blood on your shirt and a bruise around your right eye and your right jawline.l that was heading toward your cheek. There was a tear in your shirt as well, through your midsection.
Tyler had left the truck running, and he saw you shiver.
“Want the heat on? You look chilly.” Tyler asked, and you nodded. He went to reach in the back of the truck and you flinched. He paused and slowed his movements. He pulled one of his flannels from the backseat and handed it to you. Tyler's expression hardened and you saw the look in his eyes as he shifted the truck into drive.
“ Where is he?” He asked, voice gravelly and firm. Your brows furrowed and you spoke.
“Bout a mile down the road on the left. The trailer with the front porch light on and the rusty old Ford in the driveway.” You're voice was shaky at best, and Tyler spun his tires as he sped the short distance to the trailer where your drunk boyfriend was.
Tyler pulled up to the trailer, rage in his eyes, tension in his shoulders, and he reached under his seat. He pulled out a pistol, cocked it and placed it in the back of his jeans as he stepped out of the truck. He left it on and told you ‘ Just wait in the truck.’.
You did exactly as he said, as thunder rumbled and lightning flashed in the sky. Tyler rushed up the porch, gun in hand. You could hear your boyfriend yelling as he rushed to the door. Tyler kicked in the door and let the hammer drop before your boyfriend could even lift the twelve gauge rifle that he'd hit you with the butt of earlier that night.
The shot echoed and you jumped in the seat. You sank down in Tyler's truck and pulled the button down he'd given you over your head.
Tyler was fast. He had to be. He heard the sirens as soon as the man fell to the ground. The man gasped and coughed, taking his last breath as Tyler fired off one more shot. Another to his chest, rupturing his heart. Tyler wanted him good and dead.
You heard the sirens too and you uncovered your face and opened the door.
“ Honey, just stay where you are. You don't wanna see this.” Tyler said, as he took one of the cigars that your boyfriend kept at the door in the bowl. Tyler lit it and took a puff before sitting down on the porch, waiting for the cops to show up. Tyler didn't like cigars but it was a pretty big fuck you to take one when a man hadn't offered it, let alone kill the man and take it. They were cheap and they tasted like shit. Tyler flicked it on the ground and sat with his hands on his knees.
Blue and red lights flickered in the dark of the night, in the middle of that thunderstorm. The cops put Tyler in handcuffs immediately and he gave you his keys. He smiled at you and you asked them to wait a moment. You cupped his cheeks, and kissed him on the lips.
“Don’t wait for me darlin’. You just live your life. You won’t ever get hit again.”
The cops asked what had happened and you simply said, “that man saved my life. He saved me. Please don’t put him in jail.”
“Ma’am it don’t matter he saved you. He killed a man tonight. He’s gotta go away for sumthin’.” The cop said as paramedics arrived at the scene as well. They examined you and then asked if anything else had happened. You said no. They asked if you wanted to go to the hospital. You said no. They asked if you knew the man who killed your boyfriend. You said no.
“I don’t know if he’s an angel. Angels don’t do what he did. Soon as he saw me though, he was hellbent to find that man and make him pay. I never met a man like him. He’s a good man.” You explained as they cleaned up your wounds and gave you some ice to put on the bruise on your jaw.
You barely remembered why your boyfriend had hit you, or what the fight was even about, you just remember him socking you one, ripping your shirt as you tried to leave, and then the rifle hitting you and knocking you off. When you came to, you were out on the porch in the rain, facedown and you were sore all over. You’d gotten up, and began to run. You ran down the road in the middle of that storm, hoping someone would find you and you could run even further.
But as you stood in that court room, your face finally healed, your body less on edge as you recounted that night to the judge, you remembered the look that Tyler Owens had given you when he realized you’d be beaten.
You glanced around the room. Everyone was in tears. But Tyler, he was looking at you. His expression was soft and his hands held together in prayer that your words would get him a lesser sentence.
The judge read his counts and then he glanced at Tyler. “Son, are you sorry for what you did?”
Tyler raised his brows then. He cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m only sorry that woman had to live with that man for as long as she did without someone comin’ to rescue her. I’m sorry that she had to be treated that way. I’m not sorry that I sent that man to the Devil. He deserved what he got.”
A hush fell upon the courtroom and the judge shook his head. “Tyler Alexander Owens you are charged with voluntary manslaughter by the state of Arkansas and you are required to serve at least sixty months with the potential for parole in forty eight months if you display excellent conduct. You will hereby reside at the Cummins Unit High Security Facility, with visitation rights.” The judge banged the gavel and your eyes welled with tears.
Over the next sixty months, you visited him. Every weekend. You got to know the Tornado Cowboy from Arkansas and he got to know you, a battered and broken woman, who just begged for peace.
Tyler had given you the keys to his truck and his house. He’d told you to stay as long as you needed. Do whatever you needed. But don’t wait for him.
But you did wait. You wanted to wait. You got a new job, just outside of his home town. You kept to yourself mostly and you waited.
And when those sixty months were up, you were there to pick him up. You were both five years older, five years more mature, and five years removed from that night you both met.
But as Tyler’s hand met your cheek and his thumb brushed over your jaw, he smiled warmly at you, seeing through the pain and grief you’d held that night. He saw through that and saw the woman you could be. He saw a woman who deserved so much more.
You kissed him, and gave him the keys to his truck.
Wow. Wow. Wow. This is already such a heavy song, but seeing it play out in this fic made it hit even harder. You captured the mix of fear and relief in the reader so well! Amazing!
