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Prove You Wrong

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john shelby x fem!reader

☾ Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, insecure reader, mentions of cheating and past rejection, rude ex-boyfriend, verbal humiliation, protective John, kissing, happy ending.

☾ Tags: @cookieann

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

The betting shop had a way of making even quiet things feel loud.

Coins against wood. Men clearing their throats. Polly’s heels crossing the floor with purpose. The scratch of pencils over slips, the low murmur of odds being changed, the door opening and shutting so often that the cold seemed to come in by habit.

You had only been working there three weeks, and already you knew where not to stand when Arthur came in angry, which drawer stuck if you pulled it too quickly, and which men tried to lean too far across the counter when Polly wasn’t looking.

You had also learned that John Shelby was trouble.

Not in the way men usually were. Not the cheap sort of trouble that came with a hand at your waist before permission or a smile that curdled when you said no. John’s trouble was brighter than that. It came in with his hat tilted back, cigarette at the corner of his mouth, eyes full of humor even before he said a word.

He was too easy to look at, and worse, too easy to like.

That was the dangerous part.

“You’ve written that same number twice,” Polly said from beside you.

You startled, pencil slipping slightly between your fingers. “Sorry?”

Polly reached over, tapped the book with one painted nail, and gave you a look sharp enough to make you straighten. “I said you’ve written the same number twice.”

“Oh.” You leaned closer, heat rising in your face as you saw the mistake. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gray. I’ll fix it.”

“It’s Polly,” she said. “And if you call me Mrs. Gray every time you make a mistake, I’ll start thinking you’re trying to make me feel old.”

From across the room, John laughed.

You did not look up. You had been trying very hard, all morning, not to look up.

It was impossible to miss him anyway. He had come in half an hour ago with Arthur, bringing cold air and cigarette smoke with him, his coat dark from the damp outside. Since then, he had made a show of pretending to help, which mostly meant leaning near the counter and distracting anyone within reach.

“You’re making her nervous, John boy,” Arthur said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“I’m standing here.”

“You’re never just standing anywhere. Always got to be doing something with your face.”

John turned, offended. “What’s wrong with my face?”

Arthur looked at you, as if inviting you to answer.

You bent over the book, carefully scratching out the mistake. You did not trust yourself to speak. If you said nothing, perhaps they would forget you were there.

They did not.

“Leave her be,” Polly said. “She does more work in an hour than either of you do in a day.”

John put a hand over his chest. “That hurt, Pol.”

“Good.”

You bit the inside of your cheek before a smile could get away from you.

John saw it anyway.

That was another thing about him. He noticed too much.

You felt his attention before you heard him move. Then he was closer, not crowding you, but close enough that the scent of smoke and soap reached you over the paper and ink.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said. “My face is well liked around here.”

You glanced up despite yourself.

He was smiling, but not the broad one he wore for everyone else. This was smaller. Almost careful. Like he had lowered his voice for you alone and hadn’t quite known why.

“I’m sure it is,” you said.

Arthur made a noise from behind him.

John pointed without turning. “Shut up.”

“I never said nothing.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking she’s got sense, that one. More than you.”

The smile escaped you then, quick and unwilling, and John looked so pleased by it that you immediately lowered your eyes again.

Polly watched all of this in silence.

She watched you tuck your pencil behind your ear with fingers that weren’t as steady as they had been before John came over. She watched John reach for a stack of slips he did not need, only to forget what he was doing because you had smiled at something Arthur said. She watched Arthur watch the two of you and roll his eyes to the ceiling as if asking God for strength.

By the end of your third week, everyone in the betting shop knew.

Everyone except you and John.

You knew that John was kind to you, but you did not let yourself build anything from kindness. You had done that before. You had taken a smile and made it into promise, taken a man’s attention and dressed it up as devotion, only to be left sitting alone outside a picture house while rain soaked through your shoes.

Once, a man had told you he loved how soft you were. Two months later, you found out he had been saying the same thing to a barmaid with brighter lipstick and easier laughter.

You had learned, slowly and painfully, that men liked sweetness until it bored them. They liked quiet girls until they wanted someone louder. They liked being adored until it asked something of them.

So when John brought you tea without asking, you told yourself he had brought tea for everyone.

When he walked you to the end of Watery Lane after dark, you told yourself Tommy must have told him to.

When he leaned over your shoulder and asked you to check his figures, even though you were fairly certain John Shelby could count money in his sleep, you told yourself he was being polite.

And when his hand brushed yours over a pile of betting slips and he went still for half a second, you told yourself you had imagined it.

John, for his part, thought you were too good to be looked at for too long.

It was ridiculous, and he knew it. He had never been shy. He had never lacked words around women, never struggled to turn a smile into something more if he wanted. But with you, he found himself saying the wrong things or nothing at all.

He liked the way you listened before you answered. He liked that you thanked men who did not deserve it, then looked secretly pleased when Polly snapped at them afterward. He liked the little frown you made when you were adding numbers, and the way you pressed your thumb against the edge of paper before turning a page.

He liked that you were gentle without being weak.

That was the thing that got him worst.

You were gentle in a house full of sharp edges, and John could not understand why that made him want to stand between you and every door that opened.

“Ask her to the pictures,” Ada said one afternoon, perched on the corner of Tommy’s desk like she owned it.

John was cleaning mud from under his fingernail with a letter opener. He did not look at her. “Ask who?”

Ada stared at him.

John kept scraping at his nail.

“Right,” she said. “Play thick. Suits you.”

Tommy, who had been reading by the window, did not lift his head. “She’s talking about Y/n.”

“I know who she’s talking about.”

“Then answer her.”

John set the letter opener down a little too hard. “Nothing to answer.”

Ada laughed. “You look at her like a starving dog outside a butcher’s.”

Arthur, standing near the door with a cigarette between his fingers, let out a bark of laughter. “That’s true, that is.”

John pointed at him. “You stay out of it.”

“Gladly. Sick of watching it.”

“There’s nothing to watch.”

At that, Tommy finally looked up.

John hated when Tommy looked at him like that. Calm. Knowing. Annoying.

“You’ve scared men for less than standing too close to her,” Tommy said.

John’s jaw tightened. “Men should know where to stand.”

Ada softened a little. “And where should you stand?”

John had no answer for that.

He looked through the glass of Tommy’s office instead, out into the shop where you were helping Polly sort the afternoon’s books. You were holding a stack of papers close to your chest, nodding as Polly spoke. A loose piece of hair had fallen near your cheek, and you kept trying to push it back with the back of your wrist because your hands were full.

John had the stupid, sudden urge to go over and do it for you.

He stayed where he was.

“She’s not for men like us,” he said.

Ada’s face changed.

Arthur stopped smiling.

Tommy said nothing, but his gaze moved from John to the window, where you had gone still just outside the office door.

You had come to bring Polly’s ledger in. The book was heavy against your ribs, your fingers curled around the spine of it so tightly that the corners dug into your hand.

John did not see you at first.

“She’s a good girl,” he went on, quieter now, rougher around the edges. “What’s she going to do with all this, eh? With me?”

The words reached you with no kindness attached to them.

She’s not for men like us.

A good girl.

What’s she going to do with me?

It should not have hurt as much as it did. You had no claim on him. No promise. No right to feel as though something had been taken from you. Still, your throat tightened so suddenly that you had to turn away before anyone saw your face change.

Polly saw.

Of course Polly saw.

You set the ledger on the nearest table instead of taking it into the office and went back to your work with your head low.

John noticed the difference within the hour.

At first, he thought you were busy. Then he thought you were tired. Then, when he asked if you wanted him to walk you home and you told him no without looking at him, he felt something drop hard in his stomach.

“No?” he repeated.

You wrapped your scarf around your neck, fingers moving quickly. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s dark.”

“I know the way.”

John glanced toward Polly, but she was watching him with an expression that offered no help at all.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

You looked at him then. It was worse than if you had kept your eyes down. There was no anger in your face, no accusation. Just a careful little distance where warmth had been that morning.

“No,” you said. “Goodnight, John.”

He stood there, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, and watched you leave.

For three days, you were polite to him.

That was how John knew he had done something truly terrible.

You answered when he spoke. You smiled when other people were looking. You passed him papers when asked and thanked him if he held the door. But you no longer lingered near his desk. You no longer made tea and left his cup closer than the others. You no longer looked at him like you were trying not to.

By the third day, Arthur had lost patience.

“She’s avoiding you,” he said.

John was leaning against the counter, watching you speak to a customer at the far end of the shop. “I noticed.”

“Good. Thought you’d gone blind as well as stupid.”

John slid him a look. “Arthur.”

“What? You have. Walking round here with a face like someone kicked your dog and all because you won’t say what you mean.”

John rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Don’t know what I mean.”

Arthur scoffed. “You want her.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is, actually. You just make things worse because you’ve got a Shelby head on you.”

Before John could answer, the door opened.

The man who walked in had a smile that made your hand freeze over the slip you were writing.

He was dressed well enough to want people to notice, collar neat, hair slicked, gloves tucked into one hand. Nothing about him looked particularly threatening, and perhaps that was why the sight of him made you feel so foolish. He was not a monster. He was just a man. Just a man who had once made you feel chosen, then left you feeling like something easy to set down.

“Y/n,” he said, smiling wider. “Well. Look at you.”

Your pencil rolled from your fingers.

John saw.

The whole shop seemed to shift around that one small sound.

“Can I help you?” you asked.

The man leaned against the counter. Too familiar. Too comfortable. “That any way to greet an old friend?”

You swallowed. “If you’re placing a bet, I can take it. Otherwise—”

“Listen to that,” he said, looking around as if he had an audience. “All proper now, are we?”

John pushed away from the counter.

Arthur caught his sleeve. Not to stop him, exactly. Just to warn him to wait.

The man’s gaze moved over the shop, taking in the Shelby men, then back to you. “Didn’t think this was your sort of place.”

“It’s work.”

“Mm. Your father know you’re working for them?”

“That’s none of your business.”

His smile thinned. There it was. The part you remembered. The quick change when you did not give him what he wanted.

“I was only asking,” he said. “No need to get upset. You always did take things too much to heart.”

You looked down at the counter.

He leaned in just a little.

“Still looking at men like they owe you something, are you? That was always your trouble.” He gave a small laugh, soft enough that it might have passed for harmless to anyone who did not hear the blade under it. “Too easy to disappoint.”

You did not move.

You felt, horribly, like every person in the room had heard him reach into you and name the thing you tried hardest to hide.

John did move then.

Arthur did not stop him.

John crossed the shop in a few quick strides and came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm nearly brushed yours, but not touching. His eyes were on the man across the counter.

“You placed your bet?” John asked.

The man blinked. “Sorry?”

“Your bet,” John said. “You come in to place one, place it. You come in for something else, walk back out.”

The man looked John up and down, doing a poor job of pretending he was not nervous. “I was having a conversation.”

“No,” John said. “You were talking at a woman who clearly finished with you long before today.”

Your breath caught.

The man’s face tightened. “This doesn’t concern you.”

John smiled then, but there was nothing easy in it. “Everything in this shop concerns me.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

The man looked at Arthur, then at the door, then back at John. Whatever he saw in John’s face helped him make his decision.

He straightened, smoothing his gloves as if leaving had been his plan all along. “Fine. No need for all this.”

John did not step back.

The man gave you one last look, meant to make you feel small.

It might have worked, if John had not shifted slightly in front of you.

The door shut behind him.

Noise returned slowly. A cough. A chair scraping. Arthur muttering something under his breath as he turned away.

You stared at the counter.

John looked at your hands first. They were curled tightly against the wood.

“You all right?” he asked.

It was the gentleness in his voice that nearly undid you.

You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words came sharper than you meant them to. John’s face changed, not with anger, but surprise.

You stepped back from the counter. “Excuse me.”

“Y/n—”

“I need air.”

You moved before he could stop you, pushing through the side door into the narrow yard behind the shop. The cold hit your face and helped a little. Not enough.

You pressed your hands to your mouth, embarrassed by the way they shook.

You had not cried when you found out he cheated. You had not cried outside the picture house, not until you got home and took off your wet shoes. You had not cried after the second man stood you up, or the third, when your friend told you perhaps you were trying too hard.

But this felt worse.

Because John had seen.

John, who you had been stupid enough to hope about. John, who thought you were not for men like him and now knew exactly the sort of woman you were. One who could be laughed at. One who could be left. One who still stood there and let a man from her past make her feel like a fool with one sentence.

The door opened behind you.

You wiped quickly beneath your eyes, turning your face away. “Please don’t.”

John stopped a few feet from you. “I won’t come closer.”

That made you feel worse somehow.

He stayed by the door, hands low, shoulders tense beneath his coat. For once, he looked unsure of himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “You didn’t say it.”

“No. But I should’ve knocked his teeth out for it.”

“You can’t knock everyone’s teeth out for me.”

“I can make a decent start.”

Despite yourself, your mouth trembled close to a smile before it disappeared.

John saw that too.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

You looked down at the wet ground. “For what?”

He was quiet for a second too long.

“For whatever I did that made you stop looking at me.”

Your chest tightened.

The yard felt too small suddenly, the walls too close, the air too cold in your lungs.

“You didn’t do anything,” you said.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He took half a step forward, then stopped himself. “You’ve barely spoken to me for three days. You think I haven’t noticed?”

“I thought that might be easier for you.”

John frowned. “Easier?”

You folded your arms around yourself. “I heard you.”

“When?”

“In Tommy’s office. You said I wasn’t for men like you.”

His face went still.

You hated that stillness. It gave you time to fill in the silence yourself, and you had never been kind in the way you filled silence.

“It’s all right,” you said, before he could speak. “You don’t have to explain it. I know what you meant.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” he said, sharper now, then immediately softened his voice. “Y/n, you don’t.”

You finally looked at him.

John dragged a hand over his face, laughing once under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “Christ. I’m bad at this.”

“At what?”

“At wanting something without ruining it.”

The words sat between you.

He looked away first, jaw working as though he was trying to force the rest out and resented needing to say it at all.

“When I said you weren’t for men like us, I didn’t mean I didn’t want you,” he said. “I meant I wanted you too much and didn’t know what the hell to do about it.”

You stared at him.

John looked back at you then, eyes steady despite the nervous movement of his fingers at his side.

“You come in here with your quiet voice and your careful hands, and you make this place feel less like it’s made out of smoke and shouting. And I know what I am. I know what people say about us. About me.” His mouth twisted. “I thought if I had any sense, I’d leave you alone before you got pulled into it.”

You breathed out slowly. “So you were protecting me?”

“Trying to.”

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

The answer came too quickly to be anything but honest.

John stepped closer, just one pace, and this time you did not move away.

“I know,” he said again. “And I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping back. But then you stopped bringing me tea and started calling me Mr. Shelby in that voice—”

“I did not.”

“You did. Awful thing. Like being stabbed with good manners.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

John’s expression changed at the sound, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

Then the feeling that had been sitting in your chest all afternoon rose again, and you looked away.

“What he said in there,” you said. “It’s true, in a way.”

John’s face hardened. “No, it isn’t.”

“You don’t know what I mean.”

“I know enough.”

You shook your head. “I do expect things. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I expect people to mean what they say. I expect them to come back when they promise they will. I expect them to choose me because I would’ve chosen them.” Your voice thinned, and you hated it. “And then when they don’t, I feel stupid for ever thinking they might.”

John was quiet.

You stared at the brick wall opposite you, at the damp darkening the edges, at anything but him.

“I know I’m not exciting,” you said. “I know I’m not the sort of woman men lose their heads over. I’m just…”

The sentence broke off because you did not know how to finish it without sounding as small as you felt.

John closed the space between you then.

Not quickly. Not in a way that trapped you. He came close enough that you had to look at him, and when you did, his face was serious in a way that made the rest of the world seem to fall back.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like some man who didn’t know what he had gets to decide what you are.”

Your eyes stung.

John lifted his hand, hesitated, then brushed his knuckles lightly against your sleeve. Asking without making you answer out loud.

You did not pull away.

“I noticed you the first day,” he said. “You had ink on your finger and you kept hiding your hands every time Polly looked at your work. I noticed you wouldn’t sit down until Finn had a chair, even though he didn’t need one. I noticed you smile when you think no one’s watching.” His voice dipped lower. “And I noticed that every time I get near you, I start acting like a lad who’s never spoken to a woman before.”

You let out a shaky breath, caught somewhere between laughter and crying.

John smiled faintly. “That is not a small thing, love.”

Love.

He said it so softly that it did not sound practiced.

You looked down at where his hand still hovered near your sleeve. “I thought you were only kind to me because you’re kind to women.”

“I’m not that kind.”

That startled another small laugh from you.

He grinned, but it faded as quickly as it came. “I mean it. I don’t walk women home because I’m worried about the stones in the road. I don’t bring tea I don’t drink just so someone will have a warm cup. I don’t spend half a morning pretending I can’t add because I like the view of a ledger.”

“You pretended you couldn’t add?”

“Badly, I thought.”

“I didn’t want to assume.”

“Assume next time.”

Your gaze lifted to his.

John’s eyes moved over your face, careful now, softer than he looked inside the shop. “Tell me to leave you alone and I will.”

You did not answer at once.

It would have been safer to tell him yes. Safer to go back inside, finish the books, go home, and let your silly hope die before it became something you could not control.

But John Shelby was standing in front of you looking like he would let you break his heart if it meant you got to choose.

No one had ever given you that before. The choosing.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you said.

The relief that crossed his face was so open it nearly hurt.

“No?”

You shook your head.

John’s hand moved from your sleeve to your fingers. He touched you gently, like he knew you had been handled carelessly before and meant to make a point of the difference. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

“I’m not good at soft things,” he said.

“You’ve been soft with me.”

“Not enough.”

“Enough for me to notice.”

He looked at your joined hands. “I’ll do it wrong sometimes.”

“I know.”

His mouth quirked. “You’re meant to say no, John, you’ll be perfect.”

“I don’t think I’d believe that.”

“Fair.”

You smiled properly then, and this time you let him see all of it.

John’s eyes dropped to your mouth and came back up again, a little less steady than before. “Can I kiss you?”

The question was so plain, so unlike the men who had taken your silence for permission, that something inside you loosened.

“Yes,” you said.

John leaned in slowly.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost cautious, his hand still holding yours between you. You had expected him to kiss like he talked, all nerve and confidence, but he kissed you like he was listening for every breath. Like he did not want to miss the moment you changed your mind, if you did.

You didn’t.

You stepped closer, your free hand catching lightly at the front of his coat, and John made a quiet sound in his throat before his other hand rose to your waist. Not pulling. Just settling there, warm and sure.

When he drew back, he did not go far.

His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath brushing your cheek.

“Still think you’re easy to disappoint?” he asked.

You looked at him, at the careful hope in his face, at the way his thumb still moved over your knuckles.

“I think I’ve been disappointed enough to expect it.”

John nodded once, as if he understood that difference and did not mean to argue it away.

“Then let me be the first man to prove you wrong.”

Your chest ached at that.

Inside the shop, someone knocked sharply against the window.

You both turned.

Arthur stood there with his hands raised in exaggerated triumph, grinning like a fool. Ada was beside him, laughing behind her cigarette. Even Tommy had appeared in the office doorway, looking faintly amused. Polly, standing closest to the glass, gave you one approving nod before turning away as though she had not been watching the whole time.

You hid your face against John’s shoulder with a groan.

John laughed, low and pleased, his arm coming around you properly now. “Told you my face was well liked around here.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

You lifted your head. “Will I?”

His smile softened.

“If you want to.”

There it was again. The choice.

You looked at the man in front of you, at the trouble in him and the gentleness he tried so hard to pretend he did not have. You thought of every old disappointment, every empty promise, every night you had walked home alone feeling foolish for hoping.

Then you thought of John standing beside you in the shop, not touching you until you let him, telling a man from your past to walk out because you were finished with him.

You squeezed his hand.

“I want to.”

John’s grin came back, bright and boyish for half a second before he leaned down and kissed you again, less careful this time but no less sweet.

Behind the glass, Arthur shouted something neither of you could hear.

John ignored him.

So did you.

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