Part V _ Bound to Ambrose
Bo Sinclair x Reader Fandom: House of Wax Words: 1.313 *Trigger Warning* possessiveness, toxic behavior tendencies (light), emotional repression
You weren’t sure when the plan settled into your chest, only that by the time the sun rose over Ambrose the next morning, the decision felt natural—inevitable.
Bo had been the most difficult to read, the most defensive, the most emotionally barricaded… and maybe that was exactly why you needed to see him alone. Without Lester hovering close. Without Vincent watching every breath you took. Just him.
You walked toward the gas station shortly after breakfast, the warm hum of the early sun brushing your shoulders. The workshop door was half-open, an arm, a leg, and the lower half of a familiar figure sticking out from under one of his cars.
You paused in the doorway.
Bo’s boots were planted firmly on the dusty concrete, oil stains blooming across the knees of his jeans. His shirt—usually crisp—was half unbuttoned, sweat and grease streaked across his arms. You heard a muttered curse, a clatter of metal, then his voice:
“Son of a—if this damn bolt would just—”
He scooted further under the chassis just as you picked up a loose wrench from the floor.
You stepped inside fully.
“Need help?”
There was a startled thump, his head hitting the underside of the car.
“Jesus—” His voice echoed. “Warn a man, would you?”
You laughed softly. “Sorry.”
The wheels of his creeper scraped as he rolled out from beneath the car. When his eyes found you, something in his expression loosened. The irritation melted. The stubborn set of his jaw eased.
“…You.”
It came out softer than he meant. He cleared his throat immediately, trying to recover.
“Didn’t expect you down here.”
“I wanted to help.”
Bo blinked. The world held still.
“…You did?”
He looked at you like you’d handed him something delicate—something he didn’t know how to hold without breaking.
You offered the wrench.
“I figured you might need this.”
He stared at it for half a second before taking it, fingers brushing yours. His touch was rough—calloused—warm. The moment stretched.
Bo looked away abruptly, trying to hide the color warming his cheeks.
“Yeah,” he muttered, “that’s… yeah. I needed that.”
But his voice was different this time. Quiet. Careful.
Like he wasn’t used to anyone offering him anything without conditions.
He went back under the car, but this time his movements were less tense. Almost relaxed.
You crouched beside him, leaning on your knees. After a moment, he spoke again—voice drifting from beneath the car.
“Most folks don’t like bein’ in here. Smells like oil. Too hot. Too dirty.”
“I like it,” you said. “It’s… very you.”
There was a sharp clang as he dropped the wrench.
He rolled out, eyebrows raised. “Very me?”
“Yeah.”
Bo stared at you like he wasn’t sure whether to smirk or melt.
“…Explain.”
“It’s practical. Messy. Honest. A little stubborn.”
His cheeks twitched—something between irritation and flustered affection.
“That supposed to be a compliment?”
“It was.”
Bo swallowed, throat bobbing visibly. His fingers tightened around the wrench before he rolled back under the car again, but his voice came out a touch raspier:
“…Well. Good.”
You reached beside him and grabbed a spare rag, wiping down a few tools scattered around. Bo watched your hand reach across the concrete, and he nearly dropped a bolt.
“You don’t need to do that,” he muttered.
“I want to.”
He froze under the car.
Not for long. But long enough.
Then he mumbled, quieter, like the words were dragging themselves out of his chest:
“…Alright. If you want to.”
Bo Sinclair, king of denial, accepting help? That alone was monumental.
You continued sorting tools, handing him whatever he asked for before he even named it. After the fifth time he hesitated:
“How’d you know I needed that?”
“Lucky guess.”
He huffed. “Uh-huh.”
The car groaned as he tightened the last bolt. When he slid out again, his hair was sticking up in every direction, grease on his cheek, sweat making his shirt cling to his chest.
You reached instinctively to wipe the smear from his face.
Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. Warm skin. Warm breath. Warm moment.
Bo froze. Completely.
His eyes locked onto yours, blue burning in the slant of sun filtering through the door.
“…Why’d you do that?” Not angry. Just stunned.
“There was grease,” you murmured.
He swallowed hard. “Could’a done it myself.”
“Maybe I wanted to do it.”
Silence.
Not cold. Not thick. Just… full.
Then Bo looked away, shaking his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“You’re somethin’ else.”
But he didn’t move away from your hand. Not until you did.
He stood, wiping his hands on his rag, shoulders rolling back. You stepped beside him and leaned against the workbench.
Bo leaned too.
Not quite touching. Close enough to feel his warmth.
“So,” you said lightly, “what’s next? Need me to hold something?”
He snorted under his breath. “Yeah. My sanity.”
You elbowed him gently, and he cracked—literally cracked—a smile. A small one. But a real one. A soft curve of his mouth you’d never seen directed at anyone else.
His voice dropped. “You really don’t mind bein’ around me?”
You blinked. “Why would I?”
Bo stared at the floor. “’Cause I ain’t easy.”
You softened. “I know.”
He looked up sharply, searching your face for mockery. There was none.
“…And you still came down here,” he murmured.
“Of course I did.”
Bo let out a breath through his nose, slow and steady.
“…Alright then.”
It sounded like surrender. Or acceptance.
Something big, anyway.
You ended up following him around as he stocked shelves, organized tools, fixed a crooked sign outside the station. Every time he reached for something heavy, you were already there. Every time you passed close, his breath hitched. Every time your hand brushed his, he went still for a fraction of a second.
Eventually he sat on the hood of the car he’d just repaired, wiping sweat from his neck. You climbed up beside him, legs dangling.
You felt the tension the second you sat— Not bad tension. Just awareness.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket but didn’t light it. Instead, he toyed with it between his fingers.
“You know,” he said slowly, eyes on the horizon, “I ain’t always good with words.”
You hummed. “I’d noticed.”
He shot you a sideways look. “Smartass.”
You smiled. “You’re good with actions, though.”
Bo froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. “…Yeah?”
“You show you care. Even when you pretend you don’t.”
He looked away, jaw tight, ears turning pink.
“Care,” he muttered, like the syllable burned. “That’s… that’s a big word.”
“Only if you’re afraid of it.”
He stared at you. Hard. Not angry—just exposed.
“…I ain’t afraid,” he whispered.
He said it like a lie he wanted to be true.
You nudged his shoulder with yours. “You don’t have to be.”
He swallowed, eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before darting away again.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice shaking just a little, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
You grinned softly. “Not planning on it.”
Bo stared at you for a long moment.
Then—carefully, hesitantly—he let his shoulder lean into yours.
Barely touching. Soft. Quiet.
But real.
A moment he never would’ve offered to anyone else.
As the sun dipped low, painting the station in gold, he finally broke the silence:
“…You can stay longer, if you want. Don’t gotta leave yet.”
He said it in a rush, almost embarrassed.
You turned to him. “Do you want me to?”
Bo’s breath hitched. He nodded.
Small. Almost imperceptible. But completely honest.
“…Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”
You smiled. “Then I’ll stay.”
Bo looked away, biting back a grin he refused to let fully show.
“Good,” he murmured. “Good.”
And for the first time, Bo Sinclair wasn’t tense. Wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t bristling or denying anything.
He was calm. Steady. Soft.
With you.
Only you.