Ooooh its Friday eve and we all need emotional damage! How about;
15: "I'm afraid you will hurt yourself even more."
Hey Shipz!!!! @igodownwithmyshipz I hope you had a lovely Christmas!!! I'm sorry it took longer than I'd liked to fill this prompt, but the words just kept coming and coming. Lol I hope it was worth the wait. 🤞
On a side note, there's a high probably a second part might be coming down the pipe at some point as well. Enjoy!!!!
There’s no dramatic decision, no argument that tips the scale. Just a feeling that keeps tightening in Ellie's chest every time she walks Jackson’s streets—too many eyes, too many memories packed too close together. The walls feel like they’re closing in. Even the air feels stale.
She lasts a few months.
Long enough for people to stop staring so openly. Long enough for Maria to stop checking in every day. Long enough for the town to settle her into a shape she doesn’t fit anymore.
The farm keeps calling to her.
Not in a hopeful way. Not like a promise of fixing anything. Just open spaces. Quiet. A horizon that doesn’t ask questions.
So one morning she loads up her sparse belongings on her horse, Pluto, without telling anyone except Maria and rides out before the sun’s fully up. The road out of Jackson feels wider than she remembers. The farther she gets, the easier it is to breathe, even if every breath still hurts a little.
The farmhouse looks the same when she arrives.
Empty. Still. The porch creaks under her weight like it remembers her. Inside, dust has settled in soft lines across the table, the windows, the floor where JJ once crawled. Ellie stands there longer than she needs to, hand braced against the doorframe, grounding herself.
She doesn’t unpack much the first day.
Just a blanket.
Just her back pack.
Out here, the nights are loud with wind and insects and the kind of silence that doesn’t judge her. The land doesn’t care what she’s done or who she’s hurt. It just exists. It asks for work—mending fences, tending to the overgrown garden beds, keeping things alive—and that’s something Ellie understands. Survival.
Some evenings she sits on the porch and watches the sky change colors, hands curled loosely around her knees. She thinks about Dina. About JJ. About the version of herself who believed she could outrun her ghosts.
She isn’t running anymore.
She’s just giving herself time to stand still.
------
Dina doesn’t hear about the move from Ellie.
She hears it from Seth, of all people, muttering over a crate of produce like it’s nothing.
"Saw Ellie loaded up and headed east, the farm's direction. I guess she moved back out there."
Dina nods like it doesn’t land. Like her chest doesn’t hollow just a little.
She isn’t angry which surprises her. Anger would’ve been easier—cleaner. Instead there’s this dull, familiar disappointment. Not because Ellie left. Dina understands that part. Jackson can feel small even when it’s kind.
It’s that Ellie didn’t tell her.
Not a note. Not a heads-up. Not a quiet, awkward conversation that would’ve hurt but meant something. Dina reminds herself—firmly—that Ellie doesn’t owe her anything anymore. That bridge collapsed the day Ellie walked away from the farm the first time.
Still. It stings.
She goes about her days the same. Patrol schedules. JJ. Meals that get eaten half-cold because she forgets she’s hungry. The thought of Ellie living out there alone slips in when she isn’t expecting it—wind on open fields, creaking floors, silence big enough to swallow a person whole.
Then one afternoon, there's murmurings from the clinic.
She hears it from a medic this time, voice low like it’s gossip they’re pretending isn’t.
"Ellie came in a little banged up this morning, messed up her leg pretty good."
Dina’s body moves before her brain catches up.
The clinic smells like antiseptic, familiar in a way she hates. She scans the cots instinctively, heart tripping when it shouldn’t. There’s an empty bed near the back, sheets rumpled, a single crutch leaning against the wall.
“Ellie?” Dina asks anyway, voice quiet.
The nurse looks up, shaking her head. “She already left, hun. Didn’t want to stay. Just said she’d manage and hobbled in outta here.”
Of course she did.
Dina exhales slowly, hand braced on the edge of the cot. She notices the details she wishes she hadn’t—the faint, small streaks of dried blood on the sheet, the way the remaining crutch has been adjusted to Ellie’s height and gait.
She isn’t mad. She’s tired. Tired of finding Ellie only in the past tense. In empty rooms. In places she’s already been and already decided to leave.
As Dina turns to go, she pauses, fingers curling once in on themselves.
For a split second, she considers saddling Japan and riding out to the farm. Saying you could’ve told me or are you okay or maybe nothing at all.
But she doesn’t.
Not yet.
But the thought follows her home, persistent like a bruise being pressed—Ellie hurt, alone, and choosing silence like it’s the only thing she still knows how to control.
---
Sleep doesn't find Dina that night, instead she lies awake, alternating between tossing and turning and starring at the ceiling. She's relieved Robin asked to take JJ for the weekend since the one thing she hates is being distracted around her son.
Their son, her mind corrects itself.
With a huff of frustration, she throws the covers off and starts pulling together her pack and a set of warm clothes.
Dina rides out at first light.
The world is still blue and soft around the edges when she leaves Jackson’s gates. Japan’s hooves move steadily beneath her, familiar and patient, like he knows this isn’t a patrol and there's no rush. Dina barely notices the cold. Her thoughts are louder than the wind.
When the farmhouse comes into view under the late morning sun, she slows, but doesn’t go in right away.
Instead, she stops just outside the gate, sitting tall in the saddle while the place settles into view. The fence lines. The tree with their initials carved into the bark. The barn. The porch that once held laughter and bare feet and mornings that felt like they might last forever. It all rushes in at once—what was, sharp and vivid, and what could’ve been, heavier somehow. A version of life that almost fit. A version of Ellie that stayed.
Her chest tightens.
She remembers Ellie on that porch with JJ balanced on her hip, squinting into the sun like she didn’t quite trust it. Remembers arguments that ended in apologies, nights that peaked breathless and panting tangled together, the quiet belief that maybe—just maybe—they’d made it out.
Dina swallows and nudges Japan forward.
Ellie’s horse, Pluto, is tied to the hitching post by the porch, grazing on the tall grass nearby.
That shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. It makes everything real in a way rumors and empty clinic cots didn’t. Ellie isn’t a story here. She’s present. Close. Breathing.
Dina dismounts and ties Japan beside Pluto, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary on the knotted reins. The porch creaks under her boots, the sound loud in the quiet morning. She pauses at the door, hand hovering, heart doing that annoying thing where it forgets how to beat normally.
Then she goes inside.
The house smells like old wood and something distinctly Ellie. It’s bright, curtains open allowing the morning sunlight to cut across the floor. Dina takes it in slowly—the sparse set-up, the chair pulled close to the table, the sense that Ellie is living here the way she lives everywhere else lately: halfway.
The dining room isn’t a dining room anymore, the space converted into a makeshift living room setup that feels…very Ellie. The futon couch from her old garage in Jackson is shoved against the wall, its cushions permanently sunken in the middle. A chopped-down coffee table sits in front of it, scarred and uneven, stacked with dog-eared comics and a half-empty mug that’s gone cold. It’s lived-in in a way that’s quiet and unshowy, like Ellie didn’t mean for anyone to notice the effort it took.
Dina’s chest tightens.
She rests her hand on the back of the couch for a moment, grounding herself. This wasn’t thrown together in a night. Ellie’s been here long enough to make it functional. Comfortable even. That thought lands heavier than Dina expects.
“Ellie?” Dina calls, voice low and listening for movement. There is none.
Her eyes drift to the small signs she knows too well. A jacket slung over the back of a chair. A pair of boots kicked off unevenly beside the door. A tension in the room that feels like someone bracing for pain.
She steps farther in, every instinct tuned sharp.
Whatever she’s come here to say—you didn’t tell me, are you hurt, why do you keep doing this alone—it all waits, suspended, as Dina moves deeper into the farmhouse, searching for the person who still knows how to undo her without even trying.
She turns toward the old living room.
She doesn’t mean to look. Tells herself she’s just checking for Ellie, that calling out again might feel too intrusive. But the doorway is open, and habit—years of shared space, shared lives—pulls her forward before she can stop herself.
The room stops her cold.
It’s now Ellie's bedroom.
A small, thin mattress is pushed into the corner, laid atop a row of hay bails in lieu of a frame, blankets tangled like they’ve been kicked off more than once. Ellie’s pack rests against the wall within arm’s reach of the bed, her journal sitting on top as if arranged by muscle memory.
Dina exhales slowly through her nose.
Of course Ellie took the smaller room. Of course she didn’t want the bigger space, the windows that looked out over the fields they once planned to grow old in. This room is inward. Protective. Temporary in the way Ellie insists she is.
Her eyes snag on the details she knows too well—a flannel shirt tossed at the foot of the bed, a small row of worn, canvus sneakers lined up just so, the faint imprint on the pillow where Ellie’s head would rest, the chips in the night stand's surface from her knife.
It was proof of presence. Proof of solitude.
Dina feels that familiar ache bloom in her chest, sharp and unwelcome.
“You really don’t make this easy,” she murmurs, barely louder than the wind outside.
The question hits Dina all at once—sharp, undeniable.
Why isn’t Ellie sleeping upstairs?
She stops at the foot of the staircase.
The banister is dull beneath her fingers, coated in a thick layer of dust that hasn’t been disturbed in a long, long time. Same with the steps. No scuffs, no tracks in the dust. Nothing to suggest anyone’s been up here since—
Dina swallows and starts to climb.
The third step squeaks.
It does it just like she remembers, a soft, traitorous sound that used to make Ellie laugh and tell her she's going to wake JJ. Dina pauses there for half a second, heart stuttering as she bounces lightly making the step squeak again and again, then keeps going.
At the top, the hallway feels closed-in, air stale and unmoving. Both bedroom doors are shut. Dina’s gaze flicks to the smaller one first, then settles on the master.
She stands there longer than she means to. Her hand wraps around the knob. She draws in a slow breath—steady, careful—then pushes the door open.
The air inside is thick, stale, and musty, untouched. Dust motes drift lazily through the shaft of morning light as Dina steps just inside. Her eyes go straight to the bed—their bed.
It looks exactly the same; as if no one has sat or lain there since the day Dina packed up and left for Jackson. The uncased pillow is still at the foot of the mattress beside the neatly folded sheets and blankets where she left them.
In case Ellie came back.
Dina’s chest tightens so suddenly it almost steals her breath.
Ellie’s been living in this house and hasn’t touched this room. Hasn’t climbed these stairs. Hasn’t allowed herself even the comfort of this space they once shared. Dina presses her lips together, the realization settling heavy and quiet.
This isn’t avoidance.
It’s penance.
She reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing the edge of the mattress, disturbing the dust at last. The room exhales around her, still and aching, holding the shape of a life that almost survived.
Thoughts swirling, Dina backs out of the room and crosses the hall to Ellie’s old studio. The door sticks for a second before giving way, hinges groaning softly in protest. The room beyond is brighter than the bedroom, a thin band of morning light spilling in through the open window. A gentle breeze moves through the space, lifting the dust, stirring the air like the house is breathing again after too long asleep.
The room hasn't changed much since Dina saw it last. Ellie's sketches and posters are still tacked to the wall, her belongings from what feel like another lifetime are still packed neatly on the desk and floor.
Dina steps inside, her eyes adjusting—and then she sees it.
The guitar.
It’s propped against the rotting window sill, angled carefully, like it was placed with purpose instead of being discarded. Joel’s guitar. The one that once filled the house with crooked chords and half-sung songs. Now the body is warped beyond repair, the wood split and bowed. Several strings have snapped completely, others curled tight around the headstock from the strain, metallic and useless.
Ruined.
Dina’s breath catches, sharp and painful.
She crosses the room slowly, each step heavier than the last, until she’s crouching in front of it. She doesn’t touch it. She doesn’t think she could without breaking something else. The breeze hums faintly through the open window, brushing past the instrument like it’s trying to coax a sound from it that will never come.
Tears slip down Dina’s cheeks before she realizes she’s crying. She swipes at her face once, then again, but it doesn’t stop. Her shoulders rise and fall with a breath that stutters. This—this feels like proof of something she’s been afraid to name. Not just that Ellie is hurting, but how deeply. How quietly. How completely.
Ellie didn’t just leave this room behind. She left the part of herself that still believed in music. In its ability to put into words what you couldn't. In its powerful connection to Joel.
Dina presses her fingers to her mouth, eyes blurring as she takes in the way the light falls across something that used to be whole and cherished.
It takes some time, but once composed, Dina goes back downstairs. She checks the gardens first—rows neat but sparse, soil turned recently. Then the barn. Empty stalls, dust and hay and the faint smell of animals that had once lived there lingers. Ellie’s nowhere to be found. The quiet presses in again, thick and waiting.
So Dina sits. She sinks onto the old couch, elbows on her knees, hands laced together like she’s afraid if she doesn’t hold herself in place she might unravel. Time stretches thin. The day crawls by inch by inch, sunlight sliding across the floor, climbing the walls, then slowly retreating as afternoon gives way to evening.
Dina doesn’t move.
She just waits.
When the sun starts its descent toward dusk, a sound finally comes—the telltale clatter of the west gate latching. Metal on metal. Familiar. Real. Dina’s head lifts instantly.
A few minutes pass then another sound: heavy, dragging footsteps, uneven, followed by the gentle bang of the rear screen door closing. Dina rises from the couch, heart pounding, and calls out before Ellie can round the corner.
“Ellie,” she says, keeping her voice low and steady. “It’s me.”
The footsteps hesitate in the kitchen.
Then Ellie limps into view.
Her bow is slung diagonally across her body. A pair of rabbits hang from a length of twine in one hand, their weight pulling her shoulder down. A crutch is tucked under her other arm, the rubber end worn and muddy. Her movements are stiff, careful—every step measured like it costs her something.
She looks tired, but healthy.
Ellie blinks once. Then again.
Her brow furrows slightly, mouth parting like she’s about to speak but can’t find the words. For a heartbeat, she just stares—eyes flitting over Dina like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage.
“…Dina?” Ellie finally says, voice quiet and disbelieving. Like saying it out loud might make her disappear. She shifts her weight and winces, grip tightening on the twine.
She stands in the doorway between kitchen and living room, caught halfway between shock and exhaustion, like the world has just handed her something she never expected and doesn’t know how to hold.
“I, uh—” Dina clears her throat, the words carefully measured, like she’s walking across thin ice. “I heard you were seen at the clinic. I just…wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re okay.”
"You mean spy on me," Ellie joked lightly.
With an exaggerated eye roll, Dina tilted her head in her patented way. "I'm afraid you'll hurt yourself even more, out here alone."
Ellie huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Its nothing, really, I’m fine. Just fucked up my knee.”
Dina’s brows knit. “How?”
Ellie hesitates. Her grip tightens on the twine, knuckles whitening.
“Throwing some hay bales down from the loft in the barn,” she says after a beat. “Apparently the floor’s rotten in spots.”
The words land a second too late.
“You fell?” Dina blurts, the worry breaking through before she can temper it.
Ellie doesn’t answer. Her gaze drops to the hardwood floor, suddenly intent on the grain, the scuffs, anything but Dina’s face. Her shoulders hunch just slightly, the silence stretching, loud with everything she isn’t saying.
Before Dina fully realizes she’s moved, she’s already crossed the room.
Her hands come up gently, instinctively, cupping Ellie’s face like she’s done a hundred times before—thumbs warm against cool skin, palms steady. Dina searches her face, worry etched deep, eyes flicking over the split lip that never quite healed right, the tired shadows under her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Dina asks softly.
Ellie goes completely still. Ramrod straight, like the contact has short-circuited her brain. For a moment Dina thinks she’s made a mistake—crossed a line that no longer belongs to her.
Then Ellie exhales.
Just a fraction. Barely there. And she leans into Dina’s touch, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders for a brief, fragile second—like her body remembers something her mind won’t let her have; like muscle memory has taken over before pride can intervene.
Dina notices.
Ellie notices that Dina notices.
Dina’s eyes search Ellie's, the concern doesn’t leave—it sharpens.
“At the clinic… there was blood on the sheets," Dina says quietly.
Ellie hesitates, jaw tightening for just a beat. “It’s nothing—” She exhales. “I scraped up my arm and my back.”
Before Dina can say anything else, Ellie hooks her thumb under the hem of her shirt and lifts it, just enough.
The sight steals Dina’s breath.
Bruising blooms dark and ugly along Ellie’s ribs, varying shades of purple bleeding into each other. Scrapes rake across her skin, angry and raw, disappearing around her side and onto her back where the fall must’ve twisted her hard. It looks painful in a way Ellie didn’t bother to name.
“Oh shit…” Dina murmurs, before she can stop herself, her hands rise, gentle as breath, fingertips barely grazing the damaged skin. Ellie stiffens immediately—every muscle locking, breath hitching like she’s braced for something.
“I’m sorry,” Dina says at once, hands freezing in place. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Ellie shakes her head, small but sure. She lifts her gaze and catches Dina’s, green locked with brown, steady and intent.
“You didn’t,” Ellie says quietly. “Not even a little.”
The words land between them, soft but firm. Dina’s hands remain where they are for a second longer—not pressing, not moving—just there. Ellie’s breathing slows. The tension eases, just enough.
For a moment, neither of them pulls away.
Then Ellie lets the hem of her shirt fall back into place and steps back slowly, carefully, disguised as shifting her weight to favor her other leg. Dina lets her hands fall, fingers curling slightly at her sides, heart thudding too hard in her chest.
“I’ll be okay,” Ellie says quietly. She adjusts the crutch under her arm and lifts the rabbits slightly, like proof of function. Proof of survival. “Didn’t break anything. Just…need to be careful for a bit.”
The words are meant to reassure and silence settles between them for a beat. Not awkward—just heavy. Like a held breath neither of them is ready to release.
Dina watches her, worry still etched into her features, but there’s something else there too. Relief. Care. The quiet, unmistakable truth that even after everything, her touch still matters.
Ellie felt it. They both did.
Dina lifts one brow, voice dry but threaded with concern. “So you spent the day hunting instead of, oh I don’t know, resting after skydiving off the barn?”
Ellie shrugs with a faint smile. She pivots toward the sink, easing the rabbits down with care that contradicts her tone. “I gotta eat.”
She turns back to face Dina and thumbs over her shoulder toward the kitchen.
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Between the hares and the veggies from the garden, I’ll have plenty of stew.”
A beat.
“If you want to stay for dinner.”
The words hang there—casual on the surface like the offer isn't a big deal and loaded underneath. Not please. Not I want you to. Just an open door, left deliberately unguarded.
Ellie waits, weight carefully off her injured leg, eyes fixed on Dina like she’s bracing for either answer.
“Sure,” Dina says, already moving toward the counter, tone calm but immovable. “But I’m helping so you can rest.”
There’s no edge to it. No challenge. Just finality.
Ellie opens her mouth like she might argue—habit more than intent—then thinks better of it. She nods once, resolute, and limps into the kitchen, resting has never been a strength of hers, but she's so goddamn tired and sore. She sets herself up at the sink to start butchering the rabbits, movements economical, practiced.
Dina steps in beside her, tugging the elastic hair tie from her wrist and pulling her long curls up into a bun—quick, efficient, beautiful in a way that still drives Ellie insane.
Ellie’s eyes flicker up despite herself, catching on Dina's tan slender neck and her mouth waters involuntarily, recalling the feel of the tender skin beneath her lips and the gentle moans they could elect. She shakes her head and forces her eyes back down to her work like she’s been caught doing something dangerous.
Dina grabs a knife and starts chopping vegetables, the steady thock thock thock of the blade filling the space between them.
They fall into a rhythm without meaning to.
Ellie rinses, trims, sets aside. Dina chops, slides, reaches for the bowl without looking. They pass things back and forth with murmured here and thanks, shoulders brushing, timing so in sync it’s muscle memory rather than thought.
It feels like before. The realization lands softly, almost reverently.
Gradually, Ellie’s shoulders ease. Dina’s breathing evens out. The house seems to exhale with them, kitchen filling with the comforting aroma of simmering onions and herbs, the low hum of something steady and known.
For a while, neither of them speak.
They don’t need to.
The rhythm carries them—familiar, practiced, and achingly gentle—a reminder that even after everything, some things between them were never really lost.
When the stew’s finally ready, they carry their bowls into the living room.
Dina takes the couch, settling back against the worn cushions. Ellie lowers herself into the chair across from her with a careful hiss, stretching her injured leg out straight in front of her like the clinic probably instructed her to. Steam curls up from their bowls, filling the room with the smell of something hearty and grounding.
For a few minutes, there’s only the sound of spoons against ceramic before Dina breaks it first.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she says, swallowing a bite before dipping back in. Her tone is sincere. “It’s a nice, cozy home.”
Ellie shrugs, eyes on her bowl.
“It’s just a house,” Ellie replies simply. “Something to keep me dry and warm.”
Dina’s brows knit together. “I don’t understand—”
“It’s okay,” Ellie cuts in, not unkindly, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth like she doesn’t want to linger there. “I don’t expect you to.”
Dina goes quiet.
She watches Ellie over the rim of her bowl—the loose way she’s holding herself, the absence of that sharp, coiled tension Dina’s grown used to seeing in Jackson. Out here, Ellie seems… steadier. Quieter. Like the edges have dulled just enough for her to breathe.
It unsettles Dina more than the anger ever did. Because this version of Ellie feels real. And maybe worse—she wonders if it’s a version that doesn’t need Jackson at all.
They don’t talk much after that. They eat in comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. By the time their bowls are empty, the last of the sunlight has slipped away, leaving the room washed in blue-gray shadows. Dina gathers the dishes despite Ellie’s half-hearted protests and disappears into the kitchen.
When she comes back, Ellie is coming in the front door to crouch by the hearth, coaxing a fire to life as the chill creeps in. Flames catch and throw warm light across the room just as thunder rumbles low and distant.
“Shit,” Dina mutters, glancing toward the window. Clouds are rolling in fast, dark and heavy against the dimming horizon. She slips her jacket on, already resigned. “I’m going to be drenched by the time I get back to Jackson.”
Ellie straightens slowly, the firelight dancing across her face, sharpening and softening her all at once.
“You can stay,” Ellie offers casually like it’s no big deal. “Head back in the morning.” She hesitates, eyes dropping, then lets out a quiet, sad chuckle as she points down the hall. “Bed’s…not upstairs anymore. It’s in the living room now.”
Dina turns from the window to look at her. There’s hesitation in her dark eyes—not at the idea of staying, but at the thought of displacing Ellie, of taking space Ellie has already shrunk herself into. She shakes her head gently.
“That’s really sweet, but I can take the couch. You need the rest more than I do—” Dina gestures toward the crutch, “—especially with your leg.”
Ellie’s jaw sets immediately. She shakes her head, stubborn as ever, and Dina recognizes it for what it is a wall she’s not going to climb tonight.
“Okay,” Dina says softly, letting it go.
The air between them thickens—warm from the fire, charged with familiarity and something neither of them is brave enough to name yet.
Dina thumbs over her shoulder toward the front door. “I should put Japan in the barn. Keep him out of the rain.”
Ellie snorts, turning toward the kitchen.
“Already done,” she calls back over her shoulder.
Dina freezes.
She watches Ellie disappear down the short hallway, understanding clicking into place—Ellie slipping out earlier while Dina washed dishes, taking care of it without a word, without asking. Of course she did.
Dina exhales, something in her chest loosening.
She slips her jacket off and drapes it back over the arm of the couch, the thunder rolling closer outside as the farmhouse settles around them, warm and alive again—for tonight, at least.
From the living room, Dina can hear Ellie moving around in the kitchen—cupboards opening, bottles shifting, the soft clink of glass against glass. A flash of lightning splits the sky, brilliant enough to momentarily flood the farmhouse with white light, thunder cracking close on its heels.
Ellie reappears a moment later with two mismatched glasses, each filled with three fingers of whiskey. She offers one without ceremony.
Dina takes it, fingers brushing Ellie’s for just a second too long, sending an electric current up her arm. She lifts the glass and takes a sip, eyes never leaving Ellie’s as she drinks, the familiar burn rolling warm through her chest. Green eyes meet hers steadily, unreadable and entirely too close to home.
Ellie jerks her chin toward the screen door.
“Feel like watching the storm roll in over the plains?” she asks quietly. “Always was your favorite.”
Dina’s gaze flicks to the door, then back to Ellie. A slow smirk curves her lips before she turns and heads outside, settling into one of the rocking chairs on the porch. She breathes in deep.
The air smells like rain and earth and electricity. Lightning flickers low on the horizon, illuminating the fields in brief, ghostly flashes. Dina remembers nights just like this—after JJ was finally asleep, the house quiet except for the storm. Ellie’s arms around her from behind, solid and warm, Dina leaning back into her chest like it was the safest place in the world.
It was. And God, she misses it.
The screen door bangs open behind her, pulling her sharply from the memory.
Ellie steps out, glass in one hand, the whiskey bottle tucked into her belt, the blanket from the couch slung over her shoulder. The rain hasn’t started yet, but the wind is picking up, tugging at her hair, at the hem of her shirt.
“Shit,” Dina says, starting to stand. “I’m sorry, I should’ve taken your glass—”
Ellie waves her off with a huff. “Nah, its ok.” She limps over, setting the bottle down on the old tree stump they’d decided to use as a table last year. “Pretty sure I was a pack mule in another life.”
She steps closer and drapes the blanket around Dina’s shoulders, tucking it in like it’s instinct. Dina looks up at her, fondness softening her features.
Ellie shrugs. “You always get cold when the wind kicks up.”
Thunder rolls again, closer this time, and Dina pulls the blanket tighter around herself—not just against the chill, but against the quiet, aching truth settling in her chest.
Some habits never really die.
They just wait.
------
The storm reaches them all at once—rain crashing down in great, thundering sheets, lightning forking across the sky so bright it turns the plains silver for a heartbeat at a time. They sit side by side, shoulders nearly touching, whiskey warming their chests as the porch fills with the steady roar of it all. The wind tugs at the blanket but doesn’t chase them inside. Not yet.
Ellie lets out a quiet chuckle, eyes tracking the horizon as another flash blooms. “You remember the first storm after we moved out here?”
Dina doesn’t even hesitate. She throws her head back with a full-body laugh and smacks Ellie’s arm playfully. “You’re still a dick for scaring the shit outta me!”
Ellie laughs too, lifting a hand in half-hearted defense when Dina threatens another hit. “How was I supposed to know you'd lean forward with your nose practically pressed to the window?”
“Oh please,” Dina shoots back, trying—and failing—to glare at her. “You went outside in the pitch black, storming weather and then called my name, you ass. You waited until I was right up against the screen before you jumped up and yelled boo.”
Ellie’s laugh breaks free, bright and unguarded. “Okay, okay—”
“You’re lucky you didn’t scare me into labor right then and there,” Dina adds, dissolving into laughter again.
Ellie wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, shaking her head. “Jesus. Fair.”
The rain pounds harder, thunder rolling low and deep overhead.
“We did have some good times out here,” Ellie says quietly once her laughter fades.
Dina nods, the smile lingering as they lift their glasses and sip in unison. The moment stretches—soft, nostalgic, fragile.
Dina is quiet for a moment, then shifts slightly in her chair. “Can I ask you something?”
Ellie snorts softly, lifting her glass. “Like I’ve ever been able to stop you before.” She takes a sip, eyes glinting with a familiar, crooked smirk.
Dina smiles despite herself.
“Why’d you move back out here?” she asks. Not accusing, just wanting to understand.
Ellie’s smirk fades. She rolls the glass slowly between her palms, watching the amber liquid catch the light seeping through the livingroom window. For a few seconds she doesn’t answer, eyes drifting back out toward the fields.
“Jackson felt like a tomb,” Ellie says finally.
Dina’s breath stills, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“Everywhere I went, there were ghosts,” she continues quietly. “People I've lost. Things I did. Things I didn’t.” Her jaw tightens. “Even the good memories feel…heavy there. Like they’re stacked on top of each other and I’m buried under them.”
Thunder rolls, low and distant.
“The walls started feeling like they were closing in,” Ellie adds. “I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I’d wake up and feel like I was trapped.”
She shrugs, small and tired. “Out here, at least the sky’s big enough to remind me I’m still alive.”
Dina nods slowly, eyes never leaving Ellie’s profile.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I get that.”
And she does.
“At least your neighbors are much more respectful out here,” Dina says lightly, the corner of her mouth tipping up.
Ellie huffs a laugh and nods. “I don't know. There’s a couple raccoons nearby that are real assholes. They're on my shitlist.”
Dina chuckles, shaking her head. “Yeah, but at least they don’t gossip nonstop. I swear, word travels faster now than it did when people had those mobile phone…things.” She makes a vague circling gesture with her hand, like she’s trying to summon the memory out of thin air.
Ellie snorts. “Yeah, I definitely don’t miss the gossip train.” Her expression shifts, just a touch, not bitter—just rueful. “Lord knows my return gave them plenty to talk about for a few months.”
Dina glances at her, careful.
“People talk,” she says quietly. “They always will.”
“Yeah,” Ellie replies, staring out at the rain-soaked fields. “Doesn’t mean I have to stick around and listen it.”
The thunder rolls again, softer this time, and Dina bumps her knee lightly against Ellie’s in silent agreement. The storm keeps coming, the plains stretching wide and dark beyond them—no whispers, no prying eyes. Just rain, wind, and the small, shared comfort of being understood.
Then Dina speaks again, voice gentler now. "Can I ask you something else?"
Ellie nods, not bothering with wit.
“Why are you sleeping in the living room?”
Ellie’s eyes widen just a fraction as thunder cracks above them. She takes a beat before answering. “It’s easier with my leg right now.”
Dina doesn’t look at her. She watches the rain instead, the rhythmic drops pattering against the overhang and spilling into the flower beds beyond the railing. She exhales slowly, steadying herself.
“When I got here, I looked for you...I went upstairs,” Dina says at last.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ellie stiffen.
“I know you don’t go up there, El,” Dina continues softly. “Even when your knee isn’t messed up.” She finally turns her head, meeting Ellie’s gaze. “I know you haven't slept in our bed...and I think I know why, but...”
The surging storm around them fills the space when Ellie doesn’t immediately answer. She stares out into the darkness, jaw tight, fingers curled around her glass like it might anchor her. After a long moment, she swallows.
“Because it feels like yours,” Ellie says quietly, truthfully. “And I don’t…I don’t feel like I deserve to be there.”
The words settle heavy between them, carried on the roar of the raindrops, honest and raw and said without looking—like that makes them easier to survive.
Dina turns toward her fully, voice soft but certain. “Ellie, this house is yours. You deserve to be comfortable in your home.”
Ellie’s gaze drops to her own hands. She picks absently at her fingers, skin rough, nails bitten short.
“It’s not though…it’s not my home,” Ellie starts, the words catching in her throat. She stops, jaw tightening.
Dina doesn’t rush her, she just waits.
Ellie draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, like she’s bracing herself for something painful.
“It’s not my home because you’re not here,” Ellie blurts, the words tumbling out before she can stop them. “And I know that’s not fair to say. I know it’s my fault, that I’m the reason we’re not—” Her voice breaks. “I left.”
She inhales again, sharper this time, eyes clamping shut. She wants to look at Dina, wants to see her, but she can’t. Can’t face the hurt she knows lives there—the hurt she caused.
“But I don’t want to lie to you anymore, Dina,” Ellie says quietly. She finally forces her eyes open and finally looks at her. "I won't..."
Dina’s gaze has fallen to her lap, eyes shining and dangerously close to spilling over.
“You’re my home,” Ellie says, simple and devastating all at once.
The words hang between them, fragile, but honest.
Dina’s breath catches. Not sharply—just enough to hurt.
“And I know I don't have the right to say that,” Ellie adds quickly, quietly. "I just, I promised myself I wouldn’t lie to you, not anymore. And I intend to keep it.”
Ellie’s words hang between them, heavier than the thunder rolling overhead, heavier than the rain beating down around the porch. You’re my home. It’s not said to convince. It’s not said to fix anything. It’s said like a confession Ellie’s been carrying alone for far too long.
For a long moment, Dina doesn’t speak.
She stares down at her hands, knuckles pale. Rain splashes against the railing, wind tugging at the blanket around her shoulders. Her throat tightens, emotions stacking up so fast she can’t sort through them—relief, grief, love, resentment, longing—all tangled together.
Dina’s thumb shifts against her glass, slow and thoughtful.
“You know,” Dina says quietly, eyes still forward, “what one of my favorite memories is from our time out here?”
Ellie’s breath catches just a little, but she doesn’t look at her. She lets Dina talk.
“I was so pregnant,” Dina continues with a faint, almost-smile. “Like…unreasonably whale-sized pregnant. Everything hurt. I cried if you left the room too long.” She chuckles softly. “God, I was so clingy.”
Ellie huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Dina smiles at that, then her voice softens. “You didn’t complain, though. One night you just—” She gestures vaguely with her free hand. “You dragged a bunch of the couch cushions out here, onto the porch like you had some grand plan. Sat down and pulled me in between your legs.”
The memory sharpens as Dina speaks it aloud.
“I leaned back against your chest,” Dina says, her voice growing steadier, more intimate. “And you wrapped that stupid blanket around us like you were afraid the wind might steal me away.” She swallows. “You held me there. Hands on my stomach. Chin on my shoulder, like that was exactly where I belonged.”
The rain picks up, louder now, but Dina barely seems to notice.
“I felt so safe,” she continues. “So…loved. Like nothing bad could touch me as long as you were behind me.” Her fingers tighten briefly around her glass. “I didn’t have to be strong. I didn’t have to worry. I could just..be.”
Ellie’s jaw tightens. She stares out into the yard, eyes bright, throat working.
“I miss that,” Dina admits quietly. “That sense of security...being held like that...knowing you had me no matter what. Like I could finally stop bracing for the worst.”
She finally turns her head, just enough to glance at Ellie’s profile lit by distant lightning.
“And I know,” Dina adds, voice trembling but honest, “I’ll never find that again.”
Ellie’s breath hitches, eyes closing.
Dina exhales, slow and deliberate, like she’s steadying herself before stepping off a ledge.
“But the truth is, I don’t want to find it with anyone else,” she says. “I don’t want it if it isn’t you.”
That does it.
Ellie turns to her then, really looks at her. Guarded hope flickers in her green eyes—careful, afraid to flare too bright, like she’s learned what happens when hope gets reckless. The rain drums on, thunder rolling low, but the world feels quieter somehow.
“Dina…” Ellie starts, then stops, afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Dina swallows hard.
“I spent a long time,” Dina says slowly, “trying to make peace with the idea that I wasn’t enough. That JJ wasn’t enough. That we weren’t enough to keep you here.” Her voice wobbles despite her best effort. “So hearing that I’m your home after all of that—it still hurts, Ellie.”
Ellie nods, eyes shining now, jaw clenched tight. “I know...”
Dina finally looks at her.
Rain-slicked light flickers across Ellie’s face—open, raw, terrified in a way Dina hasn’t seen in a long time. Not guarded. Not angry. Just honest.
“But,” Dina continues softly, “that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it too.”
Ellie’s breath stutters.
Dina shifts slightly on the chair, turning more fully toward her. She doesn’t reach out—not yet—but her voice is gentler now, steadier. “Home isn’t just a place, Ellie. It’s trust. It’s safety. It’s knowing someone will stay even when things get unbearable.”
Ellie nods again, tears finally slipping free.
“I know. And I don’t expect you to give that back to me. Not now, maybe not ever.” Ellie scrubs at her face with the heel of her hand, frustrated. “I just need you to hear what I'm about to say, loud and clear," she says, voice low and steady in a way that costs her something. “And I need you to believe me because I've never meant anything more in my life...”
Dina looks at her fully now. Attention completely focused auburn hair and green eyes.
“Me leaving had nothing to do with you not being enough,” Ellie continues. “You were—” Her voice catches, and she swallows hard. “You were always everything to me...you still are.”
Dina’s breath stutters, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“I just… I didn’t feel safe around you anymore,” Ellie admits quietly. “Not because of you, but because of me.” She shakes her head, frustrated. “The panic attacks were getting worse. I could feel them coming on and I couldn’t stop them, and every time they hit, I’d see it in your face. How tired you were. How scared.”
Ellie’s eyes gloss over, fixed on some memory Dina wishes she could erase.
“And JJ,” Ellie says, voice breaking. “That day in the barn…the way he looked at me.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I terrified him, Dina. I could see it. And I knew in that moment that if I stayed, I was gonna keep hurting the two people I loved most without meaning to.”
The rain fills the silence she leaves behind.
“I thought the best thing I could do was remove myself,” Ellie continues. “Give you both peace. I just…didn’t know where to go. Didn’t have a plan. Just knew I couldn’t keep falling apart in front of you.”
She laughs softly, humorless and bitter. “Then Tommy shows up with that fucking map and a guilt trip and suddenly running felt like it had a direction.”
Ellie finally looks at Dina, eyes red but unwavering.
"I thought about you every day,” she says. “Every single one. I never stopped loving you, not for a second.” Her voice drops to something raw and bare. “I just didn’t think I deserved you anymore.”
Dina’s eyes shine, tears finally slipping free. She shakes her head slowly, the weight of Ellie’s confession settling into something heavy and fragile all at once.
Ellie watches her, terrified and hopeful in equal measure, like she’s laid her heart out on the table and doesn’t know if it’ll be taken or shattered into a million pieces.
“I, ah...I needed you to know that,” Ellie finishes quietly.
The storm rages on, thunder cracking so close it rattles the porch boards.
Dina closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again, resolve settling in her chest alongside the ache. She doesn’t speak right away. She stares out at the darkness, jaw tight, like if she looks at Ellie too soon she might shatter—or worse, say something she can’t take back.
When she finally does turn, her eyes are wet but steady.
“Do you have any idea,” Dina says quietly, “how many nights I replayed all of that in my head?”
Ellie’s breath catches.
“I saw the panic, Ellie. I saw how hard you were trying.” Dina exhales shakily. “But you didn’t give me a choice. You decided what was best for us without trusting me to stand with you.”
Ellie nods, shame written all over her face. “I know.”
Dina softens at that, just a little.
“And yeah,” Dina says, voice breaking, “JJ was scared that day. But he was scared because you were hurting, not because you’re dangerous. Not because you don’t belong with us.”
The word "us" hangs between them, fragile and terrifying.
Dina reaches out with her free hand, hesitates, then gently rests it over Ellie’s knuckles.
“I won’t pretend that what you did didn’t break me,” she admits. “It did. You broke my heart, El. You broke our life. And I don’t know if I’ll ever fully forgive you for that.”
Ellie flinches—but Dina isn’t done.
“But hearing you say this?” Dina continues softly. “Knowing you didn’t leave because you stopped loving us… that matters more than I can explain.”
Dina's gaze meets Ellie’s, unwavering now and she squeezes her hand, just once.
“And for what it’s worth,” Dina adds, voice gentle but firm, “you don’t get to decide you’re unlovable or unworthy of coming home. Not on your own.”
Thunder rolls overhead as if to punctuate Dina's point.
Dina exhales, leaning back in her chair, exhaustion and relief tangled together.
"I can't promise anything, El. I can't promise forgiveness, I can't promise a future," Dina says quiety. "But I'm willing to try because despite everything, I still love you."
Ellie lets out a breath she’s been holding for what feels like years. She doesn’t trust her voice for fear she might shatter this fragile thing Dina just placed between them. So instead, she sets her glass down on the stump and pushes herself to her feet, weight unsteady on her good leg.
Dina is up instantly, like she’s been waiting for this moment.
There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. Dina wraps her arms around Ellie, pressing her face into Ellie’s shoulder as if she’s afraid Ellie might vanish again if she doesn’t hold on tight enough.
Ellie freezes for half a heartbeat. Then instinct takes over.
Her arms come up slowly, reverently, like she’s handling something sacred. She holds Dina against her chest, one hand splaying wide between her shoulder blades, the other curling into the back of her shirt. She holds her carefully at first—afraid of hurting her, afraid of taking too much—before the restraint cracks and she pulls her closer, breathing her in.
Dina smells like vanilla and whiskey and something achingly familiar.
Like home.
The storm fades to background noise. The thunder, the wind, the world beyond the porch all dissolve as they stand wrapped around each other, clinging like survivors to driftwood.
Dina’s body trembles. Not with fear, but relief. The kind that comes after holding yourself together for too long. Her fingers curl into Ellie’s shirt, grounding herself.
Ellie feels it, she feels everything.
The weight of what she did. The ache of what she lost. The fragile, terrifying hope of what might still be possible.
Her throat burns. Her eyes sting. She presses her forehead into Dina’s hair, breathing shakily, as if every breath is proof she’s allowed to be here—allowed to hold her like this.
Ellie doesn’t say I've got you, but her arms do.
They stand there longer than either of them realizes, swaying slightly as the wind shifts, rain misting the porch. Ellie’s grip tightens whenever Dina’s breath hitches, grounding her the way Dina once did for her through nightmares.
They don't know what the future holds, their hearts are still bruised but they no longer have to pretend there isn’t something real between them.
They're not fixed, not healed, but they're no longer alone.