CRASH
Pairing: Cole Cash x Female Reader
Plot: He shows up bleeding again, same as always. Only this time, he doesn't leave before morning and that kinda fucks you up a little.
Words: 6,9k
A/N: okay listen this is just a tiny detour besties, I promise 👉🏻👈🏻 the other ones are coming I SWEAR but my brain short circuited the second I saw "Cole Cash" in my inbox and everything else just stopped mattering. I don't know what to tell you 🏃🏻♀️ he's unwell and apparently so am I 🫠
this one's a little angsty but like... so is he 😩 that man has never healed emotionally in his entire life. anyway, enjoy the violence, ILY byeee 🫶🏻
He shows up bleeding, because of course he fucking does. A smear of red down his jaw, one hand wrapped in a bloodstained rag, and that cocky, half limping swagger that says yeah, I handled it. Red mask half torn, blonde hair mussed like he rolled through a warzone—which, knowing him, he probably did.
And you just let him in like you always do.
You don't even blink anymore, just step aside, sighing like he's tracked mud in on your freshly mopped floor, not like he's bleeding all over your welcome mat and still has the audacity to wink at you when you arch a brow.
"You should see the other guy," he says, voice rough with smoke or adrenaline or maybe just that stubborn smugness you've come to associate with him. The bastard.
It's been like this for months, really. Ever since the first time he ended up in your bed, smirking against your mouth, fingers curling in your sheets like he owned them. Like he owned you. You told yourself that night was a one off, a slip up, a bad decision in a string of questionable ones.
Except he showed up again. And again. Sometimes with bruises, sometimes with blood, always with that same infuriating glint in his eye and that body you couldn't say no to even if you tried. And yeah, you've told yourself—lied to yourself—this is the last time.
The next time he shows up, you'll say something. Put your foot down, set a boundary. Either he wants something real or he stops showing up like this, like a stray cat with a bloody paw and a hard dick, but the words never come.
Because the thing is, you're not sure you want to end it. Okay, you actually don't know what you want. Not really. You're messy. You're clingy when you're tired. You fall asleep with your leg tossed over his hip and wake up to a cold bed more often than not.
And yeah, it stings, but you don't push. Because you're not sure you could handle the fallout if you did. Because maybe you don't need a relationship right now. Maybe this half thing, this "fuck now, pretend it's nothing later" thing... maybe it works. Sort of. Maybe.
Besides, Cole is not the relationship type. You know that. He's not yours. He's just... here. For now. Bleeding on your floor. Again.
"Hope you weren't sleepin'," he drawls, pushing the door closed behind him with his boot. "Missed me?"
You're not even surprised. He disappears for weeks at a time, shows up in the middle of the night like some devil's wet dream, stinking of gunpowder and smoke like he expects the world to stop for him. It usually does.
"You're bleeding all over my floor."
"Jesus," he grins, taking the mask off. "You say that like it's the worst thing I've done in here."
He doesn't even wait. Just stalks up, slow and loose hipped, predatory, bloodied knuckles flexing at his sides like he's been waiting all fucking night for this, and grabs your waist with those big hands. Too big, really, calloused and warm even under the grime, fingers curling like they belong there.
He walks you back like he knows you'll let him. You do, like always. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, breath catching, and that's all the invitation he needs.
His body towers over yours, all heat and tension and sweat, and that scent that clings to him no matter what: gunmetal, smoke, skin. Somehow, even caked in dried blood and dust, he still smells good. Still smells like him, and that quiet, primal part of you lights up instantly. Stupidly, even.
You try not to show it, try not to let your knees go jelly just because he's here, but it's hard when he's this close. When you can feel the weight of him, his chest just barely brushing yours, his breath ghosting over your lips, all wild and warm and Cole.
His mouth crashes into yours, all hunger and blood and that warm scrape of stubble. One hand bunches the hem of your tank top, the other squeezing your hip, grounding you while his knee wedges between your thighs.
You moan—helplessly, embarrassingly—because your body always betrays you when it comes to him. Your pussy is already wet, soaked through your panties before you even kissed him, because of course it remembers him better than you do. That stretch, that curve, the way he ruins you like he was fucking made for it.
And fuck, maybe he was. You feel it already, the hot pulse of his cock behind his pants, rubbing against your stomach while he devours your mouth like he's starving and you're his last fucking meal.
God, and his dick... of course he's smug. He's got every reason to be. He knows what he's packing, knows what it does to you. Long, thick, the kind that makes your thighs shake and your voice break when he splits you open. The kind you dream about even when you're trying to pretend he's just a good lay.
There's nothing polite about the kiss, no easing into it, just filthy tongues and teeth and the soft, slick sound of your mouth opening for him again and again. His fingers dig into your waist, greedy, dragging your hips against his thigh, and you swear he moans when he feels the heat between your legs.
"Fuck—knew I needed this," he murmurs into your mouth. "Thought about it every damn hour I was gone. You, spread out for me... the needy little sounds you make..."
"Then maybe don't disappear for two fucking weeks," you snap against his lips.
He chuckles, low and dangerous. "You mad at me, doll?"
"You think I'm gonna fuck you while you're bleeding?" you huff, but his hand is already down your panties.
"Oh, you're gonna fuck me," he mutters, lips wet and swollen, pressing his forehead to yours. "Or I'm gonna fuck you, whatever you wanna call it. Cause you're wet as hell, and I barely touched you."
He's right. His fingers slide through the mess between your legs, slow and greedy, dragging your slick up to your clit just to swirl it there until you're twitching in his grip.
Teasing you, not to be mean but just because he can. Because he loves how fast you fall apart, how easy it is to get you soaked and needy with just two fingers and that fucked up grin.
He smears the wetness all over your folds, fingertips parting you again and again like he's memorizing the way you feel. Like he didn't fuck you stupid just weeks ago and dream about it every night since.
And yeah, he did. Not that he'd ever fucking say it. He's hard, straining against his pants, so fucking hard it hurts. Has been since the second you opened the door in that little tank top, all sleepy heat and pissed off attitude like you weren't about to melt in his hands the second he touched you.
He tells himself it's just your pussy. Best he's ever had—tight, wet, always ready for him. That's all it is. That's gotta be all it is. It sure as hell ain't the way you look at him sometimes. It ain't your pretty mouth clapping back at every single one of his cocky remarks without folding or giggling like every other bitch. The way you say his name when you think he's asleep. The way he can't stop showing up, even when he knows he shouldn't.
He pushes his fingers in a little, just the tips, dragging them back up to your clit like he's testing how much you can take.
"You missed me, huh?" he mutters against your mouth, lips brushing your skin as you whimper. "Pussy so sweet for me it forgot how to behave."
He doesn't even give you time to argue, just hooks one of your legs around his hip, pulls your panties to the side, shoves his pants down enough to free his dick and lines up.
And God, he's already leaking. The head of his cock is flushed, swollen, drooling a fat string of precum that stretches between you and him, warm and wet where it lands against your thigh, sticking to your skin. It makes your breath catch, makes your mouth water like you haven't already had it in every way a man can give it. But it doesn't. fucking. matter. It always does this to you. Big, thick and pretty as fuck, veins bulging with the strain of how hard he is.
"Cole—"
"You want me to stop?" he asks, voice tight, jaw flexing like it's costing him something to even offer. "Tell me no. Say the word and I swear I'll stop."
You hesitate a beat too long. Because no, you don't want him to stop. You can feel it all over, this heat crawling under your skin, burning through your belly and straight down to where your pussy is dripping for him. You're soaked, dizzy with it, your body aching so loud your mind can barely think. You swallow hard, breath shaky, and he knows. Fuck, he knows.
Can practically smell the need on you, thick and sweet in the air between your bodies, clinging to your skin like heat lightning. He knows your tells by now, the way you press your lips together to keep from begging, the tremble in your thighs, the soft gasp you let out when the head of his cock nudges your pussy but doesn't push in.
Instead, he pulls back just enough to line his dick with your clit and slaps it there, wet and heavy, the sharp, obscene sound punching straight through your gut. It makes you jolt, gasp, your leg tightening around his hip. You try to keep quiet, you really try, but a whimper still slips out, all breathy and wrecked, followed by a choked moan when he does it again.
"C'mon," he murmurs, lips ghosting along the curve of your jaw. "Tell me to stop."
Smug bastard. He knows damn well you won't. You try to sass back, mouth opening with something smart, but he slides the head of his cock down, dragging it through your slick folds.
Your pussy clenches hard around nothing, aching, trying to suck him in with every flex and twitch. It damn near does too, your body all but begging for it, but he's faster. He pulls back with a low, rough sound in his throat, just enough to keep you empty. Teasing. Fucking cruel.
"Say the word," he mutters against your lips, brushing them with his like he's coaxing out a secret. "Say stop. Say no. Say please."
You glare at him, breath hot and tight, hands curling in the front of his shirt like maybe you will throw him across the room, but your voice breaks instead.
"Just fuck me already or I swear—"
"Good fuckin' girl," he groans, voice rough, the edge of it making you whimper.
And then he thrusts, deep and rough and unforgiving, knocking the air out of your lungs. You gasp, choking on a moan that punches out of you when that perfect dick stretches your walls wide, sliding in with no resistance.
He's soaked in your slick because your pussy is already drooling down to your thighs, and the obscene sound of him filling you up echoes in the quiet of your apartment, broken only by the sharp slap of skin against skin and the rasp of your breathing.
Your head knocks back against the wall with a thud, and he groans again, one hand catching your jaw, holding you in place just rough enough to make your pussy clench around his cock like a fist.
"Oh, baby," he hisses, lips barely brushing yours. "That pretty pussy just sucked me in like you missed me."
You did. Not that you'll say it. Not when your thoughts are a hot, brainless blur. Why the fuck does this feel better every time? God, you needed this, needed him, and it feels like every nerve ending is screaming from the inside out. Every drag of his dick feels like it splits you open—too much, too good, too fucking deep.
His mouth is back on yours before you can think of a response. Messy and demanding, teeth dragging your lower lip, tongue greedy as he fucks you—hard and sharp, hips slamming into yours with every thrust—and the kiss turns feral fast. You moan into it, one hand fisting his shirt, the other tangled in his hair, dragging him closer because it still isn't close enough.
His thoughts? He's not saying shit out loud, but they're all there, burning hot under his skin, right behind the dark glint in his eyes.
God, you fit him too good. He missed your pussy. Missed you. He can't even fucking think when he's inside you. And he most certainly can't fucking stay away no matter how hard he tries. Shit.
The moans you both let out aren't just want, they're relief. He always fucks you like this, like he's trying to exorcise whatever demons followed him home. But even when he's slamming into you like he's losing his goddamn mind, there's still that edge of care, that softness he hides under the bruising grip of his hands and the way his hips snap against yours.
He watches your face almost the whole time, eyes dark and hungry but locked in. Tracking every twitch, every flutter of your lashes, every whimper and gasp like he's studying you. And when you moan his name, broken and high, his mouth curls into a dirty little smile.
"That's it, baby," he grits out, low and fucking wrecked. "Sound so goddamn sweet when I fuck you dumb."
His hand yanks your tank top down in one rough tug, baring your tits to the open air. He doesn't even pause, just groans, eyes glued to the bounce of them with every thrust, thumb brushing over one nipple, then the other, just to hear the way your breath catches.
"Look at you," he rasps. "So pretty like this. Takin' my dick so good. That tight little pussy's fuckin' perfect."
You whimper, and he feels it—your cunt fluttering around him like it's trying to milk every word straight out of his throat. His gaze drops down where his cock slides in and out of your soaked, clenching pussy. It's so fucking messy, slick spread all over his shaft, your thighs, his jeans shoved halfway down, and he watches, fucking hypnotized.
"Goddamn," he groans. "Look at that. Look at this needy pussy fuckin' takin' me."
You can barely breathe. Can barely speak. Because he's fucking you so hard your whole body is pinned to the wall, hips jerking instinctively to meet every brutal, perfect thrust. But underneath the roughness is heat—devotion, almost. The way he leans in, the way he presses his chest flush to yours like he can't stand even an inch of distance.
And that's what makes it the best fuck of your life. Every fucking time. Because yeah, he fucks you fast. Feral. Filthy. He ruts into you like a man starved, jaw clenched, breath ragged, hips snapping up with enough force to bruise. You feel every inch of his dick stretching you open, dragging against every sweet, aching spot inside you.
But it also feels like he never forgets who he's fucking. Never forgets the way you like to be touched, the pace that makes your thighs shake, the angle that makes your back arch off the goddamn wall. He always finds it. Always hits it. Always watches your face when he does. His mouth is all over your neck, your tits, your ear, sucking little bruises and whispering things that make your sensitive walls tighten around him.
"So fuckin' tight. Been thinkin' about this every time I loaded a clip. Every time I ducked a bullet. Thought about how you sound when I hit that spot—yeah, there, you feel that?"
You do. And God, he always makes you cum. Even when he's chasing his own release, even when he's a breath away from blowing inside you, his fingers still find your clit, rough and fast and perfect, circling it until your moans pitch into that needy, high whine he loves. The one that makes his hips stutter and his eyes roll back like he's addicted to the way your body breaks for him. Because he is.
And you? You're just trying not to black out from how goddamn good he feels.
"You missed me. Didn't even realize how bad. But your pussy did. She's so fuckin' honest, baby."
Your hands claw at his shirt, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself as your body burns. He doesn't let up, doesn't slow down, just keeps fucking into you with this raw purpose.
Every thrust hits that sweet spot dead on, over and over. You're gasping, legs trembling, the base of his cock absolutely drenched from how soaked you are—slick smeared down his dick, coating his skin, dripping down your thighs. Every time he pushes in, there's a little squelch, wet and obscene, echoing with each slap of his hips against yours.
He makes sure you take every inch, one hand gripping your leg, the other braced beside your head while he pounds into you. He watches your face twist, watches your body seize around him, and fuck, he feels it too. How hot and tight you are, how your cunt sucks him in, and he's barely holding on, jaw locked, every muscle straining from how close he is.
Your walls flutter and squeeze so goddamn tight around him, all heat and slick and desperation, and it nearly knocks the breath out of him. He needs that mess—you dripping down his cock, the slick slap of skin on skin, the way your whole body clenches like it's trying to drag his cum out.
And still, he doesn't stop, just grits his teeth, slams in harder, deeper. You yank him down into a kiss, desperate, messy, your fingers curling tight in the collar of his shirt. His mouth crashes into yours again, all spit and breath and heat, and you moan right into it, high and wrecked, sucking on his tongue.
He groans, deep in his chest, and it vibrates right through your ribs. His thrusts get erratic, deeper, harder, every sloppy drag of his cock punching up into you and God, he's just so fucking good. Thick and long, curved just right to keep dragging over that sweet spot with every brutal stroke. You swear you can feel every vein, every ridge, every twitch of him buried in your cunt, stretching you wide and filling you so goddamn deep.
The kiss breaks when you both gasp, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, his hand back on your jaw, your lips swollen and slick from all the spit and moaning.
He's so fucking close, but so are you. Every thrust slams your back harder into the wall, your nails digging into his shoulders, toes curling, your pussy clenching so tight around him it's a miracle he hasn't cum yet.
"Say my name," he moans into your neck. "Wanna hear you say it when you cum."
You don't last much longer. Because now he's grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out, rutting so deep you swear you feel him in your throat, the thick ridge of his cock dragging right over that raw little spot inside you. Each time his pelvis grinds down against your swollen clit, sparks rip through your spine, your moans go high and breathy, whimpering into his mouth. Between the dirty words, the angle, the heat of his body, you break.
"Yeah, I know, doll," he pants, voice rough and cocky and so goddamn smug in your ear. "Feels good, huh? I know it does."
And then it hits. Your pussy clenches hard, spasming around him as you cum with a desperate cry, whole body jerking, legs shaking. You gush around his dick, slick pouring down to the base in a wet rush, making everything hotter, filthier, messier. Your walls flutter and squeeze like you're trying to drag him deeper, locking him in, milking him for everything he's got.
"Cole—oh fuck—Cole—"
He shudders when you clench around him, biting down on a curse, hips grinding deep as he follows with a groan. One hand slams the wall beside your head, the other locking around your thigh to hold you in place while he spills inside you.
His cock twitches hard, thick spurts of cum flooding your pussy in hot pulses, so much you swear you can feel it leaking the second it hits. He groans like it hurts, like he's been holding it back for hours, days, weeks. And maybe he has. His body jerks with each wave, hips locked tight against you as he pumps you full.
"Fuck—fuck," he grits out, voice raspy as his head drops to yours, sweat streaked forehead against your temple.
You're both panting, flushed, bodies trembling like you've run through a warzone. Heavy breathing, silence, the hum of danger finally gone. You both stay there, panting, tangled together in sweat and blood and something unspoken.
You drag him into a kiss, sloppy and desperate and open mouthed, all tongue and teeth and need, and he kisses you back just as rough. He groans into your mouth as your walls flutter again around his still hard cock, squeezing the last drops of cum from him, keeping him right there, buried deep.
Even when the kiss breaks, you're still trading little desperate pecks—lips brushing, catching, like neither of you want to stop touching.
He presses his face to your shoulder, nose dragging along your skin like he's trying to memorize the way you smell under the sweat and sex and heat. His breath fans over your collarbone, hot and shaky. He's still buried deep inside you, still twitching, the thick mess of his cum leaking around the base of his cock and down your thighs, warm and sticky between your legs.
"You're the only thing that feels fuckin' real anymore," he mutters, voice quiet in that way that always gets to you. "Even if I don't deserve it."
You don't say anything but you keep your arms around him and pretend it doesn't hurt to hear, even though it does. Even though the ache in your chest is starting to match the one between your thighs.
You're still holding him a few minutes later, cheek against his hair, fingers lightly tracing the back of his neck, when you finally notice it—warm, wet, and not in the fun way.
He's bleeding again. Somewhere higher up, maybe his side, soaking faintly through his shirt where you've got your arm wrapped.
You sigh, too tired and too full to be mad. "C'mon," you mutter, rubbing your hand way too gently down his spine. "Let's get you cleaned up and patched."
He groans low in his chest like it physically pains him to leave the warmth of your body, but he pulls out slow and careful, though that doesn't stop the wet sound of his cock sliding free or the sharp gasp that escapes your mouth.
The stretch burns on the way out just as much as it did on the way in, and then you both glance down at the mess he left—his cum already leaking out of you, a sticky ribbon trailing down your thigh. You catch the flicker in his eyes when he sees it. His fingers twitch at his side, and you know he wants to press it back in like he always does, two fingers pushing his load right back into your fluttering cunt.
But he winces, sucking a quiet breath through his teeth, and you clock the way he eases your leg down with slow, almost reverent hands like he's not sure what's sore and what isn't.
"You okay?" he asks, voice hoarse, that usual cockiness not quite there for once.
You scoff, brushing sweaty hair off your face, heartbeat still pounding in your chest. "I'm not the one bleeding, dumbass."
Your panties are already clinging uncomfortably to your soaked thighs, so you peel them off on the way out of the room. Cole grunts as he tugs his pants up with one hand, wincing again, then kicks off his boots before trailing after you toward the bathroom.
You bend over to toss your panties and tank top into the washing machine, and the bastard slaps your ass—loud, unapologetic, full fucking palm.
You jerk upright with a sharp glare over your shoulder. "Seriously?"
He smirks like the devil. "My bad."
You don't even bother with a reply, just roll your eyes so hard it might dislocate something and pad over to the shower. You twist the knob and let the water run hot, steam already starting to fog the mirror before you turn back to him with your arms folded over your bare tits, expression flat.
"Strip."
His brows lift. "Aw, baby, you gotta wine and dine me first—"
"Strip before I knock you the fuck out and do it myself."
He snorts, but the gleam in his eye says he might not hate that idea. Still, he doesn't push, just shrugs, dragging his shirt over his head and letting it fall to the floor. His belt clinks a moment later, jeans joining the pile with a dull thud.
You step into the shower, letting the hot spray soothe your muscles while you pretend not to watch him follow. But when he finally steps under the water behind you, your gaze catches on him anyway, and your mouth goes dry.
He looks worse than usual. Not torn to shreds, but bruised all over. Deep purples blooming down his ribs, a gash across the side that's crusted with blood and grime. His knuckles are wrecked, one shoulder scraped like he slid on asphalt, and an old scar near his hip looks red and raw again.
You don't say anything, just sigh, pick up the body wash, and start scrubbing your own skin clean. He watches you the whole time, eyes trailing the curves of your body, the shimmer of lather over your tits, the slick water beading down your stomach and thighs.
When you catch him staring too long, you wordlessly hand him the bottle.
"What," he asks, tone flat, "you're not even gonna ask how I got these?"
You tilt your head, dry as fuck. "Do I even wanna know at this point?"
For once, he shuts up real fast. He soaps up with slow, methodical strokes, no dramatics, no teasing. You watch the way he works the suds into his bruised skin, across his chest, around the cut at his ribs like he's done this in a field hospital more times than he can count.
When he turns, you get a good look at his body: more bruises, old scars, a few fresh ones. Your eyes trace the muscle in his shoulders, the broad stretch of his chest, the ridges of his abs twitching under the water's pressure. Even beat to shit, he's still... fuck. He's still him.
And your body, traitorous as ever, remembers that. You rinse off, step back to give him space under the spray. He tilts his head into the water, groaning under his breath as it hits the sore spots and drips down his strong jawline, over his chest, his dick half hard and swinging heavy between his thighs. And God, you don't even mean to stare, but you do.
Because no matter how many times you see it, no matter how many times he wrecks you with it, he's still the most unfairly built son of a bitch you've ever laid eyes on.
You turn around to step out of the shower, still warm and dripping and muttering under your breath about assholes and bruises. Cole doesn't move, but he watches the sway of your hips, the curve of your ass as you step onto the bath mat and grab a towel.
He swipes a palm across the fogged glass, clearing a strip just wide enough to see you—still damp, water glistening along your back as you wrap the towel around yourself. Fuck.
He leans a little on the wall, not even hiding the way his gaze drags down your body. Your legs, soft and still a little shaky from the way he wrecked you against the wall. Your ass, red from the slap he gave you earlier, just begging for another one.
Your tits, gorgeous, plush, perfect, nipples still stiff from the cold air and leftover arousal. You adjust the towel and the curve of one peeks out, and it makes his mouth water all over again.
But then your eyes flick up in the mirror, just for a second, and he sees your face and something in him fucking stutters.
It's not just the body. Not just the sex. He's had more pussy than he can count, more bodies, more flings, more women moaning his name like they meant it. But you?
Every time he looks at your face—wet hair stuck to your cheeks, pouty mouth, those narrowed eyes that don't take a single drop of his shit—it fucks him up a little more.
And yeah, okay, maybe he hasn't been with anyone else since you. Not since the first time he got a taste and couldn't bring himself to want anything else. But that's not the point. That's not the fucking point.
Because he shouldn't feel like this. Not about anyone. Especially not someone who stomps out of the bathroom, still cussing under her breath, towel clutched to her chest like she didn't just take every inch of his dick and every drop of his cum.
You disappear into the bedroom, and he's left standing there under the still running water, jaw tight, pulse slowing, just... thinking. Thinking about how you're still in his head even now.
Thinking about how the sight of you walking away, legs damp and attitude hot as hell, does something to him. Something he doesn't have a fucking name for. And he hates that, but he also can't stop staring at the trail of your wet footprints down the hallway like they're fucking calling him.
You come back into the bathroom just as he steps out of the shower, steam curling off his skin, bruises blooming darker now that he's clean. He's toweling a hand through his wet hair when you toss a folded red towel at his chest. It hits with a dull thud, and he catches it with a smirk, one eyebrow raised.
"Red towel, huh?" he says, dragging it slow across his abs, pausing just long enough to glance down at his dick still swinging between his thighs. "Trying to match my war wounds or just my dick, baby?"
You stare at him. Flat. Tired. "Dry off before you drip on my damn tile again, Cash."
The smirk doesn't leave his face, but you can see the way it twitches like he's fighting a laugh.
You chuck a pair of sweatpants at him next—plain, dark grey, worn in and soft. He catches those too, but when he unfolds them and holds them up, he pauses. His head tilts, brow quirking in that annoying, cocky way.
"These yours? Or some other guy's built like me?"
You scoff, already turning on your heel and heading back out. "What, jealous?" you call over your shoulder, hips swaying a little too deliberately as you vanish out the door.
His mouth opens like he wants to snap back, something sharp and flirty and full of denial. But it never makes it past his lips.
Because the word jealous sits there, loud and ugly and weirdly heavy. Is he? Does he even have the right to be?
He exhales through his nose, hard. Shakes his head. "Fuckin' ridiculous," he mutters under his breath.
Still, he towels off with a few rough swipes, then tugs the sweatpants on. They're a perfect fit. Of course they are. Just like everything else in this place—your place—somehow fits him a little too well, and he hates how comfortable it feels.
The waistband sits low on his hips as he pads barefoot into the living room, water still clinging to his skin, hair damp and messy. And there you are, already planted on the couch, first aid kit open on the coffee table, your fuzzy sock clad feet curled under you like this is just any regular night.
Like he didn't just fuck you breathless against a wall. Like he didn't bleed on your floor. Like this is normal. And maybe that's what messes him up the most.
A few minutes later, you finally get him to sit still long enough to stitch him up. He's grumbling, shirtless, blood streaked across his ribs, knuckles swollen, but he lets you work. He always does, when it's you.
"You got real gentle hands for someone who yells at me so fuckin' much," he smirks, wincing as you clean a cut.
"You've got real dumb timing for someone who bleeds this often."
You finally press the last bandage into place, wiping the blood from your fingers with a sigh. He's gone fucking quiet again.
Not the smug silence, either. Not the kind that comes after he wins an argument or makes you squirm just to be a menace. It's just a heavy, tired kind of quiet.
You glance up at him, brows drawn. "What, no sarcastic response this time?"
He shrugs, eyes not quite meeting yours. His shoulders are hunched a little, and for the first time all night, he looks... worn. Not just beat up, not just bruised, but bone tired in a way that sinks into your chest and makes you ache a little on his behalf.
So you don't push. You don't say anything else. Just seal up the first aid kit with a soft click and set it aside.
Rain starts to tap against the windows a minute later—soft at first, then heavier. You yawn without meaning to, rubbing your eye with the back of your hand.
"I'm going to bed," you mumble as you stand, stretching. Then, shooting him a glance over your shoulder, "You coming, or are you gonna sleep on my couch like some stray dog?"
He huffs out something that might be a laugh, shoulders shaking just slightly as he stands and follows you out of the living room. Your bedroom hasn't changed much since the last time he was here.
Neat, quiet, just a little too tidy in that way that says you like having control over something. Your sheets are freshly washed, the scent of your detergent soft in the air—clean linen and something warmer, like vanilla or maybe coconut.
You crawl into bed and immediately flop down, grabbing the comforter and scooting over without looking at him.
And for a moment, it's awkward. Always is, with him. Because you still don't fucking know where you stand. He's hot and cold—there when it matters, gone when you think it might mean something.
And the thing is, you're a cuddler. You always have been. But with him? You never know if it's okay. If he'll stiffen up like you've done something wrong. If he'll pull away or stay. You've always been good at reading people, but Cole is a fucking locked door. Cold steel and a trigger finger.
And still... he snorts. Not at you, exactly, just the moment, maybe. Then he shifts on the mattress, pulling the covers over both of you with a sigh.
His arm snakes around your waist without warning, rough palm splaying warm and solid across your stomach as he yanks you back into his chest.
You freeze for a second. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to.
Because you feel it—the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against your neck, the way he lets out the kind of quiet exhale people don't realize they've been holding in.
For a while, there's only the sound of rain against the window and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Your body starts to relax, heavy and boneless, every muscle slowly untensing now that you're warm and clean and not being pounded against a wall. His arm around you doesn't move. Doesn't tighten or loosen. Just stays right there—solid, steady, safe.
Which is so fucking weird because if there's one word you'd never associate with Cole fucking Cash, it's safe. He's chaos in combat boots. A walking hazard sign with a gun on each hip and a smirk that could burn bridges in a second. He leaves more often than he stays. He picks fights with shadows. He's done more damage to your peace than anyone else ever could. And still, when he sleeps beside you, your body just… fits. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like maybe it was always supposed to be this way.
So before you can talk yourself out of it, before the weight in your chest gets too heavy to lift, you whisper, "Cole?"
Your voice is soft, barely there, but it sounds so fucking loud in the quiet room, in the rain, in the stillness of two bodies wrapped up in something neither of you know how to name.
He hums in response, low and lazy, lips brushing the back of your shoulder. "Hmm?"
You swallow. Your heart is thudding against your ribs like it's trying to warn you off like it knows he doesn't do feelings or conditions or rules. But you still say it.
"If you leave again before I wake up," you murmur, staring at the far wall, "don't bother coming back."
You feel it instantly, the way he goes rigid behind you. Just for a second, like your words caught him off guard. Like he didn't expect that of all things to come out of your mouth.
But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't nod, doesn't argue, doesn't try to joke it away. He just... stays silent.
And that silence stings, just a little, but you're too tired to fight. Too tired to beg him for something you're not sure he knows how to give.
So you let your eyes close, the ache in your chest dulling into something tolerable. And eventually, you drift off with the rain in your ears and his body curled around yours.
But Cole? Cole stays wide awake. Eyes open, staring at the window, jaw tight.
Your words echo in his head over and over like a warning. Like a line in the sand. Like something he already knows he's gonna cross if he doesn't figure his shit out. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn't have a comeback, just the sound of your soft breaths and the quiet realization that maybe he doesn't want to leave this time.
You wake up to the sun trying to peek through the curtains and the rain long gone. The air smells like soap and warm skin and leftover sleep, and for a moment, you don't even realize what's different until you shift and he's still here.
Cole Cash, chaos incarnate, who always slips out before the sun is up like a damn ghost, still here. One arm heavy on his chest, breathing slow and deep, fingers tangled loosely in your blanket.
You don't know what that means. You don't know if he stayed because of what you said, or if he stayed in spite of it. If it's guilt or comfort or just plain exhaustion.
But you also don't hate it. You don't hate waking up to him—his lashes dark against his cheek, the little cut on his lip healing, his features soft for once. Pretty, in that rough around the edges way he's got. The kind of pretty that sneaks up on you when you least expect it and knocks the breath right out of your lungs.
So you just lie there for a minute, heart doing way too much for this early in the morning, eyes tracing the curve of his mouth, the mess of his hair, the way his hand twitches a little against his chest.
He's still here. Still breathing the same air as you like he belongs in your bed, like he didn't spend months acting like none of this meant anything.
But when he stirs, when his eyes crack open and catch you staring, he doesn't pull away.
He scoffs, voice rough and raspy from sleep. "Little fuckin' stalker," he mutters.
And like it costs him nothing, he slides a heavy arm around your waist and pulls you in, presses your body flush to his, chest to chest, and buries his face in your hair like it's home, breathes you in like maybe he's been starving for it.
You don't say anything. Just press your face into the crook of his neck, barely biting back your smile. He didn't leave. Not this time.
And after that, he never really did.
