Pepper @vegan-peppermint - Tumblr Blog

Deer Season - Part 9 (Tim Wright/Masky x F!Reader)

CW: Sexual content, rough sex, cunnilingus, power imbalance, manhandling, toxic relationship, strong language, violence, blood, dissociation, Operator sickness, extreme choking, emotional/psychological abuse, abandonment, intense grief, panic, guilt, trauma, codependency, coercive control, alcohol, featuring appearances by Toby, Jeff, Smile, Jack, Ben, Brian

Summary: After a violent night spirals out of control, Tim takes you somewhere far from the house to keep you safe. But the quiet of the road only amplifies everything left unsaid between you - guilt, love, fear, and the slow, inevitable realization that some things can’t be outrun.

Wordcount: 22k

Part 1: HERE Part 2: HERE Part 3: HERE Part 4: HERE Part 5: HERE Part 6: HERE Part 7: HERE Part 8: HERE

You sat wedged in the narrow backseat of the truck, knees drawn up as far as the cramped space allowed, arms wrapped tight around them like that could hold you together. The seat stuck to the backs of your thighs where blood had soaked through your jeans, cold and tacky now, pulling at your skin every time you shifted. Your hands were worse - fingers crusted dark, nails rimmed with it, the metallic stink of it thick in your nose no matter how shallow you breathed. You could still taste it on your tongue, copper and salt and something sour, like fear.

You thought about the first time Tim dragged you to the house. The mattress creaking under you both, his hips rolling slow and deep, breath ragged against your ear while he fucked you like he was trying to prove something. His voice had rasped right into your skin: “The evil is inside me. Inside all of us here. Let’s hope it doesn’t get you too.”

Now the words sat heavy in your chest like lead.

It had gotten you.

You’d let it wear your skin. Let it kill.

The tears wouldn’t come anymore. You’d cried yourself empty watching the bar burn. Now there was just this crushing weight on your chest, pressing down until every breath felt borrowed. You kept replaying it in flashes: the man’s leer turning to shock, the bat heavy in your hands, the wet, sickening crunch, the blood - God, so much blood - and then the flames swallowing everything you had left.

Tim drove like a machine - both hands locked at ten and two, eyes fixed straight ahead, face blank and hard as stone. No music, no heat blasting, no glance in the rearview to check on you. He’d checked out completely, gone somewhere cold and far away where feelings couldn’t reach him. The silence coming off him was louder than any yelling.

Toby sat rigid in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, staring out the side window like the dark trees might give him answers. Every few minutes his head would tic sharply to the side, shoulder jerking up toward his ear, but otherwise he was unnaturally still. You caught him watching Tim a couple times - quick, worried glances - before looking away again like he was afraid to get caught.

At a stop sign in the middle of nowhere, Toby finally twisted in his seat to look back at you. His good eye searched your face in the dim glow from the dashboard, taking in the blood, the hollow stare, the way you were shaking even though you weren’t cold. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. A soft, aborted sound escaped - half a stutter, half a sigh. He looked like he wanted to say something comforting, something that might help, but nothing came. After a long second he just gave the tiniest shake of his head, apologetic, and turned forward again.

You dropped your gaze to your ruined hands. The truck lurched back into motion, tires humming over cracked asphalt. Streetlights thinned, then disappeared entirely. Pines crowded closer to the road, branches scraping the roof like fingers. You recognized the turns, the long straight stretch, the sharp curve around the old logging road, the way the gravel started crunching under the tires.

He was taking you back to the house.

The realization settled in your gut like another stone. That place. The one that had started all of this - the sickness, the static, the thing inside you that had swung the bat tonight. You were covered in blood and going right back to the source.

Minutes dragged. The silence grew heavier, suffocating.

Toby shifted again, restless. He cleared his throat, rough and uncertain, and finally spoke.

“I-is… is this r-really a g-good idea?” He kept his eyes on the windshield, not daring to look at Tim. “Bringing her b-back there, I m-mean. After… everything.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. The truck slowed almost imperceptibly, engine growling low. His jaw worked, muscle jumping under the stubble. One hand left the wheel to drag slowly over his face, then dropped back, fingers tightening until the leather creaked.

Then he spoke, voice flat and cold, stripped of anything human.

“Everything’s already fucked anyway.”

The words landed like a slap. No warmth or regret, just ruthless, brutal truth.

You felt the scream building in your chest - raw, desperate, something that would tear your throat apart if you let it out. You wanted to pound on the back of his seat, claw at the door, beg him to turn around, take you anywhere else. But the coldness of it froze you solid. You stayed curled small in the backseat, silent, blood drying stiff in your hair, metallic taste thick on your tongue, watching the dark road carry you deeper into the trees.

Toward the house.

Toward whatever came next.

The gravel crunched louder as the truck slowed, headlights sweeping across the overgrown yard and catching the big white house in their harsh glare. The place looked even more decayed in the middle of the night - peeling paint glowing sickly under the beams, windows dark and watchful.

Then you saw them.

Jeff was out front, half-lit by the porch light, crouched low with his knees bent, shirt smeared with dirt and God-knows-what. A massive husky - thick-furred, pale with dark markings - circled him excitedly, tail whipping side to side. Jeff clapped his thigh hard, grinning, holding what looked like a thick branch or bone just out of reach. The dog leaped, jaws snapping playfully, paws slamming into Jeff’s chest. Jeff laughed, sharp and raspy, and finally hurled the stick far into the shadows. The husky bolted after it, powerful legs churning up dirt, a low growl of pure joy rumbling in its throat.

Tim didn’t slow down enough.

The truck lurched forward, tires spitting gravel, heading straight into the dog’s path like he hadn’t even seen it, or like he had and didn’t care. You gasped, hands flying to the back of Tim’s seat. The husky skidded, twisting mid-stride with impossible agility, barely avoiding the bumper by inches. It landed hard, hackles exploding up its spine, and erupted into furious barking - deep, booming, the kind that rattled your ribs even through the closed windows.

Jeff’s head snapped up. “The fuck, man?!” His voice carried clear through the glass, raw and pissed. “You tryin’ to kill Smile, you psycho idiot?!”

Tim slammed on the brakes, truck rocking to a stop just short of where the dog now stood braced in the headlights, teeth bared, still barking like it wanted to tear the tires off.

Tim killed the engine, shoved his door open, and stepped out. The cold night air rushed in. “Get that rabid fuckin’ mutt outta here!” he roared, voice cutting sharp through the barking. “How many goddamn times I gotta tell you–no stray flea-bags on the property!”

Jeff strode forward, planting himself between Tim and the dog, scarred hands balled into fists. “He ain’t a stray, asshole–he’s mine! And you almost ran him over on purpose, I saw that shit!”

The husky, Smile, kept barking, advancing a step every time Tim raised his voice, ears flat, saliva stringing from bared fangs. Big. Way bigger up close than he’d looked from a distance. Aggressive in a way that made your stomach knot.

Tim took a threatening step forward, boot crunching gravel. “I don’t give a fuck whose he is–get him gone before I put him down myself.”

Jeff barked a humorless laugh. “Try it, big man. See how that ends for you.”

For a second they just stared each other down, the dog still growling low, porch light carving harsh shadows across both their faces. You sat frozen in the backseat, heart hammering, half-terrified of that animal. Of course it belonged to Jeff. Of course it was huge and vicious and named Smile.

The standoff hung in the air for another long second, Tim and Jeff squared off like two wolves over territory, Smile’s growl rumbling low and constant between them. Then Jeff spat a sharp “Fuck this,” dropped into a crouch, and wrapped one arm around the husky’s thick neck.

“Easy, boy. Easy.” His voice dropped to something almost gentle as he scratched behind the dog’s ears, fingers digging into the dense fur. Smile’s hackles slowly settled, though his lips stayed curled, eyes locked on Tim. Jeff pressed his forehead to the dog’s for a second, muttering, “C’mon, Smile. Playtime’s over. Go on–get outta here.”

He gave the husky a firm shove toward the tree line. Smile hesitated, turned back to bare his teeth at Tim one last time - a deep, rolling bark that promised violence if Tim took another step - then spun and bolted into the woods. Powerful legs carried him fast; within seconds he was just a pale blur swallowed by the dark pines, branches cracking in his wake.

Jeff straightened slowly, brushing dirt off his shirt, eyes still burning holes through Tim.

Toby exhaled a quiet, weary breath from the passenger seat, like he’d seen this exact showdown a dozen times before and was already tired of it. He pushed his door open, circled around to the back, and pulled yours wide. Cold air rushed in again, sharp with pine and smoke.

His hand found your arm, gentle, careful fingers wrapping just above the dried blood on your sleeve. “C-come on,” he muttered, voice low. “Out.”

You moved on autopilot, legs stiff and unsteady as you slid off the seat and onto the gravel. The ground felt too solid under your shoes, like it might crack open if you put your full weight down.

Jeff had been gearing up for another round with Tim, mouth already open, when his gaze flicked past him and landed on you.

He froze.

Took in the blood - crusted thick in your hair, streaking your face, soaked into your shirt and jeans like you’d bathed in it. Took in your hollow eyes, the tremor in your hands, the way you stood half-hidden behind Toby like a kicked animal.

A slow, crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his scarred mouth, half shock, half something darker, hungrier.

“Well, holy shit,” he drawled, voice loud in the sudden quiet. “What the fuck happened here? You two take her on a date to a slaughterhouse or–”

Toby didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. Just kept his grip steady on your arm and guided you forward, past Jeff, toward Tim.

Tim looked exhausted, shoulders tight, eyes flat and cold. He reached out without a word, big hand closing around your other arm, pulling you from Toby’s grasp like transferring ownership. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, but you didn’t flinch.

“Mind your own fuckin’ business,” he snapped at Jeff. Then he started walking, dragging you alongside him toward the porch steps.

You didn’t resist. Your gaze stayed fixed on the ground, shoes scuffing gravel, avoiding the weight of Jeff’s stare - like if you met those pale eyes you’d see exactly how much he was enjoying the sight of you broken and bloody.

Behind you, Jeff’s voice rose again, sharp and demanding. “Yo, seriously–what the hell did you two do?”

Toby’s footsteps crunched after you. Jeff kept pushing–“Toby, c’mon, talk to me, man–what the fuck–”

Toby sighed, the sound heavy. “N-not now,” he muttered, barely audible. Then, quieter, like he was forcing the words out: “She… killed a g-guy. Beat him w-with a b-bat. We… handled it.”

Jeff’s laugh cracked through the night - short and disbelieving, almost delighted. “No shit?”

The porch door creaked open ahead of you. Tim pulled you over the threshold and into the dim, stale air of the house without looking back. The door swung shut behind you with a heavy thud, muffling Jeff’s follow-up questions and Toby’s reluctant half-answers to a dull murmur.

Inside, the house breathed around you - old wood settling, shadows thick in the corners, the faint hum of something watchful deeper in the walls.

Tim didn’t let go of your arm.

His boots thudded heavy on the old wood as he pulled you through the front hall and into the living room. The house was dim and quiet, the single lamp in the corner casting long shadows across the sagging furniture.

He steered you past the couch, straight to the basement stairs. His grip on your upper arm was iron, fingers digging in just enough to keep you moving, just enough to hurt. His breathing came hard, ragged at the edges, like he was holding something back by sheer force.

You tried to match his stride, tried to keep your own breaths even, but the panic kept rising. The blood on your skin had gone cold and stiff, pulling tight with every movement. Your voice came out small, barely above a whisper, trembling on the edge of tears.

“Tim… are you mad at me?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept guiding you down the narrow staircase, one heavy step at a time. The air grew cooler, damper, thick with the familiar musty smell of the basement - old concrete, mildew, something faintly medicinal underneath.

The silence from him was worse than yelling. It felt like the moment he’d realized what this meant. Not just tonight. Not just the body, the fire, the blood. But you - changed forever. Tainted. Part of their world in a way you could never scrub off. The thing you’d both been dancing around had finally caught you, and now everything between you would be different. Possessive had always been his default, but this… this felt like the edge of something colder.

Your chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.

At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway stretched dim and narrow, lit by a single weak bulb overhead. At the end was a heavy metal door - hospital-white, institutional, with a small reinforced window near the top. The infirmary.

Tim finally stopped in front of it. His hand left your arm, and for a second you felt the absence like a bruise. Then his fingers, still tacky with your dried blood, cupped your chin, and tilted your face up to his.

His eyes were dark, unreadable, jaw locked tight.

“I’ll deal with this,” he said, like he was talking about paperwork instead of a murder and arson. “You’re gettin’ checked out. Cleaned up. All of it.”

You nodded, small and automatic, throat too thick to speak at first. Then the question spilled out again, desperate this time, cracking in the middle.

“Are you mad at me?”

He just stared. Long enough that the silence stretched thin and sharp. His thumb brushed once across your lower lip, smearing more blood, then dropped away.

“Let’s not talk about this right now,” he said finally. “Don’t think about it.”

He turned and knocked - three hard raps that echoed down the empty hallway.

You stood there in the hallway’s weak light, heart thudding slow and heavy, waiting for the door to move. When it finally did - slow, silent on well-oiled hinges - Jack filled the frame.

He was exactly as you remembered and somehow worse in this sterile light: tall, lean, skin that unnatural pale blue-gray, brown hair falling messily over his forehead. The black voids where eyes should be fixed on you without blinking, unreadable and endless. He wore plain dark scrubs and a simple t-shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms faintly scarred.

“Take care of this,” Tim said, voice clipped, flat. His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pushing you forward one step, firm and impersonal. No softness, no lingering touch, no “I’ll be back.” He just turned and started up the stairs, boots heavy on the wood, each thud fading until the basement door clicked shut overhead and you were alone with Jack.

The abandonment hit like cold water down your spine. Why the fuck did he have to leave you like this? After everything - after dragging you here, after burning your life to the ground - he couldn’t even stay long enough to hand you off properly?

You stared at the concrete floor, arms wrapped around yourself, blood flaking off your sleeves in tiny rust-colored flecks. The silence stretched, thick and antiseptic.

Jack simply watched, head tilted slightly, like he was cataloguing every tremor, every streak of red, every sign of breaking. Then he stepped aside, one pale hand gesturing politely into the room.

You walked in on numb legs.

The infirmary was… shocking.

Clean. Really clean. White walls, polished tile floor, stainless-steel counters gleaming under bright overhead lights. A proper exam table with fresh paper covering it, glass-front cabinets lined with labeled supplies, monitors and equipment that looked expensive and well-maintained. An IV stand in one corner, a sink with elbow taps, even a small autoclave humming quietly. It smelled sharply of alcohol and bleach, like an actual hospital, not the horror-movie basement you’d half-expected.

Jack closed the door behind you with a soft click. He moved with that same unnerving grace, fluid and silent, and stopped a respectful distance away, giving you space to take it all in. His hands stayed visible, relaxed at his sides.

Only when you’d had a moment did he reach for a pair of blue nitrile gloves from a box on the counter. The snap of latex as he pulled them on was the loudest sound in the room.

He picked up a small penlight, clicked it on, and turned back to you.

“May I… examine you?” he asked, voice low and surprisingly gentle, the rasp in it softened by care.

You couldn’t find words. Just nodded, small and shaky.

He stepped closer slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and raised the light. “Follow the beam with your eyes, please.”

You did. Left, right, up, down. The light was bright, stinging, but his movements were precise, practiced. He checked pupil response, reaction time, then clicked the light off and stepped back, giving you space again.

A pause. His void gaze drifted over your ruined clothes, the blood crusted in your hair, smeared across your throat and hands.

“There is a shower through there,” he said quietly, gesturing toward a door in the corner with opaque glass and a simple curtain track. “Clean yourself. I will complete the examination afterward. Towels and clean clothing are provided.”

He waited, patient.

“Does that sound acceptable?”

Another nod from you, this one quicker, grateful.

Jack inclined his head slightly, then turned and guided you the few steps to the shower alcove. He pulled the curtain aside just enough to show the simple setup, basic but spotless, with folded gray scrubs, thick towels, unscented soap, and shampoo on a small shelf.

“I will be at my desk,” he said, stepping back immediately. “When you are ready… return to the exam area.”

He retreated without another word, moving to the far side of the room, back turned, already busying himself with something on his desk - chart, supplies, anything to make it clear he wouldn’t watch.

You began peeling off your blood-stiffened clothes. The ruined shirt clung stubbornly to your skin before coming free with a wet rasp; you dropped it in the biohazard bag left open nearby. Jeans next, unbuttoned with trembling fingers, shoved down your hips, kicked off along with the underwear. Naked now, skin prickling in the humid air, you finally stepped inside the shower, pulled the curtain closed, and let the hot water run.

The spray hit like a shock - scalding at first, then perfect. You scrubbed like your life depended on it, nails raking over skin, cheap unscented soap foaming pink and brown as it swirled down the drain with the blood. You attacked your hair next, fingers digging into your scalp, working shampoo through the matted strands until the water finally ran clear. Again. And again. Just to be sure.

Your mind kept circling back to Jack.

He was nothing like the thing from the woods - that thing that had pinned you down, tongue dragging across the cut on your hand, tasting you like something curious and starving. That creature had been pure nightmare.

This Jack… was a doctor. Respectful. Professional in a way that felt almost absurd in this house. It was eerie how completely he’d slipped into the role, like flipping a switch. But underneath the strangeness, it made you feel… safe. Safer than you had any right to feel here. If someone as broken as Toby - face caved in, ribs cracked - could heal under Jack’s hands, then maybe you weren’t completely doomed.

You wondered how it had happened. How a thing like him ended up playing physician in a house full of killers. What twisted path led someone like him to medical textbooks?

Eventually the water started to cool. You shut it off, stepped out into the humid air, and patted yourself dry with the thick towel. The clothes waiting on the shelf were simple: plain black boxer briefs, clearly borrowed from someone’s drawer - all men here after all, soft gray scrub pants that hung loose on your hips, and a matching scrub top that smelled faintly of detergent and antiseptic. Better than the ruined, blood-soaked things now piled in the biohazard bag.

You pulled the curtain back and padded across the cool tile. The exam table’s paper crinkled under you as you hoisted yourself up to sit, legs dangling, hands clasped tight in your lap.

“I’m… done,” you said quietly, voice still rough from screaming and crying.

Jack turned from his desk at once. He moved with that same fluid grace, gloved hands already clean and ready. His black voids fixed on you for a moment, head tilted just slightly in acknowledgment.

“Thank you,” he said simply. Then he approached, no sudden movements, keeping a respectful distance until he was close enough to work.

He started with the basics: blood pressure cuff, stethoscope cool against your back through the thin scrub fabric, asking you to breathe deep. Temperature. Pulse ox on your finger. Every step calm, methodical, explained quietly if it wasn’t obvious.

Only when he reached for a fresh pair of gloves did he pause.

“May I… check your hands and arms for injuries?” he asked. “There may be glass or splinters from… the incident.”

You nodded, extending your trembling arms toward him. Then, before you could stop yourself, a small, shaky half-joke slipped out - barely above a whisper, edged with nerves and the ghost of dark humor.

“Just… don’t drink my blood again, okay?”

Jack froze for the smallest fraction of a second, gloved fingers hovering just above your wrists. His head tilted slightly, the black voids of his eyes fixed on your face in that unnervingly still way of his. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, the barest suggestion of a smile that never quite arrived.

“...Noted,” he said quietly, the single word perfectly dry, perfectly professional.

Then he took your hands with the same steady, impersonal care as before - cool latex against your skin, turning your arms gently under the bright exam light, examining every small cut and bruise without another word about blood, or woods, or anything that had ever tasted like hunger.

You exhaled, the tension in your chest easing just a fraction.

He kept working in silence, precise and kind in his detachment, like the moment had never happened at all. But you caught the way his head stayed tilted a degree longer than necessary when he finally released your wrists, as though filing the memory away somewhere careful and private.

Finally he stepped back, peeled off the gloves with a soft snap, and disposed of them.

“You have no physical injuries,” he said quietly, voice even. “Vitals are stable. Everything appears… normal.”

The word normal hung strangely in the air, like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

He paused, head tilted slightly, black voids fixed on your face.

“If it is alright with you,” he continued, formal as ever, “I would like you to explain what occurred tonight. A brief psychological evaluation would also be beneficial… if you consent.”

You swallowed, throat raw. After a long moment, you nodded.

He didn’t move closer. Just stood there, still and patient, hands clasped loosely in front of him, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of rushing you.

So you talked.

The words came out halting at first, then in a rush you couldn’t stop. The sickness both times you’d been in the house - the coughing, the headaches, the static behind your eyes. How it had faded when you left, only to creep back worse. The growing rage you couldn’t explain, building like pressure behind a dam. And then tonight, the customer’s leering, the sudden blackout, waking up standing over a body you didn’t remember destroying.

Your voice cracked more than once. You stared at your hands in your lap the whole time, expecting tears to come, but they didn’t. Just this hollow ache as you laid it all bare.

Jack listened without interruption, giving you absolute, attentive silence.

When you finished, the room felt quieter than before.

He inclined his head once, small and formal.

“Thank you. A few follow-up questions… if I may.”

The questions were direct, clinical.

“Have you experienced violent impulses prior to this?”

“No.”

“Do you derive satisfaction from harming others?”

“No. God, no.”

“Have you ever fantasized about violence when not under distress?”

“Never. This… this isn’t me.”

He asked about mood swings, sleep patterns, hallucinations, voices. You answered everything truthfully, voice growing smaller with each honest denial. This wasn’t you. You weren’t angry. You weren’t cruel. Something else had swung that bat.

Halfway through, the panic started creeping in, cold and sharp around the edges. What did this mean? Were you losing your mind? Was the house changing you permanently? Was that thing inside you now?

Jack noticed immediately. He took one careful step closer, voice softening just slightly.

“You are safe. Do not worry.”

The reassurance was simple, almost detached, but it landed anyway. You exhaled a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

He glanced toward a small cot in the corner - clean white sheets, thin pillow, set up like a recovery bed.

“It would be best if you… remained here tonight,” he said. “For observation. I can provide a mild sedative if you wish… it will help you rest.”

You nodded before you could overthink it. “Yes. Please.”

He moved to a locked cabinet, selected a small vial and a syringe with practiced efficiency, and administered the injection with barely a pinch in your arm.

“Lie down when you are ready. The medication will take effect soon.”

You slid off the exam table, legs unsteady, and made your way to the cot. The sheets were cool and crisp. You pulled the thin blanket up to your chin, staring at the ceiling tiles, certain sleep would never come. Not after tonight. Not here.

But the room grew softer around the edges. The hum of the equipment faded. Your eyelids got heavy, impossibly heavy.

The last thing you felt was the quiet weight of Jack moving somewhere in the room, tidying, charting, keeping watch.

Then everything went black.

Jeff’s boots hammered up the stairs like he was chasing something, taking them two, three at a time, long legs eating the distance. He shoved Ben’s door open hard enough that it bounced off the wall with a thud.

Ben was out cold, sprawled on his back in nothing but boxers, one arm flung over his face, mouth open, snoring soft and steady. The lights from his monitors painted lazy colors across his bare chest.

Jeff crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Ben’s shoulder, and shook him like he was trying to rattle his brain loose.

“Yo–wake up, you idiot. C’mon, wake the fuck up.”

Ben groaned, deep and miserable, trying to twist away. “Fuuuck off,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, swatting blindly at Jeff’s hand. “Lea’ me alone…”

Jeff shook harder. “Nah, nah–get up, bitch. This is good.”

Ben finally cracked one eye, hair sticking up in every direction, face creased from the pillow. He pushed himself up on his elbows, rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand, glaring through the haze.

“What? What the hell do you want, man? It’s like–” he squinted at the clock on his monitor–“fuckin’ three a.m.”

Jeff dropped onto the edge of the bed, grinning, eyes bright with manic energy. He leaned in close, like he was sharing the best gossip of his life.

“Dude. You won’t believe this shit. They brought her back. She’s here. Covered–head to toe–in blood. Like, fresh. Still wet in her hair. Face smashed in with it, clothes soaked. Looked like she took a bath in the guy.”

Ben blinked slow, brain still booting up. “…What?”

Jeff kept going, words tumbling fast, crude and excited. “I’m talkin’ arterial spray, man. Chunks in her hair. Hands looked like she’d been finger-painting with guts. Fuckin’ hot. I popped a semi just lookin’ at her–like, instant. You know I got that blood thing, right? Shit had my dick half-hard in the driveway–”

Ben sat up straight, sleep evaporating like it’d been doused in cold water. His eyes went wide.

“WHAT??”

He scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over his own blanket, heart suddenly hammering. “What do you mean she’s here? Right now? What the fuck happened–what did they do??”

Jeff laughed, sharp and raspy, leaning back on his hands. “Nah, nah–she did it. Toby said she snapped, killed some dude at the bar. Tim and Toby torched the place to cover it. Brought her back lookin’ like Carrie at the prom. Jack’s got her downstairs now, probably hosing her off.”

Ben was already yanking open drawers, grabbing the first clothes he could find. He hopped into a pair of sweatpants, nearly falling over.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice climbing. “You’re serious? She–she killed someone?”

Jeff shrugged, still grinning. “That’s the word. Looked like she did a hell of a job, too.”

Ben pulled the hoodie over his head, hair exploding out the neck in a static mess. He spun on Jeff, pointing hard.

“Okay–behave. I’m serious. Do not be a fucking creep right now. Don’t say weird shit, don’t stare, don’t–don’t do any of your blood kink bullshit out loud. Just… chill.”

Jeff raised both hands, mock-innocent, smile still stretched wide. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Ben shot him a look that said he didn’t believe that for a second, then shoved his feet into sneakers and headed for the door.

“Stay up here if you can’t act normal,” he threw over his shoulder.

Jeff just laughed again, low and rough, already swinging his legs off the bed to follow.

“No promises.”

The two of them thundered down the stairs, Jeff taking them in long, lazy strides, Ben scrambling to keep up, hoodie half-zipped, shoes squeaking on the old wood. They hit the living room like a gust of wind, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

Tim sat dead center in the ratty armchair, legs spread wide, one elbow propped on the armrest. A cigarette burned slow between his fingers, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling. His face was stone, jaw locked, eyes narrowed to slits, the kind of pissed-off stillness that promised violence if anyone pushed too hard.

Toby was slumped on the couch, long limbs folded awkwardly. He kept flicking quick, worried glances at Tim, then tipping his head back to stare at the water-stained ceiling like it might offer answers. A tic snapped his shoulder up hard.

The room felt like a funeral.

Ben broke the silence first, chest heaving, words already spilling out. “Where is she? Downstairs with Jack? Can I see her? Please–Tim, c’mon, is she okay? What the fuck happened?”

Tim didn’t even look up at first. Just took a long, slow drag, exhaled through his nose, and finally fixed Ben with a flat, deadly stare.

“No.”

The single word landed heavy.

Jeff sauntered in right behind, smirking. He didn’t ask permission, just reached over, plucked the pack of cigarettes straight from Tim’s lap, shook one out, and lit it with his own lighter. Then he dropped onto the couch next to Toby, hard enough the cushions bounced. He knocked his knee into Toby’s thigh, deliberate and playful in that asshole way of his.

Toby shifted over an inch, shooting Jeff a side-eye, but didn’t say anything. Just pulled his legs up tighter.

Ben stood there in the middle of the room, arms half-raised like he was trying to hold the situation together with his hands. “Tim–please. I just wanna know she’s alright. Somebody tell me what the hell is going on!”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose hard, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “Stop yellin’,” he muttered, the warning clear.

Jeff chuckled, low and raspy, smoke curling from his lips as he leaned back, one arm draped along the back of the couch behind Toby.

“Oh, this is good,” he said, eyes glinting as he watched Ben pace a tight circle. “Keep goin’, dude. Really wear him down.”

Ben spun on him, face flushed. “Shut up, Jeff! This isn’t funny–she killed someone, you’re tellin’ me she’s covered in blood, and you’re sitting here laughing–”

“Ben,” Tim cut in, sharp enough to slice the air. The room went still again.

Ben froze mid-rant, mouth half-open.

Tim took another slow drag, eyes never leaving Ben. “She’s with Jack. She’s fine. You’re not seein’ her tonight. Go back upstairs.”

Ben’s hands dropped to his sides, shoulders sagging. He looked between Tim’s cold stare, Toby’s blank ceiling-gazing, and Jeff’s amused smirk, like he was searching for one sane person in the room and coming up empty.

Ben’s face flushed red, eyes wide and wild. “Nah–fuck this, I’m goin’ down there.”

He spun toward the basement door, shoes squeaking on the wood as he took one determined step.

Toby moved fast - still limping, but adrenaline or sheer frustration propelled him off the couch. He lunged, one long arm shooting out, fingers clamping hard around the back of Ben’s hoodie. He yanked, sharp and vicious.

Ben’s feet left the floor for half a second. He windmilled, arms flailing, then crashed backward onto the coffee table with a loud crack of cheap wood and a startled yelp. Cans and controllers went flying, clattering across the floor.

The room exploded.

“WHAT THE FUCK, TOBY?!” Ben scrambled to sit up, rubbing the back of his head, voice cracking high with shock and anger.

Toby loomed over him, chest heaving, good eye blazing. “S-shut the fuck up!” he snapped, words stuttering hard but loud enough to cut through the chaos. “Tim said you’re n-not seein’ h-her tuh-tonight! And you’re n-not helpin’ anyone actin’ like a little b-bitch!”

Jeff threw his head back and laughed, raspy and delighted, cigarette dangling from his lips as he slapped his thigh. “Oh shit–you good down there, bro?”

Ben shot him a murderous glare, still sprawled half on the wrecked table. “Not funny, asshole!”

Tim stayed rooted in the armchair. His eyes were dark slits, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. The rage rolling off him was quiet but thick, like he was seconds from grabbing the nearest heavy object and putting it through a wall. Or a skull.

Then–angry footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Brian appeared at the bottom, hair sticking up in every direction, shirt pulled on backward and inside-out in his haste. He wore nothing but black boxers and that pissed-off, ice-cold expression that made the whole room drop ten degrees. A Glock hung loose in his right hand, finger off the trigger but ready.

He stopped, surveyed the wreckage - Ben on the floor, Toby breathing hard, Jeff cackling, Tim smoldering - and his voice came out flat and lethal.

“What. The fuck. Is all this noise.”

Toby immediately backed off, shoulders jerking with a hard tic as he dropped heavily back onto the couch, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful.

Ben stayed on the floor, breathing heavy, frustration etched deep in his face, but smart enough to keep his mouth shut for once.

Jeff’s laughter tapered into a low chuckle, cigarette smoke curling from his lips.

Tim didn’t even look over. Just took a slow drag, exhaled toward the ceiling like the whole scene was beneath him.

Brian stepped fully into the room, gun still in hand, and turned that cold stare on Tim. He raised the pistol slightly, not pointing, just waving it casually in a slow arc, like a sarcastic greeting.

“Hello?” he said, voice deadpan but sharp enough to cut glass. “Anybody gonna explain why I’m awake at three-thirty with a headache and a living room full of children throwing tantrums?”

Tim finally met his eyes, held the stare for a long beat, then looked away and took another drag.

The silence stretched, heavy and waiting.

Brian’s gaze shifted to Toby, cold and expectant. “Toby. Tell me.”

Toby shifted on the couch, shoulders hunching like the question was a weight he didn’t want. A tic snapped his neck sideways; he rubbed the back of it.

“She… s-snapped,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “At the b-bar. Some guy. She k-killed him. Blacked out. Tim and I… handled the r-rest.”

He shrugged one shoulder, like that was all there was to say. Half-assed, clipped, eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

Brian’s expression didn’t change, just went flatter, if that was possible. Done. Like this was the hundredth mess he’d walked into and exactly the one he’d warned about a dozen times.

He glanced down at Ben, who was still half-sprawled on the wrecked coffee table, rubbing his lower back, and sighed through his nose. Then he reached down, grabbed Ben by the front of his hoodie, and yanked him upright in one smooth, irritated motion.

Ben yelped–“Hey–!”–stumbling as Brian shoved him forward a step. He caught his balance quickly, backing up until there was a safe few feet between him and Brian, hands raised like don’t shoot.

Jeff stayed lounging on the couch, cigarette glowing as he took a lazy drag. His lips tugged wider when his eyes flicked down to Brian’s boxers - plain black, nothing special - but the smirk said he was enjoying some private, filthy joke anyway.

Brian didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. He turned that dead stare between Tim and Toby, like if he glared hard enough a miracle might undo the night.

Finally he shook his head, slow and tired.

“Should’ve listened to me,” he said flatly. “Told you. Random girls aren’t allowed here for a reason. Bring one in, let her get close to the house–this is what happens. She goes batshit, kills somebody, and now she’s our problem. Another fucking liability.”

He waved the gun once in another tired arc, emphasizing the point.

Tim finally lifted his head. Him and Brian locked eyes - long, heavy seconds ticking by like some silent argument only the two of them could hear. The air between them crackled, frustration tangled up tight.

Tim finally broke the silence, voice low and dripping annoyance. He flicked ash from his cigarette onto the floor without looking.

“What do you want me to say, Bri? You’re always right. Happy?” He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, staring Brian down. “Fine–it’s my fault. I decided to get a girl. I brought her around. My bad. You warned me, you’re smarter than all of us, blah blah blah.”

Brian’s jaw flexed. He sighed through his nose, sharp and ticked-off, the sound of someone who’d had this fight in his head a hundred times already.

“No,” he said, cold and even. “I’m just sayin’–maybe you shouldn’t have brought the bitch here. Several times. Knowing exactly what this place does.” He gestured vaguely at the walls, the house, like it was listening. “You keep playin’ with fire, disobeyin’ the boss, and now we got a body to explain and a girl who just went full psycho because she got too close.”

Tim barked a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, yeah–that’s why you and Toby are his favorites, right? Golden boys, never step outta line. Want a fuckin’ medal for it?”

The others stayed dead quiet. Jeff’s smirk had faded; he just smoked, eyes ping-ponging back and forth between Tim and Brian like he was watching the argument of the century. Toby stared harder at the ceiling, tics firing off in quick succession - shoulder jerk, neck crack. Ben shifted his weight, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

Brian didn’t rise to the bait. Just huffed, gun still loose in his hand.

“Why couldn’t you do like the rest of us?” he said, voice flat but edged. “You want pussy–go get it someplace else. Jeff hits strip clubs every weekend. I drive two goddamn hours when I need mine. Nobody brings their meat here for everybody else to sniff on.” His gaze flicked pointedly to Toby, sharp and accusing. “Then you act shocked when someone takes a bite.”

Toby’s head snapped down at that, good eye narrowing, lips pulling back in a silent snarl. He didn’t say anything, but the annoyance rolled off him in waves.

Ben finally couldn’t take it anymore. He raised both hands, voice cracking the tension like a bad chord.

“Um–guys? Sorry to interrupt the pissing contest, but like… can’t she just stay here?” He looked around, desperate for backup that wasn’t coming. “I mean–she’s already… in it now. She can’t just go back to normal life. Might as well keep her, right? Help out around here or whatever. The boss might allow it–”

Brian cut him off with a sharp, humorless laugh. “It doesn’t work like that, Ben. The boss isn’t lookin’ for new recruits. Certainly not incompetent ones who snap and kill randos the second they get sick.”

Tim’s head lifted slowly, eyes dark and dangerous. He didn’t argue with Brian, didn’t defend you. Just nodded once, voice rough and final.

“She’s not fuckin’ stayin’,” he said. “No way in hell.”

The words landed heavy, like a door slamming shut.

Toby cleared his throat, then muttered. “M-maybe… it’s not a b-bad idea.”

Ben jumped on it like a lifeline, pointing hard at Toby. “See? Thank you, Tobes–exactly! She could stay. She’s already–”

“No.” Tim’s voice cracked across the room, sharp and final. He sat forward in the chair, cigarette crushed out in the ashtray, eyes burning. “It’s not happenin’. I’m not allowin’ it. End of discussion.”

Toby sighed, long and defeated, lighter clicking shut in his fist. “So wh-what? We just… act like n-nothin’ happened? Pretend she didn’t–”

Brian cut in.“You know what you gotta do, Tim. There’s only one way this ends clean.”

Tim’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing to slits.

Brian shrugged one shoulder. “Kill her.”

The room went dead silent.

Ben’s voice cracked the air first, high and panicked. “Woah–woah, stop. No way–”

“Or,” Brian continued, calm as ever, “Jack can give her a lobotomy. Same result. She stops being a problem.”

Tim exploded out of the chair, voice roaring loud enough to rattle the windows. “She’s not getting a fucking lobotomy, you piece of shit! Are you insane? How would you feel if I said that about your girl? Huh?”

He took two steps toward Brian, fists clenched, face twisted in fury. “And this ain’t even your goddamn problem! You don’t get to stand there actin’ like you’re above it all–you think I don’t know your bullshit? I’ve covered for you how many times? Stuck my neck out, cleaned up your messes, and the second I got somethin’–the second I care about someone–you’re ready to throw her in the ground like trash?”

Brian’s jaw tightened, annoyance flashing sharp behind his eyes. But something else flickered too - hit, just a little. He didn’t push back.

The silence came back heavier than before.

Tim stood there, chest heaving, fists still clenched at his sides, staring Brian down like he was daring him to say one more word. Brian didn’t. He just held the eye contact for another long beat, cold and unblinking, then let out a slow, tired breath. He broke the stare first. Looked away toward the dark hallway like he was already halfway out of the conversation.

“There’s that empty cabin,” he said finally, voice flat and matter-of-fact. “The one up north, couple hours out past the old mill road. It’s off-grid, stocked, far enough no one’s gonna stumble over it. She can take it. Hide out for a while.”

The room exhaled. Not relief, more like the pressure valve had cracked open just enough to keep the whole thing from blowing apart.

Brian met Tim’s eyes again, calmer now, no venom left, and continued. “But you know the best option. Kill her. One bullet. She doesn’t suffer, we don’t have a loose end walking around who knows too much and can’t control what’s happening inside her head. It’s the safest play. For her. For all of us.”

The words hung there, simple and brutal.

Tim didn’t explode this time. Didn’t roar. He stared at Brian for a long second… then gave one slow, single nod.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was thinkin’ about the cabin too.”

Brian let out another short breath, like the acknowledgment was enough.

He flicked the safety on the Glock with his thumb, tucked it into the waistband of his boxers at the small of his back.

“It’s your call, Tim,” he said. “Whatever you decide.”

Then he turned and walked toward the stairs. No dramatic exit, no last look over his shoulder. Just footsteps fading up the wood, soft thuds growing distant until the door clicked shut overhead.

Tim dropped heavily back into the armchair, hands dragging down his face like he could scrub the whole night off. He stayed like that, head bowed, shoulders tight, the anger drained into something exhausted and hollow.

Ben watched him for a long second, guilt flickering, but mostly just resentment. This was Tim’s mess. All of it. He exhaled hard, muttering under his breath, “This is so fucked.”

Jeff stretched out longer on the couch, one arm flung over the back, the other hand lazily adjusting himself through his sweats with zero shame. He hummed low in his throat, lazy agreement, then grinned crooked sideways.

“At least you were right, though,” he drawled, scarred mouth curling. “When you said somethin’ bad was comin’. Wasn’t just your anxiety talkin’.”

Tim’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “The fuck does that mean?”

Ben’s eyes went wide. He shot Jeff a panicked what-the-fuck-dude glare, hands already up in damage-control mode. “Oh–uh–nothing, man, it’s just–”

He scrambled, words tumbling. “She… she told me some stuff when I was over there. Said she’d been feelin’ this rage building up. Like it wasn’t hers. Static in her head, blackouts, all that. It sounded… familiar.”

Tim’s stare pinned Ben to the spot, cold and accusing. “So you knew. You knew she was gettin’ sick again and didn’t think to tell me.”

Ben’s face flushed hot, defensiveness surging. He threw his hands up higher. “Hey–c’mon, man, she’s your girl. You’re the one sleepin’ next to her every night. You should’ve noticed!” His voice climbed, frustration spilling over. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy tryin’ to control every fuckin’ thing she does–who she talks to, where she goes, burnin’ brands into her–you would’ve seen it comin’. You’re the one who kept draggin’ her closer to this place. This is on you.”

Tim stared, something dark and ugly flickering behind his eyes.

The argument hung in the air, thick and unresolved, Ben’s words still echoing off the walls. Tim’s glare could’ve burned holes through him, fists clenched tight at his sides like he was one second from lunging.

Then–footsteps.

Coming up from the basement. Soft on the creaking wood, but unmistakable in the loaded quiet.

Ben’s head snapped toward the door, hope flashing bright across his face. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were okay, coming up to put an end to this nightmare.

But it was only Jack.

He emerged into the dim living room light calm as ever - tall, pale, black voids scanning the room without emotion. The tension hit him like a wall; his head tilted a fraction, posture stiffening just enough to show he hadn’t expected a full audience. He stopped a few steps in, hands clasped politely in front of him, looking awkwardly out of place among the bristling chaos.

Ben reacted first, words tumbling out in a rush. “Oh my God–Jack, what the hell happened down there? How is she? Is she okay? Can I see her?”

Jack’s head tilted again, slow and curious, then shifted a little more toward Tim. His voice came out low, formal, and careful.

“She is asleep.” A pause. “Tim… may I speak with you?”

Tim exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. He looked drained, the fight bleeding out of him in one tired rush.

“Yeah. Fine.” He pushed up from the chair, glancing at the others with flat, exhausted authority. “All of you–scram. Go to your rooms. Now.”

Ben groaned loud, frustration boiling over. “Seriously? Tim, c’mon–I just wanna–”

Tim’s stare cut him off mid-sentence, sharp and final. Ben’s arms dropped helplessly to his sides, mouth snapping shut. He shook his head, defeated.

Jeff stretched out longer on the couch, one arm flung over the back, then pushed himself up slowly, lazily, like the whole night was just mildly entertaining background noise. He unfolded those long legs, stood with a loose roll of his shoulders, and shot a crooked smirk over at Tim and Toby.

“Sweet dreams, you two,” he drawled, voice low and raspy with amusement. Then he sauntered off toward the stairs, boots thudding slow and heavy on the old wood, each step dragging just enough to make it clear he was in no hurry to leave the show behind.

Ben followed a second later, shoulders slumped, muttering under his breath the whole way.

Toby stayed slumped on the couch long after the others’ footsteps faded upstairs, legs stretched out, staring blankly at the dark TV screen like it might start talking back. The house creaked around him, settling into that familiar, watchful quiet.

Tim followed Jack, then paused at the basement door, glancing back at Toby. His voice came out low, rough from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep.

“You goin’ to bed?”

Toby shook his head slow, shoulders jerking once with a tic. “N-not tired,” he muttered. “Figured I’d… stay here. In c-case you need help.”

Tim didn’t say anything for a beat. Just looked at him, something soft flickering behind the exhaustion in his eyes. Gratefulness. Real and rare. He nodded once, short.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Then he turned and followed Jack down the stairs.

The basement air was cooler, sharper with antiseptic as they descended. At the bottom, right outside the infirmary’s heavy white door, Jack stopped. He turned to Tim, posture straight, hands clasped in front of him.

“She is stable,” he said quietly. “Sedated. Sleeping deeply. No physical injuries.”

A pause. Jack’s head tilted slightly, voids fixed on Tim’s face.

“It would be best,” he continued, voice formal and careful, “if she left. Soon. The Operator’s influence is… progressing. The energy is taking root. Distance… from here, from all sources… would slow it. Perhaps halt it.”

He didn’t say distance from you, but the implication hung clear and polite between them.

Tim stared at Jack. The weight of it hit him square: how deep he’d dragged you, how completely this was his fault. His choices. His obsession.

He swallowed thickly, then asked sharp and sudden, “Can I see my girl now?”

Jack didn’t answer with words. Just inclined his head again and reached for the door handle, pushing it open. He stepped aside, giving Tim the room.

Tim walked in.

The infirmary lights were dimmed low, only the small lamp over the cot casting a soft pool of gold. You lay curled on your side under the thin blanket, face clean now, hair still damp and darkening the pillow. Breathing slow and even, sedated peace smoothing out all the sharp edges the night had carved into you.

Tim stopped at the edge of the cot, hands loose at his sides, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

Jack stepped into the infirmary and eased the heavy white door shut behind him with a soft click. He moved without hurry or sound, fluid and quiet, the way he always did, keeping his distance as he crossed to the far side of the room. His presence was careful, unobtrusive, giving Tim space.

Tim didn’t move for a long time. Then finally, he reached out, big hand hovering a second before settling gently into your hair. The strands were cool and slightly damp from the shower, sliding soft between his fingers as he petted slow strokes from crown to nape.

He leaned down, careful not to shift the cot, and pressed a kiss to your lips, barely there, warm and lingering just long enough to feel the steady rise of your breath against his mouth. A silent promise, or apology, or both.

Then, without looking back at Jack, he hooked the small rolling stool with one boot and dragged it closer. It scraped soft across the tile. He sat heavy, elbows on his knees a moment, before reaching for your hand.

Your fingers were small in his - clean now, no blood under the nails, no sticky residue. He wrapped both his hands around yours, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, calluses catching faintly on your skin.

“I’m not mad, baby,” he muttered, voice so low it was almost lost in the hum of the equipment. “Not at you.”

You didn’t stir. The sedative held you deep and dreamless.

Jack sat at his desk across the room, back partially turned, pretending to update a chart that didn’t need updating. He kept his movements quiet, pen scratching soft, pages turning slower than necessary. He’d seen Tim angry, violent, cold, possessive - but never like this. Never broken open. It felt private in a way that made the air in the room heavier.

Tim didn’t seem to care if Jack heard. Or maybe he’d forgotten Jack was there at all.

After a while, Tim’s shoulders sagged. He leaned forward, forehead coming to rest gently against your arm, just above where his hands still held yours. His breathing slowed, deepened. The exhaustion of the night finally dragged him under.

He fell asleep like that - curled awkwardly on the little stool, one big hand cradling yours, face pressed to your arm.

Jack glanced over once, voids lingering on the sight for a quiet moment. Then he dimmed the lamp further, turned back to his desk, and let the room settle into silence.

You woke slowly, like surfacing from deep water - body heavy, mind fuzzy, but rested in a way you hadn’t been in weeks. The sedative had knocked you out clean; no dreams, no static, just black, blissful nothing. A soft moan slipped out as you stretched under the thin blanket, muscles aching faintly from the night’s tension.

You pushed up on one elbow, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the heel of your hand. The dim lamp painted everything gold and soft. The infirmary was empty, except for you, and him.

Tim, slumped on the little stool beside the cot, head hanging forward, arms crossed over his chest. His breathing was slow and even, dark hair falling messy across his forehead. He looked exhausted even in sleep - shoulders rounded, stubble thicker than usual, the lines around his eyes deeper.

A small, helpless smile tugged at your lips. You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing his forearm.

He woke instantly. A low groan rumbled in his throat as he straightened, blinking hard, but the second his eyes found yours the grogginess vanished.

He took your hand before you could pull it back, turning it palm-down to press a slow kiss to your knuckles.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep and smoke. “Good mornin’, sleepyhead.”

That crooked half-smile of his, the one that always undid you, flickered soft at the corners of his mouth.

You couldn’t help smiling back, small and tired. You took him in - messy hair, tired eyes, the faint scent of cigarettes still clinging to his jacket - and then just opened your arms a little, wordless.

He understood immediately.

Tim leaned forward, careful of the cot’s narrow edge, letting you wrap your arms around his neck. You pulled him close, face buried in the warm curve where his shoulder met his throat, breathing him in deep - pine, smoke, that sharp bite of his cologne that always felt like home, even when everything else was falling apart.

“Missed you,” you mumbled against his skin.

He huffed a quiet chuckle, arms sliding around your waist to hold you steady, one big hand splaying warm across your back.

“Yeah?” he teased gently, breath warm against your ear. “I was right here, baby.”

You didn’t answer, just clung tighter for a moment, letting the solid weight of him ground you.

Eventually you pulled back enough to sit up properly, blanket pooling at your waist. The scrubs felt soft and foreign against your skin, but clean. You looked at each other across the small space between cot and stool.

The air was heavy, last night’s horrors lurking unspoken at the edges, but there was something lighter threaded through it too. Relief. Quiet. Just the two of you, breathing the same air for the first time since everything shattered.

His hand stayed in yours, thumb tracing slow over your wrist.

“How you feelin’, baby?” he asked finally, careful in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You took a breath, tried to sort through the mess in your chest. Awful. Guilty. Hollowed out. The bar - your job, your one scrap of independence - gone to ash. The man’s face you couldn’t even remember, but whose blood you could still taste at the back of your throat. You blinked at him, words sticking.

“I feel… bad,” you managed, small and cracked. “Guilty. Like… that wasn’t me last night. It really wasn’t.”

He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to your joined hands. His fingers tightened around yours, petting gentle, soothing strokes. You’d never seen him look this distraught - brow creased deep, mouth pulled tight, worry carved into every line of his face.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I get it. We’ll… figure it out.”

You squeezed his hand, searching his expression. “Are you alright?”

His jaw clenched hard, like the question itself was foreign, like no one ever asked him that and meant it. Something raw flashed behind his eyes, dark and hurting.

You leaned closer. “Tim?”

He exhaled shaky, gaze dropping to the cot. “This is all my fault,” he said. “I put you through this. All of it.”

The words hit you like a truck. You’d never heard him take blame like this, never expected it. Your head shook on instinct. “No–Tim, don’t say that–”

“That’s just how it is.” He cut you off gentle but firm, eyes lifting to yours again. “If I’d paid attention–if I hadn’t been so caught up in all that bullshit with Toby, this constant need to control every damn thing… If I’d just been honest with you from the start, told you what this place really does–this wouldn’t have happened.”

You stared at him, throat tight. Words tangled - trying to tell him you’d fucked up too, that you’d been desperate for connection and looked for it in all the wrong places, that you should’ve been honest right back.

But he kept going, voice cracking at the edges.

“That night at the bar, when you finally snapped at me, I just called you that fucked-up thing and walked out. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve seen it comin’. Should’ve–”

His voice broke completely. He stopped, jaw working.

You couldn’t argue. Couldn’t find words at all. The memory of him calling you a hysterical bitch still stung sharp, but hearing him own it now, raw and wrecked, hurt in a different way.

You just shook your head, overwhelmed, chest aching. Tears pricked hot at your eyes.

You couldn’t stand it anymore - the guilt, the pain, the distance between you even though you were inches apart.

You shook your head, eyes stinging, and reached for him.

“Come here,” you whispered.

He leaned in fast, desperate, like he’d been waiting for permission. Your arms wrapped around his neck again, pulling him close, and your mouth found his.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, almost frantic, teeth clashing once before you both slowed, trying to pour everything into it that you couldn’t say. His big hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. You tasted salt - your tears - and the faint bitterness of cigarettes, and underneath it all, him. Warm and alive.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, breaths mingling in the small space between you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your lips, so quiet you almost missed it.

You shook your head again, small, stubborn. Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Me too.”

He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, like he was trying to erase the space the night had carved between you. His mouth slanted over yours, desperate and hot, and you pulled him closer, fingers digging into his shoulders, needing more.

He got the hint fast. One shift of his weight and he was moving, careful but urgent, climbing onto the narrow cot with you. The frame groaned under him, metal springs protesting, but neither of you cared. His big hands slid under the hem of your scrub top, palms rough and warm against your bare waist, gripping tight.

You tugged at his jacket, his shirt, anything in the way, and he let you - helping shrug it off before his mouth found yours again. You pulled harder, guiding him down until his weight settled over you, solid and heavy. The cot creaked louder, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was him - here, now, pressing you into the thin mattress like he could shield you from everything outside this room.

He broke away just long enough to yank your scrub top over your head, tossing it aside. Cool air hit your bare skin, nipples tightening instantly, and his eyes darkened as he looked down at you. Then his mouth was on you, hot and wet, closing over one breast, sucking. You moaned, loud and unashamed, back arching off the cot to press closer.

“Fuck–Tim–”

He moaned around you, the vibration making you shudder. His big hand found your other breast, squeezing firmly, thumb rolling over the nipple until you were gasping. The cot squeaked in rhythm with every shift of his body, too small for both of you.

He pulled back just enough to fully rip his own shirt off, buttons straining, fabric hitting the floor, revealing the broad chest you’d missed so much, the familiar lines of muscle and scars. His hands went to his jeans, unbuttoning fast but not pulling them down yet, like he was holding onto the last thread of control.

Then he was back on you, mouth crashing into yours again, kissing you like he couldn’t get deep enough. His hands gripped your hips hard, fingers digging in as he tugged clumsily at the waistband of your scrub pants, trying to drag them down. The fabric caught, bunched, and he growled low in frustration against your lips, shifting his weight to get better leverage, tugging them down your hips with impatient but careful hands. The stupid borrowed boxers went next, sliding off easily, tossed aside with the rest in a careless pile on the tile floor.

Cool air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps everywhere, but his gaze was hotter, dragging slowly over your body like he was memorizing every inch he’d missed. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, chest rising faster.

“God,” he muttered. “You’re beautiful.”

You felt the words in your core, warm and aching. A small, shy smile curved your lips despite everything, and you let your thighs fall open for him, offering yourself completely.

Tim exhaled sharp, like the sight punched the air out of him. He shifted down the cot, careful of the creaking frame, knees bracketing your legs, and settled between them, big hands sliding under your thighs to spread you wider. His palms were hot, calluses scraping against sensitive skin as he hooked your legs over his shoulders.

He took a moment, just looking, breathing you in, thumbs stroking slowly along the crease where thigh met hip. Then he leaned down, nose brushing your inner thigh first, lips grazing soft, open-mouthed kisses that made you shiver.

When his mouth finally found your pussy, you almost cried. His tongue parted you with one long, flat lick from entrance to clit, tasting you like he’d been starving for it. You were already soaked, and he groaned deep in his chest at the slick heat, the sound vibrating against you.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your folds, hot and ragged. “Missed this. Missed you.”

Then he really started.

His tongue was broad and insistent - lapping slow, hungry stripes up your center, gathering every bit of wetness, circling your entrance before dragging back up to your clit. He sucked gentle at first, lips sealing soft around the swollen bud, tongue flicking quick and light until your hips jerked. Then harder, sucking with real pressure, pulling soft, wet sounds from you that echoed in the quiet room.

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling tight in the messy strands, pulling him closer. He moaned into you at the tug, the vibration making you gasp his name, raw and broken.

He took his time, alternating long, slow licks with focused attention on your clit, sucking and flicking until your thighs trembled around his head. Every time you got close, hips grinding up, breath hitching, he’d ease off - kissing your thighs, nipping soft at the sensitive skin, tongue tracing lazy patterns until you were whining, desperate.

Then he’d dive back in, deeper this time, tongue pushing inside you, fucking slow and steady while his nose nudged your clit. His stubble scraped against your inner thighs, rough and perfect, grounding you in the rawness of him.

One big hand slid up your body, finding your breast again, squeezing firmly, thumb rolling your nipple in time with the slow thrust of his tongue. The other stayed gripped on your hip, holding you open, keeping you right where he wanted you.

You were dripping now, wet sounds filling the room every time he licked into you, drinking you down like he couldn’t get enough. His groans were constant, low, hungry, muffled against your pussy as he devoured you slowly and thoroughly.

When he finally sealed his mouth fully over your clit again, sucking hard, tongue flicking fast and relentless, you broke. Your back arched off the cot, thighs clamping around his head, fingers yanking his hair as the orgasm rolled through you in long, shuddering waves.

He softened his mouth, licking you gentle and slow through it, drawing it out until you were trembling, oversensitive, gasping his name over and over again.

Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes dark and wrecked, breathing hard against your thigh. He pressed one last soft kiss to your swollen clit, making you twitch, before crawling back up your body.

His mouth found yours again, wet, tasting like you, and you kissed him back just as desperate, arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“That feel good, sweetheart?” he murmured.

You nodded fast, too fast, still trembling from the aftershocks, and crushed your mouth to his again to prove it. The kiss was messy, desperate, tasting yourself on his tongue. Your hands scrambled down his chest, nails scraping skin, finding the open fly of his jeans and tugging hard, impatient.

He chuckled against your lips, the sound vibrating straight to your core, and shifted his weight to help. One big hand joined yours, shoving the denim and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock sprang hot and heavy against your thigh, already leaking at the tip.

You felt him wrap his hand around the base, guiding the thick head to your entrance, sliding slowly through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing. Just the blunt pressure nudging at you, back and forth, until you were whining into his mouth and lifting your hips to chase more.

“Tim–please–”

“Shh, I got you,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours.

Then he pushed in.

Inch by thick inch, stretching you open until you felt him all the way up in your belly. The cot squeaked loud beneath you, metal frame protesting every shift as he settled heavy between your thighs. You moaned, long and broken, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, the sound rumbling from his chest as he bottomed out, hips flush to yours. “Fuck… so tight. So good, baby.”

You pulled him down into another kiss, open-mouthed, tongues sliding messy and hungry. He started to move - slow, hard thrusts that dragged every ridge of him against your walls, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in deep. Each stroke punched the air from your lungs, the cot creaking in a steady, obscene rhythm beneath you.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He obliged - hips snapping harder, slow but punishing, making you feel every inch like he wanted to brand himself inside you.

“Like that?” he rasped against your mouth, breath hot and uneven. “Tell me–”

“Yes–fuck, yes–” you gasped, arching up to meet him. Your hands tangled in his hair again, pulling hard enough to make him groan into the kiss.

He shifted the angle just slightly - higher, grinding against your clit with every thrust - and you cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth. The cot squeaked louder, springs groaning in protest, but neither of you cared. It was just the two of you - sweat-slick skin, desperate kisses, the wet slap of his hips meeting yours.

You clung to him, moaning into his mouth, nails raking down his back, thighs trembling around his hips. He groaned with every thrust, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded and wrecked.

It felt too good, too raw, too everything, and the words slipped out before you could stop them, breathless and broken between moans.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice trembling as he thrust slow and deep, filling you completely. “Tim–I love you.”

He stilled for half a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. Last time you’d said it, he’d answered with a cigarette burn and silence. Now his eyes softened, dark, vulnerable, something unguarded flickering there. He didn’t look away.

After a long moment, his voice came rough, almost cracked.

“I love you too.”

The words hit you like a wave. Your heart stuttered, chest tightening so hard you couldn’t breathe for a second. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes. You pulled him down fast, crashing your mouth to his, kissing him like you could pour every shattered piece of yourself into it.

He groaned into you, hips starting to move again. Then his hands slid down your thighs, unwrapping your legs from his waist. He hooked them over his shoulders instead, folding you nearly in half, opening you completely.

The new angle dragged a sharp moan from your throat. He sank impossibly deeper - thick, hot, stretching you to the limit until you felt him everywhere.

“Fuck–Tim–”

“Yeah?” he rasped, pulling out slowly before driving back in hard. “Like that, baby? Feel me?”

You couldn’t answer, just nodded frantically, nails raking down his back as he started pounding you. Slow withdrawals, hard thrusts - deep, punishing strokes that punched the air from your lungs every time his hips slammed into yours. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and perfect.

He kept your thighs pinned high, leverage letting him hit spots that made your vision spark white. His mouth found your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, teeth grazing the skin as he groaned against you.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” he muttered, breathless, one hand sliding between you to circle your clit with rough fingers. “Soakin’ me–listen to that.”

You were - dripping, slick sounds every time he pulled out and drove back in. The pressure built fast and brutal, coiling tight low in your belly.

“Tim–I’m gonna–”

“I know,” he growled, thrusting harder, fingers rubbing faster. “Cum on my dick, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

It hit you like a freight train, orgasm crashing through you hard and sudden. You cried out, back bowing off the cot, pussy clenching tight around him in waves. Wetness flooded out of you, soaking his thighs, the thin mattress beneath, a warm puddle spreading under your ass.

He fucked you through it - relentless, hips snapping, groaning low as you pulsed and gushed around him.

“That’s it–fuck, look at you. Makin’ such a mess for me. So pretty when you cum.”

You were shaking, oversensitive, but he didn’t stop - kept driving deep, drawing it out until you were whimpering, tears slipping down your temples into your hair.

Only then did he shift, letting your legs slide down to wrap around his waist again, leaning over you, mouth finding yours in a messy, breathless kiss.

He started moving harder - faster now, chasing his own edge. The cot screamed under you, frame rattling against the wall with every thrust. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you into every snap of his hips, burying himself deep over and over.

But then - something shifted.

One of his hands left your hip, sliding up your body, until his fingers wrapped around your throat. Not tight at first. Just resting there, warm and heavy, thumb stroking the side of your neck like a gentle reminder of who held you.

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering open wider. The pressure built gradually, subtle, testing, as his hips kept slamming into yours, deep and rhythmic. His fingers tightened just enough to make your pulse jump under his palm, air thinning in your lungs, the edges of your vision blurring soft.

It sent a conflicted thrill through you - scared, yes, the vulnerability of it sharp and real, but turned on too, heat pooling fresh between your thighs at the raw dominance. Your pussy clenched around him involuntarily, drawing a low groan from his throat.

But his eyes… they weren’t on you anymore. They were distant, unfocused, staring through you like he was seeing something else entirely. His thrusts slowed, just a fraction, becoming more measured, almost mechanical.

Unbeknownst to you, Brian’s words echoed in his head like a curse: Kill her. One bullet. But this wasn’t a gun. This was his hand - big, strong, wrapped around the fragile column of your throat. It would be so easy. Squeeze a little harder. Hold a little longer. End it here, in this moment, before the sickness took you completely. Before you became something he couldn’t save. Quick. Mercy. His fault anyway - better his hands than anyone else’s. She doesn’t suffer.

He considered it. Really considered it. Thumb pressing just a bit more, feeling the flutter of your pulse speed up under his grip. His hips ground deep, cock twitching inside you as the dark thought twisted with the pleasure - sick and wrong, but there.

You felt the change. The way his fingers dug in deeper, air thinning to a rasp in your throat. Your hands flew to his wrist on instinct, clutching, not pulling away yet, but holding there, nails biting into his skin. Panic spiked hot in your chest - terrified in that split-second realization that he could do it. That this might be how it ends: not with flames or blood or static, but here, under him, in the basement of this cursed house, his hand around your throat while he’s buried inside you. Conflicted - because even as fear clawed up your spine, arousal twisted with it, your body betrayed you with another flood of wetness, clenching tight around him like it craved the danger.

Tears pricked your eyes from the raw emotion crashing through you. Love and fear tangled so tight you couldn’t tell them apart. You gasped his name–soft, broken–“Tim?”–voice thin and pleading, searching his face for the man you knew, not this distant shadow.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp, sudden, like waking from a trance. The darkness cleared in an instant, replaced by horror. Wide, wrecked horror.

His hand loosened immediately, fingers uncurling fast, pulling away like your skin had burned him. He exhaled shaky, chest heaving, hips stilling completely as he stared down at you.

“Fuck–baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking raw. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot and uneven against your lips. One hand cupped your cheek gently now, thumb stroking soft, apologetic, while the other braced beside your head.

“I love you,” he said again, desperate this time, like he needed you to hear it, to believe it. “I’d never… I couldn’t…”

You didn’t say anything. The fear lingered, sharp and cold in your veins, but so did the heat - conflicted, twisted, your body still aching for him even as your mind reeled from the edge you’d just teetered on. You knew what he’d been thinking. What he’d almost done. The realization sat heavy in your chest, unspoken but clear as day. But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t scream or push him off. Instead, you nodded, just once, small and silent, tears slipping free down your temples. Your hands slid up his back, pulling him closer, urging him to keep going. Because stopping now, facing it, might break you both completely.

He searched your eyes for a long second, guilt etched deep in his face, then nodded back. His mouth found yours again - gentle this time, almost tentative, like he was asking permission. You kissed him back harder, desperate to chase away the shadows, to feel only him.

He started moving again, slow at first, careful thrusts that dragged deep, rebuilding the rhythm without the edge. His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb wiping away your tears.

You clung to him - scared, turned on, conflicted tears still falling - but let the pleasure build again, pushing everything else down deep where you wouldn’t have to face it. Not now. Not yet.

“Cum inside me,” you whispered, desperate. “Please–Tim–”

That broke him.

He slammed in one last time, deep and grinding, and came with a choked groan, hips jerking as he spilled hot and thick inside you.

He collapsed forward, careful not to crush you, face buried in your neck, breathing hard and ragged. You held him tight, arms around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, keeping him inside as long as you could.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to bring up what had just happened.

The words sat lodged in your throat like broken glass, sharp, impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out. You could still feel the ghost of his fingers around your neck, the brief, terrifying pressure that had stolen your air and made your heart slam against your ribs. You could still see the distant, hollow look in his eyes when he’d almost crossed that line. And yet your body was still humming from the aftershocks, slick and sore and aching in the best-worst way, thighs trembling faintly even now.

Tim stayed inside you for another long minute, softening slowly, breathing ragged against your neck, before he finally eased out with a low, reluctant groan. The sudden emptiness made you clench involuntarily, a small whimper slipping past your lips. He pressed one last soft kiss to your collarbone, right over the faded burn mark, then slowly straightened up.

The cot creaked pitifully under the shift in weight. He stood, jeans still shoved down around his thighs, cock slick and softening as he tucked himself away with careful, almost mechanical movements. You watched him, silent, dazed, as he pulled his boxers and jeans back up, buttoned them, zipped them, then reached for his discarded shirt on the floor. The fabric was wrinkled, buttons half-done from earlier desperation. He shrugged it on without bothering to fix them properly, fingers trembling just slightly as he dragged it closed over his chest.

You felt suddenly cold without him covering you. Vulnerable and exposed. You sat up slowly, legs shaky, core still pulsing, and reached for the pile of scrubs. The borrowed boxers first, then the pants, then the top. Every movement felt mechanical, like your body was moving on autopilot while your mind stayed stuck on that single, terrifying moment: his hand tightening, his eyes far away, the air thinning.

You pulled the scrub top over your head, smoothed it down with numb fingers, and lay back against the thin pillow. The cot felt even smaller now. Too small for the weight of everything unsaid between you.

Tim finished dressing and turned back to you. His face was unreadable again, guarded and tired, but his eyes softened when they landed on yours. He opened his mouth like he might say something, anything, but before he could, a sharp knock echoed against the heavy white door.

Both of you froze.

The door cracked open just enough for Brian to stick his head inside.

He took one look at the scene - Tim standing beside the cot, clothes hastily thrown on, you curled under the blanket in fresh scrubs, the unmistakable smell of sex hanging thick in the antiseptic air - and his expression didn’t change. No surprise. Just that flat, unreadable look he always wore.

His eyes flicked from you to Tim and back again.

“Tim,” he said finally. “Outside. Now.”

Tim exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated, but nodded once. He looked down at you, thumb brushing once over your cheek in a quick, almost apologetic gesture.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “Promise.”

You nodded and watched him follow Brian out. The door clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound.

You lay there in the sudden quiet, staring at the ceiling tiles, heart thudding too hard. You strained to hear their voices through the door, low and muffled, but the words wouldn’t come clear. Just fragments. Tim’s rough timbre. Brian’s clipped monotone. Something about “cops” and “fire” and “lay low.”

Your stomach twisted.

A minute later, maybe two, the door opened again.

Tim stepped back inside alone. He looked… heavier. Shoulders tight, jaw locked, eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest ache.

He crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the edge of the cot beside you. The frame groaned under his weight. He took your hand immediately - fingers lacing through yours, holding tight.

“Cops are swarming the bar,” he said without preamble, voice steady. “Fire department too. Whole place is a crime scene now. But–” He squeezed your hand once. “You’re not a suspect. They’re calling it a random act–guy got too drunk, started shit, then the place burned down in the chaos. No witnesses left alive to say different. No security footage. So you’re a ghost in this.”

You stared at him, processing. Relief flickered somewhere distant, but it didn’t reach all the way in. The bar - your bar - was gone. Your life - your tiny, fragile, hard-won life - was gone. And the cops weren’t looking for you.

Maybe it should’ve felt like mercy.

It didn’t.

Tim kept talking, quieter now.

“You need to lay low. Real low. No going back to your place, not for a while. They’ll watch it. They always do when something like this happens.”

You swallowed. Your voice came out small, cracked.

“Can I… go home? Just for a little bit? Grab some clothes, my stuff–”

“No.” The word came out sharp and final. He softened it immediately, thumb stroking over your knuckles. “Baby, no. Not yet. Too risky. They’ll have eyes on it. One slip and you’re done.”

You stared at the blanket bunched in your lap. The fear from earlier, the hand around your throat, the distant look in his eyes, mixed with this new wave of helplessness until it all blurred together into something suffocating.

You asked him so what now, voice small and cracked in the quiet infirmary.

Tim looked at you for a long second, eyes shadowed, then exhaled slowly.

“I’ll bring you somewhere safe,” he said. “Somewhere no one will look. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

He stood, the cot creaking under the shift, and held out his hand.

“C’mon.”

You took it, fingers cold against his warm palm, and let him pull you up. Your legs felt unsteady, like they’d forgotten how to hold weight after everything. The borrowed scrubs hung loose and foreign on your body, the faint antiseptic smell clinging to the fabric. You followed him out of the infirmary without looking back at the cot, the thin blanket still rumpled from where you’d both been.

Up the narrow basement stairs, each step creaking under Tim’s boots. The house smelled the same as always: old pine, stale smoke, something faintly metallic underneath. The air grew warmer as you climbed, the dim light spilling down like it was waiting for you.

You stepped into the living room.

Toby was there - sprawled on the sagging couch, long legs stretched out. He was toying with his phone mindlessly, thumb scrolling without really looking, screen glow painting his face in pale blue. The second you appeared in the doorway he froze, head snapping up, good eye widening just a fraction.

For a heartbeat, you just stared at each other.

The last time you’d really looked at each other had been that night - him bloody and broken, you shaking under Tim’s hands while he watched. The memory hung between you like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore.

You swallowed. Managed a small, careful, “Hi.”

Toby blinked. His shoulder jerked once in a sharp tic, then he gave a tiny nod.

“Hi,” he rasped back. He shifted, sitting up a little straighter, fingers tightening around the phone. “You… f-feeling better?”

You nodded, quick and automatic, even though “better” felt like a lie so big it hurt your chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “A little.”

Tim’s hand settled on your lower back, firm and possessive, guiding you.

“Keep following me,” he said, already turning toward the front door.

You hesitated. Looked back at Toby, still watching you with that quiet, guarded expression, then up at Tim.

“Wait,” you said softly. “Can I… can I at least talk to Ben? Just for a minute. Just to say hi.”

Tim stopped. Turned fully to face you. His jaw worked once, twice, something flickering behind his eyes that looked a lot like the same darkness from earlier.

“No,” he said. Flat. Final.

“Please.” Your voice cracked on the word. You stepped closer, hands reaching for his jacket sleeve, fingers curling into the worn denim. “Tim–just five minutes. I haven’t seen him since… since everything. He came to my house. He was nice to me. I just want to say hi. Please.”

Tim stared down at you, long and hard. You could see the war behind his eyes: the need to keep you close, keep you safe, keep you his - versus the tiny, grudging part of him that remembered how Ben had been there for you, made you laugh when everything else was falling apart.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Five minutes. Not a second more.”

You smiled, small, grateful, almost relieved, and nodded fast.

“Thank you.”

Tim turned to Toby, jerking his chin toward the stairs.

“Take her up to him. I’m starting the truck.”

Toby pushed off the couch, careful of his still-healing ribs, and stood. He gave Tim a quick nod, then looked at you. Motioned once with his head–follow.

You walked up the stairs together, footsteps soft on the worn wood. The hallway light flickered overhead, casting long, jittery shadows. Halfway up, you glanced sideways at Toby, his shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to take up less space.

“You feeling better?” you asked quietly.

He nodded once, quick, almost automatic. A small tic jerked his shoulder up toward his ear.

“D-don’t feel pain anyway,” he rasped. “Jack t-took care of me. Fixed… everything he c-could.”

You managed a small smile at that, genuine, if tired.

“I didn’t expect Jack to be such a good doctor,” you admitted. “He’s… kind of creepy-looking.”

Toby actually smiled, small and crooked. The scar on his cheek pulled tight with it.

“Y-yeah,” he muttered. “He gets that a lot. But… he’s g-good at what he does. Really g-good.”

You nodded, something warm flickering in your chest despite everything. Toby glanced at you, quick, almost shy, then looked away again.

You reached Ben’s door. The chipped paint, the half-peeled stickers, the faint bass hum leaking through the wood - it all felt oddly familiar even though you’d never been inside.

You raised your hand to knock.

No answer.

You glanced at Toby, who gave a tiny shrug, then you pushed the door open anyway.

The room hit you like a wall of stale heat.

Thick air, too many running electronics, the sour-sweet stink of old Monster cans and unwashed clothes. RGB strips pulsed slow purple-blue across every surface, turning the chaos into something almost hypnotic. Empty cans teetered in precarious towers on the desk. Posters of naked anime girls dominated the walls - thighs spread, tongues out, eyes glassy and inviting in ways no real person could ever match. It was worse in person. Exactly what you’d pictured, and somehow more.

Ben sat hunched in his gaming chair, oversized shirt swallowing his frame, blonde hair a chaotic nest. His monitors glowed bright, three of them, and the center screen showed an open browser tab: a local news article. Grainy drone photo of the bar reduced to blackened timbers and yellow crime-scene tape. The headline screamed “Suspicious Fire at Local Bar–Possible Foul Play.”

He didn’t notice you at first.

Jeff was there too, sprawled across Ben’s unmade bed like he owned it, long legs stretched out, scarred arms folded behind his head. His black hair stuck up in sweaty spikes, white shirt rucked up just enough to show the sharp cut of his hipbones disappearing into low gray sweats. He was smirking at Ben’s screen, clearly mid-taunt.

Ben jolted as soon as his eyes landed on you, head snapping up so fast his headphones nearly flew off.

For a heartbeat he just stared - frozen, pupils blown behind the blue light reflection.

Then he lunged forward, slamming the keyboard with a crack that rattled the whole desk, the monitors turning off. He ripped his headphones off and flung them somewhere behind him - they hit the wall with a plasticky clatter.

“Dude!” The word burst out - half-shout, half-breathless laugh. “You’re–you’re actually here!”

He scrambled out of the chair, nearly tripping over a nest of cables, arms half-raised like he wanted to hug you but wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Excitement poured off him, shoulders bouncing, grin splitting wide and boyish, but underneath it flickered something else. Awkwardness. Guilt, maybe. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful, looking at that article.

Jeff sat up slowly on the bed, grin stretching wider as his pale eyes raked over you head to toe.

“Well fuck me,” he drawled, voice lazy and thick with amusement. “You look like you escaped the psych ward in those scrubs.”

His gaze lingered on the loose gray fabric, the way it hung off your frame.

“Still,” he added, voice dropping into something darker, lazier, “I liked you better last night. All that pretty red dripping down your face. Too bad Jack hosed you off like a good little nurse.”

Toby, still standing just inside the doorway, gave Jeff a hard look. His shoulder jerked once in a sharp tic.

“Sh-shut up, Jeff,” he muttered. “That’s n-not f-funny.”

Jeff just smirked wider, leaned back on his hands, and mock-imitated Toby’s tic - head snapping sideways, shoulder jerking up with exaggerated violence.

“S-s-sorry, Twitch,” he teased, voice pitched high and stuttering on purpose. “Didn’t mean to upset your delicate sensibilities.”

Toby’s good eye narrowed, lips pulling back in a silent snarl, but he didn’t rise to it. Just crossed his arms tighter over his chest and glanced around the room - posters, cans, half-naked anime girls - like he was quietly judging every inch of it.

Ben ignored them both.

He took another step closer to you - stopped again, hands dropping awkwardly to his sides.

“Holy shit,” he breathed again. “You’re okay? Like–really okay? Tim said you were… I mean, he wouldn’t let anyone–”

He cut himself off, glancing toward Toby, then back at you. His cheeks flushed pink under the RGB glow.

You finally gave a small, tired smile. “Hey, Ben.”

He exhaled hard, almost a laugh, and pulled you into a quick, fierce hug. One arm around your waist, careful not to squeeze too hard, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Jesus, dude,” he muttered into your hair. “I was freaking out. Jeff said you were covered in blood and I thought–fuck, I thought–”

You hugged him back, tight and grateful.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Really.”

He pulled back, hands on your shoulders, searching your face.

“You sure? Like–actually?”

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice enough to say more.

Toby cleared his throat from the doorway, soft and awkward.

“We only g-got a couple minutes,” he said quietly. “Tim’s waiting. She’s g-gotta go with him.”

Ben shot him an annoyed look, almost ignored him entirely, then turned back to you.

His gaze flicked around the room, like he was suddenly seeing it through your eyes. His face went bright red.

“Uh… yeah,” he laughed - awkward, too loud. “Sorry about… the mess. Never really had a girl in my room before. Like–ever. So. Yeah. This is… this is embarrassing.”

Jeff snorted from the bed.

“Understatement of the century, virgin.”

Ben flipped him off without looking.

You managed a small laugh, and glanced around too. The anime girls stared back, glossy and shameless.

“It’s… very you,” you said softly.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks still flaming.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Toby shifted his weight, glancing toward the stairs.

“Time’s up,” he said, quieter this time. “Tim’s gonna c-come looking.”

Ben’s face fell, just a little.

“Okay,” he said, voice smaller. “Just… be careful, alright?”

You hugged Ben goodbye one last time, tight and grateful, your arms around his shoulders, his shirt soft and smelling faintly of weed. He squeezed back just as hard, then let go reluctantly, hands lingering on your arms for a second like he didn’t want to fully release you.

“Text me when you can,” he muttered again, voice small. “Or… whatever. Just–don’t disappear, okay?”

You nodded, throat too tight to answer properly.

From the bed, Jeff let out a low, lazy whistle.

“Aw, c’mon now,” he drawled, stretching his long legs out further. “What about me? Don’t I get a hug too?”

You turned your head slowly, raising one eyebrow at him, flat and unimpressed.

Jeff just smirked wider, pale eyes dragging down your body again, lingering on the loose scrub pants and the way the top hung off your frame.

You sighed, annoyed, and deadpanned, “Bye, Jeff.”

He laughed, low and raspy, and raised one hand in a lazy wave.

“Bye, baby. Try not to kill anyone else without me.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away before he could say anything else disgusting.

Toby was already moving, shoulder jerking once as he stepped back into the hallway. He reached past you and kicked Ben’s door shut behind him, harder than necessary. The thud echoed down the corridor.

“Assholes,” he muttered under his breath.

You snorted, a little surprised, and glanced at him sideways as you started walking.

“You really don’t like those two, huh?”

Toby shook his head. Another tic snapped his neck sideways.

“Ben’s… alright,” he rasped. “When he’s n-not around that d-demon.”

You giggled, a small, tired sound that surprised even you.

Toby glanced over at the noise, quick, almost startled, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. A smile. The scar on his cheek pulled with it.

You kept walking, side by side now, down the dim hallway, past flickering lights and peeling paint. At the top of the stairs you paused for half a second, looking back toward Ben’s door. Then you followed Toby down the stairs.

The old wood groaned under your feet with every step, the narrow staircase creaking in protest as you descended side by side. Toby moved ahead slightly, while you trailed close behind - still unsteady, still raw from everything that had happened.

Halfway down, you swallowed once and forced the question out, voice small against the creaking steps.

“Toby… do you know where he’s taking me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept descending, one careful step after another, tics flickering - shoulder jerk, neck snap - before he finally spoke.

“Somewhere s-safe.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, broken only by the groan of the stairs.

You tried again, quieter. “Like… where?”

He paused on the last step, hand gripping the banister a second too long. His good eye flicked sideways to you, then away again.

“Just… s-safe,” he repeated, softer this time. “Don’t w-worry about it. You’ll be o-okay.”

The words were meant to reassure, but the way he said them - clipped, eyes fixed on the front door ahead - made it clear he wasn’t going to give you more. Not the name of the place. Not how far. Not how long.

You nodded once, throat tight, and followed him the rest of the way down.

You reached the bottom. Toby kept walking, straight toward the front door. You followed without another word, footsteps soft and mismatched against the worn floorboards.

He reached the door first, twisted the knob, and pushed it open. Cold morning air rushed in, sharp with pine and frost, cutting straight through the thin scrubs. You stepped across the threshold together, out onto the porch. The warped boards creaked under your weight, protesting the shift.

You walked down the porch steps. Toby stopped beside you, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched.

The truck idled a short distance away, headlights cutting pale tunnels through the pines. Tim sat behind the wheel, silhouette rigid, one elbow propped on the open window, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. He watched, eyes steady and unreadable in the dashboard glow.

Toby glanced at the truck, then back at you. His eyes flicked over your face, quick and searching, before dropping to the ground.

“Well…” he rasped, voice low enough the wind almost stole it. “This is it, I g-guess.”

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper. Everything felt too big, too final. You still didn’t know where you were going. Didn’t know if you’d ever come back here. Didn’t know if you even wanted to. The confusion sat heavy in your chest, mixed with guilt, fear, and something softer you couldn’t name.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

You looked at Toby. The scar pulling tight across his cheek, the faint tremor in his shoulders that wasn’t just from the cold. He’d been kind to you when no one else had. A friend.

So you made up your mind.

Quick, before you could second-guess it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his neck.

For half a heartbeat he didn’t move, body rigid, breath catching sharp in his throat. Then his arms came around you, slow, careful, one strong hand settling at the small of your back, the other higher between your shoulder blades. His tics went wild: shoulder jerking hard against your side, neck cracking sideways once, twice, a soft, aborted sound escaping against your hair.

You pressed your cheek to his hoodie, and whispered,

“Thank you for being my friend, Toby.”

He inhaled sharply at that, shaky, like the words had punched straight through his ribs. His fingers flexed against your back, then tightened just a fraction. He nodded into your hair, small and jerky, unable to speak.

You held on a second longer.

Then you let go.

He let go too, reluctant, hands sliding away like they didn’t want to. His good eye met yours for one last beat, something raw and unguarded flickering there, before he glanced away. Not at the truck. Never at the truck. Just at the dark trees, the porch, anywhere else.

Then he turned, quick, shoulders hunched, and walked back inside without another word. The screen door creaked shut behind him. The porch light flickered once, then steadied.

You stood there a moment, breath fogging in the cold, watching the empty doorway.

Then you turned and walked to the truck.

Tim reached across and pushed the passenger door open before you even reached it. You climbed in, seat cold against your thighs, faint smell of cigarettes and pine already familiar.

He took one last drag, then flicked the cigarette out the window. The ember arced red before winking out on the gravel.

He shifted into drive.

The truck rolled forward, tires crunching over loose stones, headlights sweeping across the overgrown yard, catching the edge of the tree line before swallowing it in shadow.

You leaned your head against the window, glass cold against your temple, and watched the house shrink in the side mirror until it disappeared behind the pines.

Neither of you spoke.

The road unspooled beneath the tires: gravel to cracked asphalt to smoother county blacktop winding through endless, indifferent forest. Headlights caught occasional glints - reflective signs half-buried in brush, deer eyes flashing low and green at the tree line - then nothing but trees and more trees. The faint red dashboard glow painted Tim’s face in harsh relief: jaw locked, eyes fixed forward, shadows pooling under them like bruises.

Your hands stayed folded tight in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms to keep them from trembling. The phone in your scrub pocket felt like a lead weight, your last fragile thread to the life you’d lost, but you didn’t dare touch it. Not with him right there. Every time your mind skittered back to the bar - the wet crunch of bone under aluminum, arterial spray hot on your face, the man’s face caving in like wet clay - the tears burned behind your eyes again. You swallowed them. Again. Again. Until your throat felt scraped raw.

You didn’t know if you could even ask where you were going.

But the silence grew thorns. It pressed against your ribs until breathing hurt.

You slid your eyes sideways. His profile was carved from stone in the dim light: sharp jaw, stubble thick and dark, one hand draped loose over the wheel, the other resting heavy on his thigh. Cigarette smoke still ghosted off his jacket in faint, acrid threads.

“Where are you taking me?” The question came out small.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

He stared straight ahead for miles, long enough that hope curdled into dread. Then he exhaled, slow and measured.

“Somewhere safe.”

That was all.

You waited. Nothing else came.

The questions kept rising anyway, clawing at the back of your teeth until they spilled out.

“Will I… live there?” Your voice cracked. “Is it far? How long do I have to stay?”

His fingers flexed once on the wheel, knuckles bleaching white for a heartbeat, then relaxed.

“Don’t think about it too much,” he said, quieter now. Almost gentle, but the gentleness felt borrowed, like it didn’t fit him anymore. “It’s the only way you walk away from what happened. Lay low. Stay gone. That’s it.”

He flicked a glance sideways, brief, burning, long enough for you to see the exhaustion carved deep under his eyes, the tight, miserable line of his mouth.

“Just trust me.”

The words landed like lead in your gut.

Trust him.

The same man who’d fucked you slow and desperate on that infirmary cot. The same man whose hand had closed around your throat, gradual, testing, until your vision grayed at the edges and your pulse hammered against his palm like a trapped bird. The same man who’d stared through you with dead, distant eyes while he was still buried inside you, like he was weighing the mechanics of ending it right there. One squeeze. One long press. Merciful, maybe.

How the fuck were you supposed to trust that?

You looked away fast, out the passenger window, watching pines streak past in a nauseating blur.

The further the truck carried you from the house, from those suffocating woods, from the evil’s low, buzzing weight that had lived inside your skull for weeks, the lighter your lungs felt. The static receded slowly, like a bad radio signal finally fading into white noise. Not gone. But quieter. Distant and survivable.

Your shoulders dropped a fraction. Your breathing evened.

You didn’t feel safe, not even close, but you felt less like prey.

Tim stayed silent.

So did you.

He drove steady, unhurried. After a long stretch his hand eventually drifted across the console and found yours. Big fingers sliding between your smaller ones, warm and rough, thumb tracing one slow, absent circle over your knuckles. You stared at the endless road unspooling ahead.

The hug with Toby burned behind your eyes.

You kept waiting - for Tim to bring it up. For the low growl, the possessive edge, the “what the fuck was that” that should have come the second you’d wrapped your arms around another man right in front of him. The Tim who’d once pinned Toby to the floor and beaten him bloody would have snapped. Would have dragged you into the truck by the wrist. Would have made sure you understood exactly who you belonged to.

But he hadn’t said a word.

Not one.

He’d just sat there, engine idling, cigarette burning down between his fingers, watching the whole thing like it was happening behind soundproof glass. Like he’d already checked out. Like the jealousy, the rage, the ownership that used to live under his skin had finally burned away to ash.

It unsettled you more than any explosion would have.

Because this quiet… this absence… felt like mourning.

Your stomach turned over slowly.

You swallowed once. Twice. The words crawled up your throat anyway, small, cracked, and inevitable.

“Tim…”

He didn’t look over. Just kept driving, thumb still moving in that slow, mindless circle over your knuckles.

You forced it out.

“When you had your hand around my throat… earlier. When we were…” The memory flashed hot and sick behind your eyes: his hips grinding deep, your legs around his waist, his fingers tightening, air thinning to a thin rasp. “Were you going to kill me?”

The truck didn’t swerve. The engine didn’t change pitch. Nothing dramatic happened. He just… stopped breathing for a second.

You felt it, the sudden stillness in his chest, the way his thumb froze mid-stroke against your skin.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even turn his head.

The silence stretched, slow and heavy, almost suffocating, until it became the answer all by itself.

Your throat closed. Tears burned fresh behind your eyes, but they didn’t fall.

You stared at the dashboard lights painting red ghosts across his unmoving profile.

He kept driving, hand still wrapped around yours.

Thumb still resting, motionless now, on your knuckles.

Neither of you spoke again for the rest of the drive. And all you could think was how gently he held your hand while carrying the weight of what he’d almost done.

How sad it was.

How final.

You drove for what felt like an eternity - maybe three hours, maybe more, the dashboard clock ticking slow and merciless toward dawn like a countdown to something irreversible. The same endless woods flanked the road for miles, but out here you skimmed right alongside them, never quite pulled into their suffocating maw the way the house always dragged you under. The blacktop stayed narrow and neglected, pocked with potholes that jarred the truck every few minutes, rattling your bones and your thoughts. Headlights pierced the gloom ahead, catching fleeting glimpses: deer eyes glowing low and feral at the tree line, tendrils of fog curling lazy around twisted trunks, rusted NO TRESPASSING signs leaning half-buried in choking vines like forgotten warnings. The radio stayed dead. You could only hear the low, steady hum of the engine, tires grinding over gravel patches, and that relentless clock - tick, tick - marking time you weren't sure you wanted anymore.

Eventually the trees began to thin, dark silhouettes giving way to patches of open sky bruised with gray. A dirt track branched off to the right - barely visible, little more than two worn ruts carved into a carpet of fallen pine needles, overgrown and forgotten. Tim turned onto it without a word, without slowing, the truck jolting hard over exposed roots and uneven earth. You braced one hand against the dash, the other gripping the door handle as the car bounced and shuddered. Another ten minutes of bone-rattling punishment, suspension groaning in protest, and the headlights finally swept across a small, ragged clearing.

A cabin hunkered there - single-story, its cedar siding weathered to a near-black patina from years of rain and neglect, metal roof patched haphazardly with mismatched sheets of tin that caught the light in dull, uneven flashes. One lone window glowed faintly yellow from inside, like a wary eye peering out. A dark-colored sedan - older model, plain and unremarkable, no plates visible from this angle - sat parked crooked in the dirt yard, tires sunk slightly into the soft ground like it'd been waiting a long time.

Tim pulled up beside it and killed the engine. The sudden silence crashed in, ringing, absolute, broken only by the faint tick of cooling metal under the hood.

He sat there for a long beat, both hands still wrapped tight around the wheel, staring at the cabin like it was an old enemy he hadn't expected to face again. Then he exhaled sharp through his nose, reached under the driver's seat, and pulled out a Glock - Brian's spare, the one he always kept stashed in the truck for "just in case." Matte black, heavy in his palm. He checked the chamber with a quick, practiced flick - loaded - then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, pulling his jacket down to conceal it.

Your stomach dropped. Why the gun? Why now? Out here, in the middle of nowhere, with no one around for miles? The thought wormed in cold and insidious: was this it? Was he going to kill you after all? Bury your body where no one would look? Your pulse hammered in your throat, but you didn't say a word. Just watched him from the corner of your eye, breath shallow.

He reached into his jacket pocket next and fished out a small ring of keys. Metal clinked softly in the quiet car.

"This is it," he said, voice flat and final.

You looked around - nothing but encroaching trees, endless darkness pressing in, the faint outline of a rusted propane tank hunkered beside the foundation like a sentinel. No neighbors. No road signs. Your phone showed barely a whisper of signal when you glanced at it - gone in a blink.

"Is this… where we're staying?" you asked quietly, voice thinner than you meant.

"Yeah."

He got out first, boots hitting the dirt with a soft crunch. You followed a second later. The air smelled raw - sharp pine resin, wet soil, faint woodsmoke drifting from some distant fire. Tim walked ahead, boots grinding gravel, and climbed the two warped porch steps with a creak. The key slid into the lock with a scrape that sounded too loud in the stillness. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, motioning you in first - gentlemanly, almost, but his eyes stayed distant, fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

You crossed the threshold.

Inside, it was dim and musty, lit only by that single lamp on a scarred end table. The air hung heavy with dust and old coffee grounds, not foul, just stale, like the place had been holding its breath for years. Living room: a sagging couch, upholstery frayed at the arms; a low coffee table pitted with cigarette burns and ringed water stains; a small cast-iron wood stove squatting in the corner, a neat stack of split logs beside it, waiting for a match. The kitchenette bled off to the right, yellowed linoleum floors curling at the edges, an ancient fridge humming low and labored, counters chipped and faded, a four-burner stove that looked untouched since the last century. One narrow doorway led off the back wall; through it, you glimpsed the edge of a bedframe and a threadbare quilt - bedroom, you assumed. That was all. No hallway. No second floor. Shelves stocked with basics: rows of canned soup, dried pasta, instant coffee, freezer holding a few packages you didn't inspect. A thin veil of dust coated everything, but it was clean enough underneath. Livable.

Tim stepped in behind you and eased the door shut. The lock clicked into place - soft, but it echoed in your chest like a cage snapping closed.

He swept the room with a slow, methodical gaze, like he was cataloging every inch for discrepancies since the last time. His hand hovered near his waistband for a split second, fingers brushing the concealed grip of the gun, before dropping away. You caught it from the side of your eye, heart seizing: was that it? The moment? But no - he just exhaled again, shoulders slumping a fraction, and turned to face you.

"This is an old safehouse," he said quietly. "We used it for missions back in the day–laying low after jobs, stashing gear. No one's been here in months, but it's secure. Off-grid. You'll get supplies sent every few weeks–food, cash, whatever you need. Brian'll handle the drops. Don't go looking for them; they'll find you."

You nodded once, automatic, but your mind reeled. Supplies sent? Like you were some kind of prisoner in exile? And the gun - why the fuck had he grabbed the gun? Your eyes flicked to his waistband again, hidden under the jacket, imagination spiraling: one quick draw, one muffled shot in this empty cabin, body dragged into the woods. Easier than leaving loose ends. Your throat tightened, but you swallowed it down. He wasn't looking at you like that. Just tired. Hollow.

You took a tentative step closer, reaching out - fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket, soft and hesitant, seeking the warmth you'd clung to in the truck.

He didn't pull away immediately. Just stood there, eyes dropping to your hand like it was something foreign. No reciprocation or softening. Just cold, indifferent stillness.

"What now?" you whispered, voice trembling at the edges.

Tim sighed, long, bone-weary, dragging both hands down his face like he could scrub away the night. He reached into his pocket again, fished out the cabin keys, and set them on the small kitchen table with a soft, final clink. Then he pointed to the other set already waiting there, smaller, attached to a plain black fob, dull in the lamplight.

"Those are for the car out front," he said, voice flat and mechanical, like he was reciting a script he'd rehearsed in his head. "It's gassed up. Registration's in the glovebox under a fake name. Insurance is current. There's five hundred in cash in the top drawer by the stove. More hidden in the coffee can on the high shelf if you run low. Groceries'll last a month, maybe six weeks if you're smart about it."

You stared at the keys, then at him, the words sinking in slowly like poison. Supplies sent. Fake name. Lay low.

"Okay…" you murmured, voice distant, like it belonged to someone else.

He stood there, hands hanging loose at his sides, eyes tracing the lines of your face like he was committing them to memory.

You took another step closer, close enough now to smell the faint smoke still woven into his jacket, the pine and sweat underneath. Your hand slid up his arm, fingers curling gently around his bicep, seeking connection, reassurance, anything.

"You're gonna live with me, right?" The words came out small, pleading, laced with the fear you'd been choking down for hours.

Silence dropped like a shroud. Thicker than the wind pressing against the windows.

Your pulse roared in your ears. You searched his face - waiting, begging with your eyes for the crooked half-smile, the gruff pull into his chest, the "course I am, baby" that would make this nightmare dissolve.

Nothing.

"Tim?" Higher now, cracking. Anxious. "Right?"

He looked away, just for a second, eyes dropping to the dusty floorboards. But it was enough. Your stomach plummeted, cold and sick.

"Tim."

He exhaled, rough, ragged, and finally dragged his gaze back to yours. Wrecked beyond repair.

Finally, he said it.

"I won't be seeing you anymore."

The words slammed into you like ice water, freezing everything. Breath. Heartbeat. The faint hum of the fridge faded to nothing. Just those six syllables dangling in the stale air, sharp and irreversible.

You froze, eyes wide, mouth parted, brain stuttering like a bad connection.

"…What?"

Tim wouldn't look at you now. Jaw clenched so tight the vein in his neck pulsed. He stared at the scarred coffee table like it held the script for this horror.

Panic clawed up your throat, hot and vicious.

"Tim–what do you mean?"

No answer.

You lunged forward, hand grabbing his forearm again, fingers digging in desperate.

"Tim. You can't just leave me here. What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

He yanked free, sharp and violent, taking one step back. The distance yawned between you, cold and final.

"I'm saving your life," he said, each word dragged out like it cost blood. "This is for the best."

Your chest heaved, breaths coming short and ragged. Panic surged, unstoppable, flooding every nerve.

"No–no, wait, wait–" The words spilled frantic, loud. "You can't do this. You can't just dump me in the middle of nowhere and disappear. I don't know anyone. I have no one. Tim, please–"

He cut you off, sharp, unyielding.

"I let this go too far."

Breath gone. World tilting.

His eyes met yours then - dark voids, shattered.

"I almost killed you today. I looked at you and I thought about it. Squeezing just a little harder. Because it would've been easiest. And I–" His voice fractured, then iced over. "I can't do it anymore. You'll get updates on the situation–through drops, notes, whatever's safe. Just lay low. That's all you need to do."

You shook your head, desperate, tears blurring everything.

"No. No, you didn't. You stopped. You stopped, Tim. You said you loved me–"

"Whatever's rotting in your head," he interrupted, voice flattening to steel, "will calm down out here. Away from the house. Away from us. You don't need me dragging you deeper."

Tears scalded down your cheeks, unstoppable.

"Please," you whispered, breaking. "You told me you loved me."

He looked away. Jaw working. Fists clenching at his sides like anchors.

You stepped closer, reached again, fingers grazing his sleeve, begging.

"Tim. Please. I love you. I need you. Don't–"

He jerked back, hard. Your hand clutched air.

"Don't," he warned, low and lethal.

You stared, chest caving, sobs building, voice shattering raw.

"You're really breaking up with me?"

Silence.

He wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Just… let me go," he said quietly. Final.

Then he turned.

Strode toward the door.

"No–Tim–!"

You lunged, grabbing his jacket, his arm, nails digging in.

"Tim–please–don't do this–! I can't–I won't survive out here–please, God, don't leave me alone–"

He wrenched free, harder, shoving the door open. Cold air knifed in.

You stumbled after him onto the porch - screaming now, hysterical, voice tearing.

"TIM!"

He didn't stop. Crossed the yard in long, unyielding strides. Reached the truck. Yanked the door open.

"TIM–DON'T LEAVE ME! PLEASE–I LOVE YOU–COME BACK–!"

He climbed in. Slammed it shut.

Engine roared, headlights blinding, slashing white across the clearing.

You tumbled down the steps.

"TIM!"

Truck reversed, tires spitting dirt, swung tight.

Taillights bloomed red.

You ran - sobbing, screaming, arms flailing.

"TIM–PLEASE–DON'T–!"

Truck surged forward, headlights dwindling down the track.

You chased, lungs searing, legs buckling, until you collapsed hard onto knees in the ruts.

Gravel ripped skin. Blood welled hot.

You screamed his name, raw, animal, echoing off pines.

Then silence.

Wind.

Sobs wrenching from your chest.

You, alone in borrowed scrubs, knees bleeding, hands clawing dirt, staring at empty black.

Hysterical, shattered, and utterly abandoned.

Extra Scene

Tim drove back the way he’d come, the same narrow blacktop unspooling beneath the tires in reverse, but the road felt longer now, endless and punishing. The sun had already bled low behind the pines, painting the sky in bruised oranges and purples that bled into black at the edges. He kept both hands locked on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes fixed straight ahead like if he looked anywhere else the memories would crawl in through the cracks.

He tried not to think about you.

Tried not to hear the way your voice had cracked on his name - raw, animal, tearing itself apart as you chased the truck down that dirt track. Tried not to see the way you’d collapsed in the gravel, knees bloody, scrubs streaked with dirt, screaming like something inside you had finally shattered beyond repair. Tried not to feel the ghost of your fingers clutching his jacket, pleading, begging him not to leave you alone in that cabin with nothing but dust and canned soup and the slow certainty that you’d been abandoned.

He failed.

Every few miles the sickness rolled through him again, hot and sour in his gut. He kept seeing the infirmary cot: your body arching under him, soft moans turning to gasps when his hand settled around your throat. The way your pulse had fluttered frantic against his palm. The way he’d stared down at you, buried deep, hips still rolling slow, and thought, clear as day: One squeeze. Just a little longer. Quick. She won’t suffer. She’ll just… stop. He’d felt the pressure building in his fingers, testing, calculating. Mercy, he’d told himself.

He hadn’t done it.

He couldn’t.

And then, later, in the truck, when he’d reached under the seat for Brian’s gun, he’d told himself the same thing all over again. One bullet. While her back’s turned. She won’t even see it coming. The weight of the gun had felt right in his hand for a second, familiar, decisive. He’d tucked it into his waistband thinking maybe this time he’d have the stomach for it. Maybe this time he’d actually follow through.

But you’d looked at him.

Just once, sideways, small and scared, eyes searching his face like you still believed there was something redeemable left inside him. And the gun had suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. His fingers had brushed the grip once inside the cabin, hovering, tempted, then loosened. Dropped away. He’d let the moment pass. Let you keep breathing.

Because you were still you.

He couldn’t pull the trigger.

So he’d left you there, alive, alone, screaming his name into the pines until your voice gave out.

A part of him, small and vicious, wanted to turn the truck around right now. Floor it back down that dirt track. Kick the cabin door in. Pin you to the nearest wall and fuck you until neither of you could think anymore. Bury himself inside you until the world narrowed to heat and skin and the sound of your breath against his throat. Tell you he was sorry. Tell you he loved you. Tell you he’d never let go again.

But he knew better.

Sooner or later he’d ruin you.

He always did.

The darkness inside him - the thing that had wrapped its fingers around your throat while he was still fucking you, the thing that had considered a bullet in the back of your head - wasn’t going anywhere. It lived in him. It wore his face. And every time he touched you, it got closer to the surface. One day it wouldn’t stop at almost.

Better to cut the cord now. Better you hate him. Better you survive without him dragging you back into the black.

The house came into view as the last sliver of sun slipped below the trees - big, white, peeling, windows dark except for the porch light that burned steady and indifferent.

Tim parked the truck in the overgrown yard, gravel crunching one last time under the tires like a final, exhausted sigh. He killed the engine and sat there for a beat, hands still locked on the wheel, staring at the house through the windshield like it was a stranger’s place. The sky had gone full dark now, stars cold and scattered overhead, no moon to soften the edges.

He stepped out. Boots hit dirt. Cold bit through his jacket, but he barely felt it.

Brian was already stepping outside - door banging closed behind him, long strides eating the porch steps in seconds. Jacket flapping open, face set in that blank, unreadable expression he wore like armor. He didn’t slow down, just walked straight to Tim and held out his hand.

“Keys,” he said, voice flat, clipped. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Tim dropped the car keys into Brian’s palm without looking up. Metal clinked once.

Brian caught them, closed his fist. Then he paused, head tilting just enough to study Tim’s face in the porch light.

Tim looked like hell: eyes red-rimmed and glassy, skin sallow, jaw so tight the muscle twitched under the stubble. Shoulders hunched like the weight of the last three hours had physically crushed them down.

Brian’s expression didn’t change. But his voice dropped lower, quieter, the stoic monotone cracking just enough to let something human slip through.

“You good?”

Tim didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared at the ground between them, gravel and dead grass and shadows.

“Dropped her off,” he muttered. “Cabin’s stocked. She’s… set.”

Brian nodded once. No questions. He could read the story in the lines carved around Tim’s mouth, in the way his hands flexed and unclenched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding a steering wheel or a throat or a gun.

“She was always gonna be a burden,” Brian said, matter-of-fact. “This is better. For everyone.”

He reached out - single, firm clap on Tim’s shoulder. Then he stepped past, opened the door to the driver’s side, and climbed in without another word. Door slammed. Engine growled to life. Headlights snapped on, harsh white cutting across the yard, then the truck rolled out, taillights shrinking down the long drive until the pines swallowed them whole.

Tim stood there a long second after the sound faded. Wind rattled the dead leaves. An owl called somewhere deep in the trees, low and mournful.

He turned and walked inside.

The house smelled the same: old wood, stale smoke, faint metallic undercurrent that never quite went away. The living room was dim, only the lamp in the corner on, casting long shadows across the sagging furniture. One thing burned in his head, bright and single-minded.

Booze.

He needed to drink until the edges blurred. Until your screams faded to static. Until the memory of the bar burning - the place you’d met, the place you’d first looked at him like he might be worth something - turned to ash in his mind. Until he could forget the way your knees had hit the gravel, the way you’d screamed his name like it was the only word you had left.

He headed for the stairs.

Halfway across the living room, Ben appeared from the kitchen, chewing on a strip of beef jerky. He looked mildly confused, brows furrowed like he’d just woken up from a nap and the world had rearranged itself while he slept.

“Yo–wait, you’re back already?” Ben said around the jerky, swallowing quick. “Thought you were gonna stay with her at the cabin. Like… crash there for a bit, y’know? Make sure she’s–”

Tim kept walking toward the stairs, boots heavy on the floorboards.

Ben blinked. Dropped the rest of the jerky onto the coffee table and jogged after him.

“Tim–dude, hold up. What happened? Is she okay? Did something–”

Tim hit the bottom step.

Ben reached out, hesitant, fingers brushing Tim’s sleeve.

Tim spun.

“Shut the fuck up, Ben.”

The words cracked out, low, venomous, louder than he’d meant. Ben flinched back like he’d been slapped.

Tim’s face twisted, rage, exhaustion, something broken and ugly flashing behind his eyes.

“Don’t ever contact her again,” he snarled. “Don’t text her. Don’t call her. Don’t even fucking think about her. Leave her the fuck alone. You hear me?”

Ben’s eyes went wide, pupils blown in the dim light. He backed up one step. Then another. Hands raised, palms out.

“Alright,” he muttered, voice small. “Alright, man. I… I got it.”

Tim didn’t wait for more. Turned and climbed the rest of the stairs, each step heavy, like he was dragging chains. Reached the top. Walked down the narrow hallway. Pushed open his bedroom door.

Slammed it shut behind him.

The sound echoed through the house.

Inside, the room was dark except for the faint blue glow from the cracked window blinds. Bed unmade. Empty bottles already lined up on the dresser like soldiers - half a fifth of whiskey, a couple cheap vodkas, a bottle of bourbon he’d been saving for nothing in particular.

He didn’t bother with a glass.

Grabbed the whiskey first. Twisted the cap off with shaking fingers. Took a long, burning pull straight from the bottle - throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing. The liquor hit like fire down his esophagus, settled hot and heavy in his stomach.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, bottle dangling between his fingers.

Stared at the floor.

Took another drink.

And another.

Trying to drown the echo of your voice screaming his name into the dark.

Trying to forget the way you’d looked at him - like he was still worth loving.

He wasn’t.

And the booze wouldn’t make him forget.

But he drank anyway.

Because it was the only thing left he could do.

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