Angst CW: semi graphic injury descriptions
John Price x 141Lieutenant!Reader - 2.6k words - requested by anon
Blood. All you could taste was blood. Your ears were ringing and the aching pain in your… well, everywhere made it distinctly clear that you had definitely just been in an exploding building. Your radio was crackling on your tac vest, John’s voice coming through as he demanded a status update from you. As you lift your hand to reach for it, you become aware of the shrapnel buried in your forearm. Well shit. That’s not good. You had enough medical training though, to know to leave it in. Trying to pull it out meant at best letting the wound bleed, and at worst severing nerves.
You can feel every part of your body though, so at least you’re not paralyzed. Turning your mic on and beginning to speak reveals in turn that you’ve definitely swallowed concrete dust, your voice hoarse and rough. “Still kicking… haven’t seen the damage yet but a bomb went off in my quadrant. I’m partially buried and got at least one shrapnel impalement that I can see. Not sure exactly how far I got knocked, but I shouldn’t be far from my last marked position.”
Report done, you let your head loll back, trying to breathe through the pain. You are partially pinned and won’t be getting out without help, but you have to stay calm. You’re probably in shock, but you’re aware enough that letting yourself panic and your heart rate increase would be very bad for you. The radio erupts with voices again, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and John all clamoring at once. But you’re tired. So tired. You should be trying to keep yourself awake, but you can’t. It’s just too much.
The next time you wake, your husband is leaning over you, fear filling those frigidly blue eyes of his. John’s on his knees, helmet off despite the still present risk of snipers. He’s propping himself up on one arm, the other hand on your cheek. Oh, he’s talking to you. Trying to get you to wake up. Poor thing must be terrified for you. Your head swims, but his voice still rings clear, the deep timbre cutting through the fog in your mind.
“Sweetheart. Hey, hey. Sweetheart, ye gotta wake up. Show me those eyes, yeah? Wake up.” All he gets in return is a soft groan as your eyes flutter open. Your vision is blurry and you almost definitely have a concussion, but you can hear the utter relief in the exhale John lets out after you look up at him. You’re about to try and reply, but he interrupts you. “Shh, shh, sweetheart, don’t talk. Save your strength, med evac is on the way.”
You just nod, letting John try and calm you, focusing on him. The boys are here too, Ghost’s gruff voice barking commands as he, Gaz, and Soap work to dig you out of the wreckage. John’s petting your head, murmuring down to you. His words are indistinct, or you’re just too tired to process them. The pain is unimaginable, but your husband wants you awake, so you’re gonna stay awake. Stay awake and stay alive. You try so hard, but you just can’t. The last thing you hear before you go limp again is your husband’s panicked voice snapping at the team. You have to talk to him about that later. If you remember. It’s not their fault you got exploded. “Hurry! Hurry up with that, he can’t hold on much longer! We’ve got to get to exfil.”
This time you wake to a toasty hospital room, blissfully pain free. Your thoughts are foggy as you stir into consciousness, so if you add that to the little pain you feel, and prior experience, your addled math points to morphine. Fun. You must be really fucked up then. Slowly waking, you feel a weight pinning your leg down. For a minute, you think you’re still trapped in the rubble, pinned and dying, until you look down. Oh. Oh. It’s just John, squished into a plastic chair too small for his bulk, slumped over your hospital bed like the many times he’s fallen asleep at his writing desk.
There’s no telling how long you’ve been asleep, but your limbs are stiff with stillness, eyes crusted with sleep. So you shift the tiniest bit, extending scraped and bandaged fingers to card through John’s hair. The second you touch him, your husband’s head is jerking up and he’s staring at you. John’s eyes are red, and he’s obviously been crying. God, you’ve definitely been out at least a day for a look like that. He shifts, scooting up closer to you.
“Sweetheart? You really awake?” He’s whispering, voice thick with grief.
You grumble a little, eyelids fluttering, and nod. Your head still aches and you want to go back to sleep, but John so clearly needs you. “How long have I been out…? Is everyone okay? How are you…?” Your voice is raspy, mouth dry and filled with cotton. Definitely been out a while.
John lifts a cup of water from the table beside your hospital bed, lifting it to your lips. “Shush, shush. Drink. You’ve been out for a week, sweetheart.” He huffs a weak little laugh. “Worrying about others when you’ve just woken up from a coma. Just like you, yeah. The boys are fine. Worried mad sick about you, but the worst injury was Johnny pulling a muscle in his arm lifting some of the concrete off you. As for me, I’ll be far better with my husband healed and out of a coma, so rest up.”
But oh so predictably you, your eyes widen upon hearing about Johnny. “He pulled a muscle? Is he alright? Is it gonna heal-”
John cuts you off with a quick kiss, grumbling again to shush you. “Quiet. Johnny’s just fine. He’d scold you for worrying about him in your state. So just relax, baby. You need to heal. Gave us all a big scare, yeah?” John’s voice is incredibly soft and soothing, talking you down from your panic, but you can hear the tremor of fear underlying his words.
You’ve scared him. Shaken the unshakeable, put ice into the soul of the legend. It may have been you, Lieutenant Price, trapped under that rubble, trapped and dying, but you’d almost taken Captain Price with you. The boys would reaffirm it later, telling you of how John lost his shit once you passed out again, lost his temper and control. He was normally a level and competent leader, but seeing the man he loved lying bleeding out under a collapsed building had snapped that. You’d nearly broken him. Broken your husband. You both knew injury and death was a very real possibility and reality in the service, but somehow you both believed it would never be you.
Tears well in your eyes. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry, love. I’m sorry, I must’ve scared you so bad.” You reach out with trembling hands and he takes them so gently. He’s so gentle with you, shushing you quietly and getting you settled back down. You’re not even fully aware of your own injuries yet, but a nurse finally bustles in to look you over, shooing John out despite your panicked reach for him. You don’t see it, but John takes the time you’re examined to go complain to the charge nurse, angry that the nurse steamrolled over your fear. Ever the protective husband he is.
As soon as you’re cleared, John is bustling right back into the room, managing to tuck himself into the hospital bed with you. He’s got your back to his chest, one arm banded around your waist while the other is outstretched, fingers intertwined with yours. His calluses are familiar, thumb rubbing over your palm. You’re firmly tucked into him, breathing low and evenly. Finally, you can relax. John may be a great deal firmer than the pillows you were laying against, but he’s warm and familiar. In his arms, you can feel properly safe and relaxed. You could almost even pretend that you’re at home.
It’s a nice moment, curled against John as he rumbles in semi contentment. You’re alive and expected to be on the mend quickly. You’d been lucky, with mostly minor injuries amongst the few major ones. There’d of course been the shrapnel in your arm, but you’d also earned yourself a fractured skull, broken leg, and another piece of shrapnel to the thigh. That, and about a million cuts, bruises, and other lacerations. John tells you that as he holds you, confirming to himself that you’re still alive. That you survived the blast. He tells you, voice so quiet and more afraid than you’ve ever heard him, that during the week of your coma, infection had set in on your arm.
It had been terrifying, but you’d come back from it, none the worse for wear. John talks and he talks, telling you all about the last week, letting go of it to fill the space. His heart is wrung out, soothing himself by resting you in his arms and making sure you’re caught up on the going ons of the 141. You’re quiet, just listening to the protective gruff of your husband’s voice. You barely remember the actual explosion, which is probably good considering how badly it fucked you up. But you do remember the moments before, and how the last thing you’d been doing was giving a report on your position. Which probably meant… oh, did John hear the bomb go off?
How long had you been out? How long was your husband made to wonder if you’d survived the blast? You shift, tapping your fingers against his until he quiets, voice quiet with guilt. “Did you hear it? The bomb?”
John flinches. You can feel it, laying against him like you are, and that flinch tells you all you need to know. “Yeah. Your radio was still on when it went off. All we heard was the boom though, and then you must’ve let go of the button.” The answer is whispered, his head bowed, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s in prayer. “Longest fifteen minutes of my life to find you. Over half buried you were.”
You press back against him, humming softly. “‘M sorry…” You’re going to say more, to apologize again for the pain you’ve caused your husband, but he bites down on your neck. Bites you! Not hard, but still. And then he growls a little, the gravel leaking into his voice. “Stop apologizing. It wasn’t your fault. Christ, you scared me half to death, but it wasn’t your damn fault. You did the best thing you could have done. Lived.” The tension in the room drops as fast as it rose when he nips your neck again and jokingly admonishes you. “If you wanted attention that bad, love, all you had to do was ask. No need to go and have a building dropped on you.”
The giggle that comes out of you is like a waterfall, rich and unprompted. It’s exactly what John wanted to get out of you. He loves your laugh dearly and going a week without it had been hard enough. So he needs you to laugh now, needs to see you smile. You’re his husband, and you’re hurt and when it happened John was so far away from you that he couldn’t do anything. And now you’re hurt and all he can do is sit here and wait for you to heal. You’re hurt and he has to just… wait. He hates waiting. So the least he can do is make you laugh.
Because he doesn’t know what to do without that laugh. You’re snuggled up in his arms, giggling like a madman as he re-tells a series of Simon’s terrible jokes from the last week. John knows that for some reason you genuinely find Simon hilarious, and he wants to make you laugh, so he tells you all the ones he can remember. Because he’s desperate to keep you laughing. If you’re laughing, that means you’re awake and alive and happy in his arms. Not so fucking still.
Listening to you laughing chases away the shadows that have been plaguing your hospital room for the past week, while you’d been laying still and silent, unresponsive to any comments or jokes. Unresponsive and dead to the world in all ways but physical. It had changed something in John, watching you nearly die. Yes, he had you in his arms now, living and breathing. Yes, he’d watched other soldiers die under his command. He carried those names with him like stones, forever weighing him down, but even so… You had been different.
Watching you trapped under the rubble, holding you and trying to soothe you while you bled out had been one of the worst experiences of John’s life. Something he never wanted to go through again. He’s really getting into his head, grumbling and thinking, when you nudge him. Your head is tilted back to look at him, a worried furrow in your brow. Worried about him, like you’re not the one laid up in a hospital bed, broken after nearly dying. You nudge him again, and John realizes you must’ve said something that he didn’t respond to.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Was thinking, what’d you say?”
“I said, when are the boys going to come visit? I want to see how bad Johnny’s arm is.” You huff, sassing him after being ignored.
John grumbles at you. He doesn’t want the boys to visit yet. Wants to keep his husband all to himself. “They’ll visit when I let them. And Johnny’s arm is fine.”
“How do I know you aren’t just saying that so I don’t worry?”
You’re treated to a lighter version of the ‘captain scowl’ as John gruffs at you. “You don’t, but you can’t go anywhere to find out. ‘Sides, Johnny’s like a stress ball. He pops right back up as soon as ye let go of him.”
That makes you laugh again. He really does love your laugh. “I guess you’re right, love. But I still want to see the boys! I know it’s only been a bit but I want visitors.”
And that gets him laughing. Just a little though, John doesn’t want to jostle you from where you’re nestled against his chest. “What am I? Chopped liver? You want visitors, your poor old husband ain’t enough?”
He’s obviously joking, and you know that based on the elbow you bury into his ribs that has him coughing. “You know what I meant! I just want to see them myself, with my own two eyes. Considering the last time I saw them I was barely conscious. Just wanna check in.”
You’re a little fired up, but you settle when John kisses your cheek. “Gentle, sweetheart, gentle. Don’t want to strain your stitches, yeah?” You coo a little, settling against him, and John takes that as your agreement to be calm. “How about this, you rest for today, and I’ll bring the boys to see you tomorrow, yeah?” To John’s satisfaction, you start to nod to agree.
Of course, the quiet moment is ruined when the door swings open and the rest of the team piles in. Nosy little bastards, John can’t help but think. Johnny’s arm is indeed still in a sling, and you start fussing over him, which he quickly shuts down. Kyle gives you a gentle half hug, settling back and waiting for his turn to fill you in on the base gossip. And Simon starts with those awful jokes of his. John’s ready to start grumbling about how you shouldn’t be crowded, but you’re laughing in the chaos and he doesn’t want to ruin that. He really does love your laugh.
definitely went more of an angst heavy route w this one
Controversial observation but as someone who's fan of both tf141 and Phillip Graves, I gotta know why some 141 fans (especially the Twitter ghoap stans) are so obsessed with talking about Graves to the point they talk shit about the fans too, compared to Graves stans who only talk about him or their ocs most of the time.
And idc the rant about betrayal, by that logic Graves' fans could've done the same but they don't. They don't even care 😭
While the other side goes as far as calling both Graves and his fans racist based on what? His southern roots? Mischaracterisation AND stereotypical hatred. This just stupid.
You can hate a character but don't go for the fans of said character and their spaces? What is this behaviour? It's even more rampant with the new trailer nowadays.
I have actually had this written for a while now and have been looking for an excuse to post it, so thank you. It turned into a three-part moment instead of just one, so it is a little longer than my usual stuff, but bear with me.
Let me know what you think because I have been sitting on this one for a while 😭
Purse slipping. Dress bag digging into your shoulder. Probably wrinkled by now. Did you pack your steamer?
Shit.
Your room is somewhere up on the eighth floor in a block booking with the rest of the bridesmaids. As the maid of honor, you’ve somehow been promoted to assistant planner slash emotional support animal for your best friend. Which, in theory, sounded sweet.
In practice? You couldn’t remember why the fuck you said yes.
Don’t get it wrong, you loved your best friend with all your heart. But not when your shoulders ached from hauling garment bags and emergency kits and whatever else your best friend decided she might need. Not when your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with last-minute questions about flowers and seating charts and whether or not ivory was too close to white.
You just needed to make it upstairs. Drop everything. Peel yourself out of your clothes. Take a hot shower and collapse face-first into the comically large, overpriced hotel bed you absolutely could not afford. Maybe order room service you also couldn’t afford.
Yeah. That sounded like heaven.
Key card clutched between your fingers, you scan the lobby, eyes locking onto the elevators just as the stainless steel doors begin to slide open, one man stepping in quickly. You pick up your pace immediately, the bags bouncing awkwardly against your sides as you hurry across the marble floor.
“Wait-”
The doors start to close. You barely get the word out before a hand shoots out, catching the edge of the door and forcing it back open with a sharp metallic jerk.
You don’t even think. You slip inside in a rush of fabric and breath and mild panic.
“Oh thank God,” you groan, adjusting the strap digging into your shoulder.
“Don’t thank him,” he says, voice low and amused. “I’m the one who stuck my arm in there for you.
There’s a quiet chuckle in it. Easy. Unbothered.
You exhale, shifting the weight of the bags again. “I’m not feeling very generous today,” you mutter, a little breathless. “So forgive me.”
He raises an eyebrow. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just… taking you in.
“Which floor?” His hand hovers over the panel like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Eighth,” you say quickly, nodding.
He presses the button without looking away from you. Then, without asking, reaches out and nudges your slipping purse strap back up onto your shoulder.
The touch is brief. Practical. But it lingers just enough to make you aware of it.
“Wedding?” he asks, nodding toward the white dress bag and the makeup case threatening to fall out of your grip.
“Unfortunately,” you sigh, staring up at the glowing numbers as the elevator begins to rise.
He lets out a low whistle, then clicks his tongue softly, “Unfortunate, huh?”
You shrug, one shoulder lifting as best as it can under the weight.
“I should be nicer,” you admit. “I’m just-” you gesture vaguely with your hand, “-stressed. Too many details. Flowers, centerpieces, hair, makeup. All the fun parts that somehow become suffocating all at once.”
There’s a beat. You feel it before you see it. His attention.
You glance over. He’s already looking at you. Head tilted slightly. Not casually. Not politely.
Like he’s already decided you’re worth paying attention to.
“What are you here for…” your eyes drop briefly to the conference lanyard resting against his chest, catching the name, “Phillip. Business? Or do you wear a name tag for pleasure?”
His mouth curves. Slow.
“Out of all the things I do for pleasure,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “wearin’ a name tag isn’t one of ‘em, sweetheart.”
“That so?” you mutter, adjusting your grip on the bag. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
The elevator hums softly as it climbs, the space suddenly feeling a little smaller than it did a moment ago.
He looks like he’s about to say something else, but the doors slide open with a soft chime.
Eighth floor. Saved by the bell.
You step out quickly, adjusting the dress bag over your shoulder again.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Graves,” you call over your shoulder.
“Phillip,” he corrects immediately.
You glance back. He’s still standing inside the elevator, one hand braced against the wall, eyes on you like he hasn’t quite decided something yet.
There’s something sharper in his expression now. Less amused. More focused. His gaze flicks once more to the dress bag.
“Enjoy your wedding,” he says, tone flattening just slightly. “As unfortunate as it may be.”
You open your mouth to correct him. To tell him you’re not the bride.
But the doors slide shut before you can get the words out. You’re left staring at your own reflection in the brushed metal. For a second longer than necessary.
Then you huff out a quiet breath and turn, making your way down the hallway. The bags still weigh the same. Your shoulders still ache. Your phone is still buzzing. But there’s something different now.
A small, annoying, persistent thought sitting in the back of your mind.
The way he looked at you like he meant to remember you.
Not just sore, but that deep, throbbing ache that settles into your bones after hours of standing, smiling, pretending you are not mentally counting down how much longer you have to be in heels before it is socially acceptable to disappear.
By the time you make it back to your room, the bathroom door is kicked shut behind you and your hands are already in your hair, working pins loose one after another. There had to be at least fifty of them. Your hair finally falls over your shoulders, a little wild, a little indented in places, but at least your scalp can breathe again.
“Jesus,” you mutter, dragging a hand through it.
The dress is next. Carefully unzipped, stepped out of, hung up with more care than you feel like giving it. Your heels end up abandoned halfway across the room.
An oversized t-shirt. Soft sleep shorts.
Better.
Until you open the minibar. No ice. You stare at it for a long second.
“…you have got to be kidding me.”
Of course. Midnight, and the one thing you want, something cold, something to take the edge off the entire day, is the one thing that requires effort.
You grab the ice bucket anyway, slipping your room key into your pocket as you step back into the hallway.
The machine on your floor is dark.
You press the lever once. Then again.
Nothing.
“…I hate it here.”
A sigh leaves your chest as you tip your head back, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended you.
Fine. You will go up a floor.
The elevator ride is quiet, blessedly empty. You lean back against the wall, the ice bucket hanging loosely from your hand as the numbers tick upward. Your whole body is running on fumes and champagne and the lingering echo of a DJ who did not know when to stop playing the Cupid fucking Shuffle.
The doors slide open.
Same hallway. Same carpet.
You follow the small sign, turn the corner-
-and nearly walk straight into someone.
You stop short.
He doesn’t.
“Careful,” he murmurs, steadying the side of your arm with a light touch.
It’s brief. But it’s enough. Your eyes flick up.
And- Oh. It’s him.
Phillip.
No suit jacket this time. No nametag.
No tie, at least not properly. It hangs loose around his neck, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms and the faint shadow of veins under warm skin.
He looks… Different.
Less polished. More real. And somehow worse for your self-control.
“You again,” he says, like he’s not surprised. Like he was expecting it.
“You say that like you’re surprised,” you reply.
“I’m not,” he says easily. “Just didn’t think I’d get lucky twice.”
You blink once, then recover, lifting the ice bucket slightly. “Busted ice machine on my floor. Tragic, I know.”
His mouth twitches. He shifts just enough to let you step fully into the space, but he doesn’t move far. Doesn’t give you much room. You tug the lid off your ice bucket and set it on the machine to fill.
“Thought I told you,” his voice comes from behind you, low and familiar, “you were supposed to be enjoyin’ your wedding.”
You turn fully this time, leaning your hip against the machine.
“It wasn’t my wedding,” you say.
Something in his expression shifts. Not relief. Something sharper than that. He clears his throat briefly.
“No?”
“My best friend’s,” you clarify. “I’m just the maid of honor.”
There’s a pause. Small. But you catch it. The way his shoulders loosen just slightly. The way his gaze flicks over you again, recalibrating.
“Mm,” he nods, like he’s filing that away. “Alright.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “Alright?”
He shrugs one shoulder, easy. “Means I don’t gotta feel bad for interruptin’ your… honeymoon festivites.”
Heat flickers in your chest. “You weren’t interrupting anything,” you say a little too quickly.
His brow lifts. “That right?”
You can't stop the light laugh that escapes your throat, your tongue and heart loosened by the never ending supply of champagne down at the bar. You also can't help but notice the way his face slides into a smile that goes all the way up to his eyes when you laugh.
The machine finally kicks on, ice rattling loudly into the bucket between you. For a second, neither of you speaks. Just the noise. Just the proximity. Just him, a little too close for strangers. You pull the bucket back once it’s full, setting the lid on top.
“Late night for you?” you ask, nodding toward his loosened tie.
“Work doesn’t really stop,” he says simply, small chuckle escaping his chest weakly.
“No name tag tonight?” You say, glancing down at his chest.
“Didn’t seem necessary.”
A beat.
His eyes flick over you again. Your bare legs, the oversized shirt, your hair loose now instead of pinned and perfect.
“Different setting,” he adds flippantly, “Business versus pleasure.”
Your pulse ticks up. You shift your weight slightly.
“You always this unlucky?” he asks finally.
You raise a brow. “Unlucky?”
“Broken machines. Unfortunate weddings,” he ticks off casually.
You huff a quiet laugh. “Only when I’m in this hotel, apparently.”
He studies you for a second. “Could be worse.”
“Yeah?” you ask, the cold from the ice bucket leeching the heat from your hands.
His eyes drop briefly, your mouth, your throat, then back up again. “Could’ve missed the elevator earlier.”
Your breath catches. Just slightly. Annoying. You shift the ice bucket in your hands.
“Well,” you say lightly, “guess we’ll never know.”
His smile deepens. Slow. Knowing. “Guess not.”
There’s a pause. The kind that stretches. Not awkward. Not empty. The kind that makes your chest tighten. The kind that gives you a choice.
Stay.
Or leave.
“I should,” you gesture vaguely toward the elevator.
“Yeah,” he nods. But he still doesn’t move right away. You turn first, despite the overwhelming urge to spend the rest of the night standing in the hallway with this total stranger who fate seems to be handcuffing you to.
Not loud. Not chaotic. Just too full. The low hum of conversation, the hiss of steamed milk, cups clinking against saucers. Every table taken. Every chair filled.
You stand near the counter with your muffin in hand, scanning the room like something might magically open up if you stare at it long enough while you wait for them to finish crafting your drink.
Nothing. Of course.
You exhale quietly, shifting your weight, already debating whether you just take it upstairs.
“Looks like you've got a problem.”
Your shoulders still before you even turn. You know that voice now. You glance over your shoulder.
Phillip stands a few feet away, coffee in hand, watching you like he’s been there longer than you realized. Like he clocked you the second you walked in..
There’s a beat. You look at him. He looks at you. Then you both glance around the room. Then back.
“…You offering a solution,” you ask, taking a breath, “or just commentary?”
His mouth ticks at the corner, something amused and a little too pleased.
“Got a table,” he says, nodding behind him, “If you're interested in sharing.”
You follow his gaze. Small table. Two chairs. Tucked into the corner like it’s trying not to be noticed.
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. Because you do. Which feels like the problem.
“…Fine,” you say finally. “But I’m not sharing my muffin.”
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, as he turns, already heading toward it.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Darlin’...” he pauses, “Unless you offer.”
He chuckles when you roll your eyes.
It’s quieter here. Not silent, just contained. Like the rest of the café fades at the edges. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Just watches you. Not openly staring. Not obvious.
But you feel it.
The way his eyes move over you. Your hair, still a little undone, the soft fabric of your shirt, your bare legs tucked under the chair. Like he’s confirming something he already decided.
Not judging. Not comparing. Just… noticing.
“You look less miserable today,” he says finally, sipping his coffee, eyes never leaving yours.
“You always this observant?” You snark, pulling off a piece of your muffin lazily, taking a piece into your mouth.
“Only when something catches my attention.” He winks, sipping his coffee casually.
You try not to cough on the dry pastry as suddenly your throat feels incredibly dry. God, if only you still had that confidence from the champagne last night.
His head tilts slightly, studying your face like he’s replaying something. He sucks in a hiss through his teeth.
“Yesterday seemed…rough.” he grimaces on your behalf.
You shake your head, fighting the pull of a smile, “It was a long day.”
“Weddings usually are.”
“Weddings are usually fun,” you counter.
His mouth curves, just slightly, “Yeah?” he says. “From what I saw, people seemed real committed to that idea.”
You snort. “Open bar.”
“Yep. That’ll do it.”
A small beat settles between you. Then his gaze sharpens just a fraction.
“But you didn’t look like you were havin’ much fun.”
You glance down at your cup, thumb tracing the condensation along the side. It would be easy to brush it off. To make a joke. You don’t. You shrug instead, softer this time.
“It’s just… a lot,” you admit.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you. You glance back up, catching him already watching you. Focused now. Not teasing. Listening.
“Everyone’s paired off,” you continue, quieter. “Everyone’s got someone to dance with, someone to go back to, someone to…” you trail off, shaking your head with a small laugh. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
His expression doesn’t change, “Doesn’t sound stupid.”
You hold his gaze for a second. Then look away first.
“Just makes you aware of things, I guess.”
It’s quiet again. But it doesn’t feel empty. Then he leans back slightly, shifting the tone without breaking it.
“Still,” he says, “you might be the only person I’ve seen survive an open bar and not enjoy it.”
You scoff. “Oh, I enjoyed it.”
His brow lifts, “Yeah?”
You meet his eyes, a spark back now, “Champagne was doing some heavy lifting.”
That gets him. A real reaction this time. A low, quiet laugh that sits somewhere in his chest. His eyes lighten up, small creases appearing in the corner of his eyes in a way that makes your heart flutter. His gaze trails over you in a way that feels almost familiar. Comforting.
You snort and shake your head, looking away from him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” He asks, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He tilts his head slowly and you feel his eyes stay glued to your face.
You look back to him, not caring that your cheeks are heating up, “Act like you’ve got me figured out already.”
His smile doesn’t drop. If anything, it settles deeper.
“Don’t I?”
You lean back slightly, crossing your leg, giving him a look that’s meant to push.
“No.”
A beat.
Then his eyes drag over you again.
Slower this time. Not subtle.
“Alright,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to work a little harder.”
Your pulse ticks. Before you can respond-
“Order for-”
Your name is called. You freeze. Just for a second.
Too late.
He hears it. Of course he does. You see his eyebrows go up.
You stand, grabbing your drink, very aware of him watching you the entire time.
When you sit back down-
He says your name. Low. Careful. Like he’s committing it. Like he’s making sure he gets it right the first time.
Because he won’t ask again.
Your stomach flips. You hate that he can do that with just one word.
“You could’ve just asked,” you say teasingly, propping your head up on your palm, elbow settled on the table.
He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table now, closing the distance just enough to matter.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.
“You always this annoying?”
“Only when I’m interested.”
That lands. Hard. You don’t look away this time.
“…You don’t even know me,” you say.
His gaze holds yours. Steady.
“No,” he agrees with a quick and certain nod.
Then, quieter as he leans in close enough that it's as if he's about to share his most precious secret with you.
“But I’d sure like to.”
The café noise fades again. Or maybe you just stop hearing it. You take a slow sip of your drink, buying yourself a second.
“Misery loves company,” you say lightly over the rim of your coffee cup.
It folds into everything else. The hum of the refrigerator, the quiet settling of the house, the steady rainfall tapping against the glass of your windows, the soft drag of your own breath in your chest. Just another small noise in a place that’s been too still for too long.
Your hand tightens around your phone anyway. You don’t know why.
You’ve been doing that all day. All week.
Just… holding it. Like if you keep it close enough, something will happen. Like you can force it if you try hard enough.
Nothing does.
Two weeks of nothing.
Your thumb shifts against the dark screen. You don’t unlock it. You don’t need to. You already know what’s there.
Nothing.
The second knock comes a little louder.
And this time your body reacts before your brain does.
Your phone is still in your hand, screen dimming, thumb hovering uselessly over nothing. You don’t remember picking it up again. You don’t remember the last time you set it down.
Two weeks.
The hallway is too warm. Too yellow from the thunderstorm brewing outside. It makes everything feel unreal as you pass through it, your bare feet quiet against the floor, the air inside the house too still. Like it’s been holding its breath with you.
You don’t check outside the window by the door.
You don’t need to.
Your hand lingers on the handle for half a second, your grip tightening just slightly, like you’re bracing for impact.
Then you open the door.
And there he is.
It’s not subtle, the way it hits you. Not a slow realization, not something you can ease into. It’s immediate. Jarring.
He looks worse than you expected.
His hair is damp from the rain steadily falling from the tinted sky. There’s a split in his lip, pulled tight and pale at the edges like it’s only just starting to heal. A bruise blooms along the line of his jaw, yellowing at the edges, darker near the center. His shoulders sit wrong under his shirt. Tense, uneven, like something hasn’t quite settled back into place yet. Even the way he’s standing feels off, weight shifted just slightly like he’s compensating for something you can’t see.
Alive.
Fucking asshole.
“Jesus Christ, Phillip,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you intended, like the air gets caught somewhere on the way out.
His mouth pulls upwards slightly. Not quite a smile, something thinner, sharper.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Missed you too, sweetheart.”
Like nothing happened.
Like you didn’t spend the last fourteen nights waking up in the dark with your chest tight and your phone already in your hand, like your body had made a habit out of waiting. Like the nightmares you constantly drowned in during your marriage didn't make an unwelcome return. Dreams of gunfire and blood and explosions and a set of boots at the door that will never be worn again.
You step back.
He steps in.
Of course he does.
He moves past you like he knows the space, which he does, boots soft against the hardwood floor, his gaze sweeping the room in one quick, practiced pass. Kitchen. Couch. The hallway beyond. Nothing lingers, but nothing gets missed either.
You close the door behind him a little harder than necessary. The sound echoes through the house, sharp and hollow.
He doesn’t react.
“Where is he?” he asks, like that’s the only reason he’s here.
No hello. No explanation. Just-
That.
You fold your arms across your chest, more for something to do with your hands than anything else.
“He’s not here.”
The shift in him is immediate.
Subtle, but immediate.
His head turns, eyes finding you fully now, sharper, more focused.
“What do you mean he’s not here?”
“He’s not here. He’s at your mom’s place for the weekend,” you repeat, your voice flattening out. “So you can go now.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Like he’s trying to recalibrate. Like this isn’t the reaction he expected. His blue eyes squint.
“You gonna talk to me like that all night?” he asks finally, brows pulling together just slightly, his pointer finger flicking side to side like he's inspecting you.
Something hot flickers under your skin.
You stare at him, incredulous. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re trying to get me out the door pretty fast,” he says, his tone tightening just a fraction, something defensive creeping in under the surface.
You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head as you take a step further into the room, putting a little more space between you and the door, between you and the instinct to just let him walk right back out.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, the sarcasm cutting sharp now, “am I supposed to be rolling out a welcome mat right now? Pour you a drink? Make you dinner?”
His jaw ticks. He purses his lips briefly, looking you up and down.
“You want me out of this house that bad, huh?”
You turn back to him, eyes narrowing.
“Well, you seemed pretty eager to be out of it,” you shoot back. “Two weeks, Phillip. Two weeks and I didn’t hear shit.”
“We’ve been over this, Darlin’.” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Something about the exhaustion in his voice makes you even angrier, rearing for a fight.
“Yeah?” you press, your voice rising despite yourself. “You called me at two in the fucking morning to say goodbye to our son like you were about to die? And then nothing?” You tilt your head at him, shrugging your shoulders.
His gaze flicks away for a fraction of a second, his tongue pressing briefly into the inside of his cheek. For once, he's at a loss for words.
“You couldn’t call me after?” you continue, stepping closer now, the words coming faster, sharper. “You couldn’t call me before you showed up at my house right now?”
“Our house,” he corrects automatically, like it's a reflex.
Something in you snaps.
“No,” you say immediately. Sharply. Hand held up to stop him, the word landing hard. “Not ours. It’s my house, Phillip. It’s been my house for the last two years.”
You can see it register. Just slightly.
“Just…” You huff, folding your arms and turning away to head to the living room, “go home to your fucking condo,” you add quietly under your breath, the bitterness slipping out before you can stop it.
He scoffs, the sound low and disbelieving, his head tipping back just a fraction like he’s trying to keep his patience from slipping.
“God Almighty,” he groans, dragging a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call you. Okay? It’s not exactly easy-”
“Oh, it's not easy for you? Is it easy for me?” you cut in, your voice breaking upward, sharper now, louder than the space can hold comfortably. You turn back towards him with your hands on your hips to stop your hands from shaking, “You think it’s fucking easy for me out here?”
His eyes snap back to yours, something flashing there.
“You think I’m not thinking about you?” he returns fire, stepping forward, the space between you shrinking without either of you acknowledging it. “Every second I’m out there? You think I’m not thinking about you and our son every minute?”
Your chest tightens, something pulling uncomfortably under your ribs. Your eyes burn just like they did two weeks ago during that fucking phone call.
“Then why did you call this time?” you demand, whispering sharply.
That stops him.
Not completely. But enough.
His shoulders shift, his gaze dropping for just a second before he looks back up.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“No,” you snap, shaking your head. “We’re talking about it now, Phil. You don’t get to just drop that and then disappear again. I've been pacing for two weeks.”
He exhales sharply, frustration starting to show in the tight line of his mouth, the way his hand curls briefly at his side.
“It’s hard for you?” you push again, the words tumbling over each other now, less controlled. “How do you think I’ve been the last two weeks? I haven’t been able to sleep because all I can think about is you. And this?” You reach up and turn his jaw, displaying the blossoming bruises that stain his skin, "What the hell is this?"
“Oh, all you can think about is me?” he cuts in incredulously, and there’s something sharp in it now. Something that wasn’t there a second ago. He tugs away from your touch frustratedly.
You blink. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He lets out a short, humorless breath, shaking his head once.
“You seem to be doing just fine, Darlin’.” he states bluntly, his blue eyes swimming with something heavy that you can't quite figure out.
Whatever it is, it's like pouring gasoline on the fire circulating in your blood.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you say, your voice dropping.
“You went on a date with that guy the day I was leaving.” He huffs, voice higher pitched than usual, his normal composure weakening with indignation.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap sarcastically, voice dropping, more dangerous now. “Next time I’ll make sure to run my personal life by you before I make any decisions.”
“I’m not exactly lining up women to go out to dinner with me, you know,” he cuts in, his voice tightening, frustration bleeding through now.
There’s something under that.
Something you can’t quite name fast enough.
“Wow,” you drag, shaking your head. “Okay.”
“You want to talk about moving on?” he continues, stepping closer, his presence filling more of the space, his voice lower now but more intense. “Because I haven’t been out there, what? Replacing you while you’re-”
“Oh, don’t even,”
“I’m saying I’ve been right here!”
It breaks. Not gradually.
All at once.
He throws his arms out slightly, the movement sharp, frustrated, like he’s trying to physically push the words out of himself.
“I was right here. Been right here the whole goddamn time.” he says, his voice cracking through the space, rougher now, less controlled. “But you-” he huffs out a breath, dragging his hand over his mouth, his eyes dropping for a split second before snapping back up, “Jesus. You-”
It hits differently.
Not just anger. Something raw. Unfiltered.
“I what, Phillip?” you hiss, stepping into his space without meaning to, your hands clenching at your sides.
His gaze drops to you, closer now, sharper. And when he speaks again, his voice is weak, like he doesn’t have the strength to carry the words.
“You hate me that much?”
“No,” you fire back immediately, shaking your head hard.
“Sure looks like it.” He says defensively, eyebrows raising.
“You don’t get to say that,” you shoot back. “You’re not here the ‘whole goddamn time’.” You mimic his voice and words back to him.
His expression hardens again.
“I was here.”
“No, you weren’t,” you say, your voice rising, the words pushing out of you now. “You leave. That’s what you do. You leave me.” Your palm connects with your chest in a firm motion. You feel your heart race below your hand.
“I don’t disappear.”
“You didn’t call.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when I’m the one sitting here!” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the walls, too loud, too sharp.
Neither of you backs down.
“I didn’t leave you.” He insists, voice echoing off the quiet walls.
You match his volume. “You did! You left us, Phillip! Like always!”
The words land heavy between you.
Final.
“But I came back,” he snaps, louder now, his voice roughening. “I keep coming back. Over and over and over. I keep fucking coming back like a beaten dog with my tail between my legs, but you-”
His voice catches. Cracks just like it did on the phone two weeks ago.
Just slightly.
He cuts himself off, turning his head, exhaling hard through his nose.
“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his drying hair hastily.
The silence that follows is thick.
Your chest feels too tight. Too full.
“You don’t get to expect me to stay exactly where you left me,” you say, quieter now, but it cuts deeper for it.
He shakes his head, his hand coming up again like he’s trying to find the right words and failing.
“That’s not what I-”
“Then what do you mean?” you press. “Because right now it sounds like you think I’m just supposed to sit here and wait for you every time you walk out that door. Just like you wanted when we were married.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you’re acting like.”
A beat. Then-
“Tell me. Every time I leave-” he says, his voice lower now, rougher, “-you’re not thinking about me the way I’m thinking about you?”
That-
that lands somewhere deeper.
You stare at him. Something in your chest cracks.
“Are you serious?” you ask, your voice shaking now despite yourself. “You really believe that I don’t think about you?”
He doesn’t answer.
That’s enough.
“My heart breaks every time you leave,” you say, pressing your hand tighter against your chest, the words coming faster now, messier, harder to control. “Every time I look at our son and I see your face in his, I think about you.”
Your throat tightens.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” you admit, quieter now, but it hurts more. “The last two weeks- I haven’t been sleeping because I’ve been terrified something happened to you.”
Your voice wavers. You can feel it slipping.
“We’ve been divorced for two years,” you say, the words catching, “and I still- Jesus your voice on the phone, I just. I can't-”
You stop.
Because you can’t finish it. Your breath stutters. You hiccup. You notice his eyes tracking down your cheeks and realize they're wet.
You turn your head, blinking hard, like you can shove it back down.
You can’t.
His hand moves.
Instinct. Reaching.
“Don’t,” you say immediately, the word sharp, automatic, pulling back in a sharp motion to curl into yourself. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
He pauses. Just for a second. His eyes are stoney, calculating. Like hes looking over a battle plan.
Then he exhales, low, frustrated-
-and steps forward anyway.
His hands find your upper arms, firm, sure, pulling you into him before you can step back, before you can think about it.
You collide with his chest, your hands coming up automatically, gripping the front of his shirt, your face pressing into him like it’s the only place that makes sense anymore.
And then you break.
Not quietly. Not cleanly. Just-
Crying.
Your fingers twist tighter in his tee shirt, your shoulders shaking as everything you’ve been holding in for two weeks finally spills over.
He goes still for half a second.
Then his arms wrap around you.
Tight. Safe. Familiar.
One hand pressing into your back, holding you there, the other sliding up onto your hair, palm smoothing gently, anchoring you against him.
He's warm. So fucking warm. He smells just like he did the day you met him. You rub your cheek against the damp cotton of his shirt.
His head dips.
You feel it. His nose, his mouth pressed into the top of your head, his breath warm through your hair as he inhales deeply.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough, low, nothing like it was a minute ago. “Hey… hey,” he murmurs. “I’m okay. I’m right here.”
You shake your head against him.
It’s not okay.
You say nothing, chest heaving rapidly.
“I know,” he says softly. “I know, baby, I know.”
His hand tightens slightly, steadying you.
“I know you’re angry at me,” he murmurs, close, right above your ear. “I know. I'm sorry."
Your grip on his shirt tightens in your shaky hands as his racing heartbeat echoes in your ears, keeping pace with your own. Suddenly, you can't fathom how you got through the last two years without this.
“C’mere... I’ve got you,” he breathes, quieter now, like you aren’t already there, like he needs to say it anyway.
“It’s okay.”
It isn’t.
But you don’t let go.
And neither does he.
Because you can’t finish it. Your breath stutters. You hiccup. You notice his eyes tracking down your cheeks and realize they're wet.
You turn your head, blinking hard, like you can shove it back down.
You can’t.
His hand moves.
Instinct. Reaching.
“Don’t,” you say immediately, the word sharp, automatic, pulling back in a sharp motion to curl into yourself. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
He pauses. Just for a second. His eyes are stoney, calculating. Like hes looking over a battle plan.
Then he exhales, low, frustrated-
-and steps forward anyway.
His hands find your upper arms, firm, sure, pulling you into him before you can step back, before you can think about it.
You collide with his chest, your hands coming up automatically, gripping the front of his shirt, your face pressing into him like it’s the only place that makes sense anymore.
And then you break.
Not quietly. Not cleanly. Just-
Crying.
Your fingers twist tighter in his tee shirt, your shoulders shaking as everything you’ve been holding in for two weeks finally spills over.
He goes still for half a second.
Then his arms wrap around you.
Tight. Safe. Familiar.
One hand pressing into your back, holding you there, the other sliding up onto your hair, palm smoothing gently, anchoring you against him.
He's warm. So fucking warm. He smells just like he did the day you met him. You rub your cheek against the damp cotton of his shirt.
His head dips.
You feel it. His nose, his mouth pressed into the top of your head, his breath warm through your hair as he inhales deeply.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough, low, nothing like it was a minute ago. “Hey… hey,” he murmurs. “I’m okay. I’m right here.”
You shake your head against him.
It’s not okay.
You say nothing, chest heaving rapidly.
“I know,” he says softly. “I know, baby, I know.”
His hand tightens slightly, steadying you.
“I know you’re angry at me,” he murmurs, close, right above your ear. “I know. I'm sorry."
Your grip on his shirt tightens in your shaky hands as his racing heartbeat echoes in your ears, keeping pace with your own. Suddenly, you can't fathom how you got through the last two years without this.
“C’mere... I’ve got you,” he breathes, quieter now, like you aren’t already there, like he needs to say it anyway.
2087
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