cod-imagines

[cod-imagines]

imagine #12

character: Keegan P. Russ words: 7088 cw: 18+, drinking, weed use, sexual content, mentions of smut, angst (honestly everyone’s a little toxic) description: AU in which you’re in a situationship with a drummer in an underground rock band. a/n: I love drummer!Keegan lol I’d write a whole series to be honest. Brian Bloom just fits the aesthetic so much, it’s crazy lmao. also this feels like it will have a part 2 at some point??

Whatever it was between you and Keegan, you never gave it a name. And that seemed to suit both of you just fine, for the most part.

There hadn’t been a conversation about it, nothing awkward or defined. No laying out of expectations. He didn’t ask where you were going when you left, and you didn’t ask if he was seeing anyone else. It was a rhythm, not a contract. You came over when you felt like it. Stayed when he let you. You fucked when he wanted it, or when you wanted it, or when the silence between you got too hot to sit in. And when it was over, you’d press your cheek to his chest or stretch naked on the mess of sheets while he rolled a joint and passed it to you without speaking.

It worked. No tension, no pressure. Just sweat and smoke and that low, lazy chemistry that filled the space like heat.

You were on his couch in the basement again, cross-legged, thighs bare, the hem of Keegan’s old Blink-182 shirt slipping over the flesh of your hips. It was soft, thin in the way that came from a thousand washes. Probably from the early 2000s, judging by the fading ink and the stretched-out collar. It smelled faintly of detergent and weed and sweat. You’d pulled it on after the two of you had fucked that morning — quick and rough, slow and deep, some tangled combination of both. Your thighs still felt warm. Bruised. Your mouth still tingled from the way he’d kissed you afterwards, open and unhurried like he didn’t have anywhere else to be.

He wasn’t sentimental about things. Not the shirt. Not the act. Keegan wasn’t the kind of man to collect objects just to keep them pristine. If he owned something, he used it until it wore down under his hands. And if it broke, it broke. The shirt was no exception. Neither were you.

You were bent over the little mushroom-themed rolling tray you’d gotten him a few weeks back, trying to mould the paper into shape. Your thumbs fumbled along the seam, sticking and unsticking as you cursed under your breath. Keegan always made it look so fucking easy — tucked papers, neat little folds, packed just tight enough. But whenever you tried, it was a mess of fingers and wasted bud. Still, he let you try. Even if he laughed. Even if he usually took over halfway through.

Across the room, the drums filled the space like a second heartbeat. Keegan was in the corner, shirtless, sweat beading along his spine and catching in the curve of his shoulder blades. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, slung haphazardly, making your stomach twist. One earbud was in, listening to whatever melody occupied his focus in that moment, the other dangling down the front of his bare chest, the cord sticking lightly to his skin. His head moved in time with the rhythm, slow at first, then sharper, more attuned. Each hit of the snare pulsed through the floor and up your spine.

Keegan played like it was religion. Like the drums weren’t something he controlled but something that spoke through him. Like the music he made was his church and he was its most devout worshipper. His forearms were tight, dark hair dusting over the ink that curled from wrist to elbow — black lines that looked like they’d been scrawled in a fever dream, sharp and violent and perfect. His stubbled jaw was tight, mouth slightly open, breath shallow with effort. He looked possessed, the kind of focus that made it impossible to look away.

It was erotic in a way that felt unfair. The way his muscles flexed with every strike. The way sweat dripped down the centre of his stomach, disappearing into the band of his pants. The way he didn’t even notice you watching, didn’t perform for it, just gave himself over to the rhythm like it was the only thing that existed.

Your joint came out wonky. You stared at it, annoyed, then smiled anyway. You’d make him fix it. Or make him roll you another one. Maybe later. Maybe after you blew him while he sat on that stool, his calloused hands still sticky from broken blisters, his mouth slack and panting your name.

You sank deeper into the couch, legs spread now, one knee propped high against the backrest, the other angled outward like you were stretching yourself open for the room to see. The shirt rode up with the movement, catching at your hips, flashing the skin he’d bitten just hours ago. You let your head fall back, eyes sliding shut for a moment, letting the beat carry you.

The drums tapered off one hit at a time, rhythm fraying until it fell into silence, cut loose from the structure he’d held it in. You felt it before you even looked — felt the shift in the room, the drop in tension that wasn’t relief so much as anticipation. When you lifted your head, Keegan had already set the sticks aside. He stretched, long and slow, arms rising above his head, his torso flexing in a way that made your mouth go dry. The muscles along his stomach drew tight, the slow ripple of movement dusted with drying sweat and lit by the faint spill of sunlight coming through the basement window. His eyes flicked over to you, lazy, half-lidded, icy.

You held up the joint without a word.

He crossed the room like he didn’t have a single thought in his head except you, and maybe he didn’t. When he reached you, you swung your legs over his lap without asking. His hands immediately found your calves, blistered fingers brushing up under the hem of your shirt — hisshirt — his thumbs dragging slow along your skin like he was re-learning how to map it from scratch.

He leaned in. Took the joint from your fingers, sparked it, and inhaled — long and smooth — and then he kissed you.

You let him.

His mouth was warm, lips dry, but the kiss was molten, laced with smoke that filled your lungs before you could breathe on your own. He didn’t pull back. Not right away. Just deepened the kiss, pressed harder, his tongue pushing against yours with lazy hunger, like he wasn’t done with you yet. Your chest heaved with the strain of it, lungs burning, body already reacting the way it always did — heat spreading down your spine, nipples pebbling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt that barely covered you, core pulsing in time with the low hum still ringing in your ears from his drumming.

His free hand moved higher. Rough palm at your waist, then gripping your body to drag you closer — like you weren’t already in his lap, legs parted across him, body melting into his without resistance. He didn’t speak. Keegan never really did during things like this.

You broke the kiss only to catch your breath, hands sliding under the hem of the shirt to tug it over your head, skin bare underneath — but then you heard it. A voice, echoing sharp and clear down the narrow staircase.

“Yo, Russ! You down here?”

Footsteps followed. Quick, careless ones. Familiar.

Keegan stilled against your mouth, exhaled slow against your cheek, and pulled back just as Ajax appeared halfway down the stairs, boots thudding against the wood like a warning that came too late. You reached blindly for the threadbare blanket beside you, yanking it across your thighs in a half-hearted effort to look like you hadn’t just been about to let Keegan fuck you stupid on his basement couch.

Ajax didn’t even flinch.

“Well don’t stop on my account,” he said, grinning like a bastard, eyes flicking between the two of you with that cockiness he wore like a second skin.

Keegan didn’t bother looking embarrassed. Just rubbed the back of his neck, hair damp, eyes already a little distant again like the moment hadn’t meant much. It never did, not enough to explain. He nodded once in acknowledgement. Nothing more.

You tucked the blanket tighter around your body, trying to settle back against the couch, pretending like your face wasn’t burning and your thighs weren’t still slick with the ghost of his hands. Ajax had met you a few times before. Enough to know. Enough to get it. And as far as you knew, he was the only one in the band who did.

Keegan didn’t like to share.

Ajax nodded toward the dying roach in the ashtray, toward the rolling tray on the table still scattered with papers and crumbs of bud. “Wow,” he said, mock-wounded, “you guys aren’t even gonna offer me any? I’m hurt.”

Keegan glanced at the tray, then at you. “Roll another?”

You gave him a look that was nothing short of incredulous. He knew you couldn’t roll worth shit. You stared at the mess you’d left behind — paper half-stuck to itself, too loose to burn, too sad to salvage.

He sighed. A low, almost fond sound.

“Never mind.” He sat back, took the tray from the table, and got to work.

You watched his fingers move, deft, efficient, as if everything in his life was built to be done with those hands. You shifted slightly, still curled up on the couch, blanket bunched around your hips now, the shirt you’d almost shed pulled down modestly. Ajax wandered off toward the mini-fridge for a beer.

He returned shortly thereafter, dropping with easy confidence onto the couch without asking. The old frame dipped beneath him, his thigh pressing casually against yours like he didn’t even notice how bare your skin still was under the blanket. The couch shifted around the weight of all three of you, and suddenly you were sandwiched between Keegan and his best friend, the press of muscle and body and silence closing in on either side.

Keegan glanced up, once, barely a flick of his eyes toward Ajax, like he’d registered the new presence beside you and moved on. No flicker of ownership. No hint of possessiveness. His gaze dropped again, and he returned to the task in his lap — rolling, slow and steady, the pads of his fingers coaxing the paper into place like it was nothing. Like you weren’t half-naked under a throw blanket, still breathing him in, your lips swollen from his kiss. Like Ajax being close enough to feel the heat off your skin didn’t mean a fucking thing.

You hated how much you wanted him to react. To shift. To care. Even a hand on your thigh would’ve been enough. Something small, grounding. But Keegan just licked the edge of the paper, sealed it, and reached for his lighter.

Ajax leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, beer resting between his palms. “You ready for tonight?” he asked, turning toward Keegan.

“Tonight?” you echoed before you could stop yourself.

Ajax blinked, surprised. “You didn’t tell her?”

Keegan didn’t even lift his head. He flicked the lighter open, flame catching on the first try, and lit the end of the joint with the same calm he brought to everything — playing, fucking, you. You stared at him as he inhaled slow, chest rising, the smoke curling from the corner of his lips like the question hadn’t even registered.

“There’s a gig?” you asked, quieter now. You were looking at Keegan, not Ajax. But he didn’t answer.

Ajax did it for him. “Yeah, late one. Ten o’clock, Barracuda. Should be packed.”

You let your eyes drag back to Keegan, who passed the joint to Ajax without a word. You didn’t say anything either, not at first. Just watched him, watched the way he leaned back into the couch, his arms resting lazily along the cushions, so casual it made you ache.

He hadn’t told you.

You’d spent the morning in his bed. Wrapped up in his sheets, his mouth on your neck, his hands between your thighs. He’d made you come twice before noon and never once mentioned he’d be on stage tonight. You’d been in his house all day. Still here now. But this? This was something he hadn’t thought worth sharing. And you were reminded, all over again, of just how carefully he kept things separate. How there were parts of him folded into drawers you weren’t allowed to open, no matter how many hours you spent lying against his chest, pretending this wasn’t what it was.

The problem was, it was working. You kept showing up. Kept waiting for the warmth that sometimes surfaced in the quiet after sex, when he curled his fingers into your hair and let himself breathe a little deeper than usual. You’d thought — stupidly, selfishly — that those moments were real. That he was thawing.

Because hadn’t you shared enough to earn that?

There were nights you lay naked beside him and talked about the things that hurt. His family. Yours. All the years between. You told him things you hadn’t said out loud in years, and he listened — really listened, eyes on the ceiling, fingers grazing your ribs like a metronome. And afterwards, his mouth would be on you again, and it felt different. It felt close.

So why didn’t this?

Ajax glanced at you, breaking the stretch of silence. “You’re coming, right?”

You blinked once. “Didn’t get an invite.”

Ajax made a face, sitting back with a low whistle. “Keegan. Seriously?”

Keegan shrugged, not even sparing you a glance. “You can come if you want.”

You wanted to laugh. If you want. The words landed like cold water against your chest. No smile. No warmth. No I want you there. Just a tossed-off offer like it didn’t matter either way.

And maybe it didn’t. Maybe to him, you were just something warm to hold between sets. A soft body. A pretty face. A routine.

You swallowed around it, the ache in your chest lodged like smoke in your lungs.

“I don’t know,” you said, forcing your voice lighter, more detached than you felt. You turned your head toward Ajax with a tilt of your chin, lips quirking like none of it touched you. “Might already have plans. Some friends and I were talking about going out.”

Ajax raised a brow, and Keegan finally turned to look at you then. Aware. You held his stare. Let it linger. Daring him to say something that would make you stay. Give you a reason. Offer you more than crumbs.

But he didn’t.

Ajax leaned forward again, his grin still lingering. “You know, it’s about time you got to see your man on stage.”

The word hit like a brick through glass.

Your man.

You felt the entire weight of it drop into your chest like it had been waiting to land, heavy and inevitable. It was said casually, a throwaway line, a joke between friends — but it echoed in the space between you and Keegan like it meant something more. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words crawled across your skin, hot and sticky, settling into every crack you’d tried to smooth over. You weren’t his. Not really. And he wasn’t yours. That had always been the deal. No expectations. No claims. No mess.

But still.

Keegan didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh it off, didn’t joke back, didn’t even glance at you to gauge your reaction. His shoulders went still, the kind of stillness that wasn’t silence but retreat — internal, quiet, sealed behind that wall he always seemed to carry around inside his chest. His fingers were still resting on his knee, and he didn’t look up. Didn’t offer correction. Or clarification. Or anything.

That hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You forced yourself to react — to not react. To move past it like it hadn’t stuck in your throat. You gave a dry little laugh, just enough breath behind it to make it sound casual, and leaned your head back against the cushion behind you.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice light, flirtatious enough to sound like nothing. “I feel like I’d distract him too much if I were in the audience. Flash a little bit of leg and he fucks up the whole tempo.”

You didn’t look at Keegan as you said it. You could feel the weight of his attention shift just slightly toward you — that faint prickling awareness of his gaze — but it passed too fast to mean anything. He didn’t respond. Not even a smile.

Ajax let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Audience?” he scoffed. “No. You’d be backstage. What do you think this is, some all-ages coffeehouse show? You’d have the best view in the place.”

And maybe you should’ve smiled. Maybe you should’ve taken the win. But all you could feel was the burn of Keegan’s silence stretching tight beside you. The way his body had gone unreadable again. Neutral. Like you were a guest in a house you were supposed to know the rules to by now.

You shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around your bare thighs even though your skin wasn’t cold — just raw. Your voice came light, offhanded, the words sliding out before your heart could weigh them down too much.

“Like I said, I might have plans tonight anyway,” you repeated, your gaze fixed on some vague middle distance, past Keegan’s shoulder, past the smoke curling between Ajax’s fingers. “So it’s fine.”

There it was. Final. Neatly wrapped.

You still didn’t look at Keegan. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to see the blankness you already knew would be there, the same flat line in his mouth, the same distant calm in his eyes. He wouldn’t ask what your plans were. He wouldn’t try to pull you back. That just wasn’t who he was, not with you, anyway. And that knowledge had settled inside you like a bruise, dark and aching, deep enough that no amount of weed or his touch on your body could dull it now.

You stood, the blanket falling from your lap in a soft collapse of fabric. You didn’t bother fixing the shirt as you rose, the hem barely covering the curve of your ass. You knew Ajax was watching, though he didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t, not out of respect for you, but for Keegan. That was the hierarchy. That was the line.

You moved past them, barefoot, the weight of their attention trailing across your skin like heat. You didn’t give them a look over your shoulder. Just walked slowly toward the stairs, the air thick with tension and smoke, your legs still aching from the way Keegan had pulled you apart that morning with his hands like he was trying to quiet something inside himself.

You paused at the foot of the steps, one hand on the railing. You spoke without turning around, voice soft and distant, almost careless.

“I’m gonna shower and get out of here. I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

Keegan didn’t say a word.

⟡

Despite everything — despite the hollow shrug of Keegan’s voice when he said you can come if you want, despite the way you’d lied about having other plans just to keep from sounding hurt — you found yourself there anyway. You weren’t even sure when the decision was made. There was no moment of conviction, no dramatic pivot in the shower. You got dressed. Got in the car. Drove into the night with your chest hollowed out and your hands too tight on the wheel.

Barracuda was the kind of place you could only find if you knew what you were looking for — tucked in the forgotten stretch of the industrial outskirts, past the bridges and the graffitied storage yards, far from anything pretty or clean. The building itself looked like it had once been used for steel, or maybe shipping — broad, soot-stained, and crumbling around the edges. A squat, brick warehouse with warped windows and a loading dock that had been converted into a smoking area. The sign above the door was nothing more than red neon tubing in the shape of a heart, buzzing like it was on its last legs. The bass rolled through the walls before you even stepped inside, vibrating through the soles of your boots and up into your ribcage.

The interior was a cavern. Red light bled across every surface, soaking into concrete floors and peeling black paint. The bar was jammed into the corner like an afterthought, a half-moon of metal and exposed piping, sticky with old liquor and illuminated by a spattering of humming bulbs overhead. The stage was framed by scaffolding, caged in like a living beast, with cables drooping like vines and fog machines wheezing out slow streams of synthetic smoke that clung to the ground like it was afraid to rise. The whole place smelled like beer and sweat and sex. Like bad decisions. Like longing.

You got there halfway through the set.

Ajax was singing, voice smooth but angry, mouth pressed to the mic almost intimately. You knew the song. Not by name, not by heart, but by the drumline. You’d heard it enough times in the bowels of Keegan’s basement, curled up on the couch half-naked, joints tucked one after the other between your lips while he rehearsed shirtless and oblivious to how his hips moved when he played. You’d watched his arms flex and sweat bead down his body as he worked through every single beat, never saying a word. Never playing for you. Always with you in the room, but never to you.

You didn’t go close to the stage. You didn’t try to find him in the mess of strobes and screaming and light. You went to the bar instead. Ordered something strong — whiskey, neat — hoping it would cut through the noise in your head. You wrapped your fingers around the glass and leaned into the edge of the bar, letting the cold press against your thighs through your jeans. You didn’t want attention. Not really. But you felt eyes from men around you sweep over you anyway — felt them catch on the waistline of your denim, on the smear of gloss on your mouth, on the line of your neck where your pulse thudded in yearning.

You could barely see him through the sea of bodies between you and the stage. There were girls everywhere — draped in fishnets and mesh, eyeliner smudged like warpaint, drinks in their hands and hunger on their faces. All of them beautiful. And they were screaming. For him. For Keegan.

Because everyone loved the drummer.

Everyone loved the sweat and the shadows and the raw, driving rhythm of it. Everyone loved the man who sat in the back and commanded the tempo, the one whose arms flexed with every hit, whose jaw tightened with effort, whose silence made people lean in. You could see them — crowded against the stage, shouting, dancing, laughing, tossing their hair back and hoping he’d look at them for even half a second.

And your stomach twisted.

Was this why he never brought you? Was this what you weren’t supposed to see?

The idea of it turned your drink sour in your mouth. The idea that maybe this was what he wanted to keep private — not because you were special, but because you weren’t. Because if he brought you here, if he let you stand beside him, the illusion would crack. Because maybe you were one of several. Because maybe someone else had worn that same Blink-182 shirt a few months ago and you’d never know the difference. Because maybe he liked you best when you didn’t ask questions.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even have the right to be mad.

You weren’t dating. You never said you were exclusive. You never asked. You agreed to this — the silence, the lack of labels, the easy slide from his bed to his basement to his hands between your thighs. And yet standing here now, watching the crowd scream for him, drink in your hand and mouth dry, all you could think about was how much you hated being on the outside of a door you’d never been invited through.

The next band stumbled onto the stage like they’d been pulled out of a trance, all static and too-loud tuning, the speakers hiccupping as they warmed up. The air shifted again — sweaty bodies pressing closer, the crowd surging in a drunken wave of anticipation. Plastic cups sloshed warm beer down forearms and shirtfronts, and cheers bled into the low throb of distorted chords. You lost him in all of it. One second Keegan was there — on stage, inside the pulse of the music — and the next, he was disappearing into the shadows behind the shredded backstage curtain. You caught only the shape of his shoulders as he vanished, swallowed up by the venue’s blackened mouth like smoke pulled through a lung.

The heat in the room felt suffocating now, a furnace of skin and bass. Your throat ached with it. Your eyes burned. You needed to move, to step away, but there was nowhere to go that didn’t hum with neon and liquor and the smell of someone else’s sweat. So you ducked your head, slipped out the side, and took the stairs down — metal underfoot, rust licking at the walls, the sound of the venue upstairs muffled and distant behind you.

The basement smelled worse — like stale beer that had been soaking into the concrete for years. There were no real lights, just dim, flickering bulbs strung along the ceiling, their weak glow caught on peeling posters and smudged paint. The hallway outside the washrooms was barely wide enough for a queue. Only single stalls down here. First come, first serve. Just graffiti-carved doors and the anxious pacing of half-drunk strangers waiting to piss.

You took your place behind a tall guy with a neck tattoo, tentacles reaching out from his collar, curling around the stubble at his jaw. His shirt was soaked through at the back, and he smelled faintly of weed and cheap cologne. Behind you, a girl with blue hair popped her gum and checked her makeup, the flash of her phone screen lighting up the curve of her cheekbones.

You pulled out your own phone, thumb hovering instinctively over the screen. There was no message. Nothing from him. No “where are you,” no “I saw you.” Just your own home screen staring back at you mockingly. And still, still, your brain offered up soft excuses, dressing them in hope.

He probably didn’t have service.

He was probably busy packing up.

He cared, just in his own way.

You hated how badly you needed that to be true. Hated the little catch in your chest every time you thought about the way his mouth felt against yours, the way he’d pull your hair back and press his lips to your throat like he meant it. The way he’d stare at you when you were naked in his bed, no words, no promises, just breath and heat and the weight of him between your thighs.

You wanted to believe that meant something. Even if he never said it. Even if he never called you his.

“Hey,” said the guy in front of you, breaking your train of thought. He turned a little, gave you a once-over that landed somewhere between charming and smug. “You come here a lot?”

You blinked at him. “No.”

He grinned, undeterred. “Shame. Pretty good scene tonight, huh? You into this stuff? Grunge, punk, noise rock?”

You shrugged. “I know some of the guys in the band.”

“Oh yeah?” He perked up like that did something for him. “Cool. You coming out after? Everyone usually heads to The Foundry after Barracuda. Chill spot. Good drinks. I’m buying, if you’re down.”

There was something about the ease of it that bothered you — how quickly he assumed you’d say yes. That you were alone. That you wanted to be approached. That you weren’t already spoken for, already raw and simmering from someone else’s hands and indifference.

You opened your mouth to let him down, and then the voice cut in.

“[Name]?”

You’d recognize that low gravel anywhere. It curled down your spine like heat, soaked into your skin like summer rain. You knew Keegan’s voice the way you knew lust — immediate, carnal, impossible to ignore. You turned, pulse slamming hard behind your ribs, already knowing what you’d find.

He stood at the mouth of the hallway, half in shadow, dressed all in black, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. His t-shirt clung to him like a second skin, the hem riding just above the sculpt of his abdomen, and the silver of his rings flashed with every flex of his fingers. His eyes were locked on yours.

Not the guy beside you. Not the girl behind you.

You.

Your body reacted before your thoughts did — your lungs pulling in too much air, your lips parting like you’d just been kissed. There was nothing in his expression that told you how he felt. Just that steady stare. That weight. Like he saw everything in one glance — the guy, the way he looked at you, the tight jeans you’d worn, the fact that you were standing alone.

The man in front of you shifted, his voice faltering as he looked from Keegan to you. “You know him?”

And you wanted to say yes. You wanted to say I know everything about him. The way he kisses. The way he plays. The sound he makes when you pull his hair and bite his shoulder. The way he groans into your neck like you’re the only thing that ever quiets him.

But you didn’t say anything.

Keegan’s boots scuffed against the sticky floor. He stopped close, a few inches away, almost brushing against your skin like static.

“I thought you said you had plans,” he said, voice dragging along your nerves like a rasp. His eyes were bright under the flicker of fluorescent light, jaw tightening beneath the smudge of sweat.

You lifted your chin, didn’t let him see the flutter in your stomach. “Plans changed.”

Keegan’s gaze didn’t move from yours, though he kept his shoulders loose, like the weight of the crowd’s noise earlier hadn’t already soaked into his bones. “You could’ve texted me. Let me know you were coming.”

You wanted to snap something back, but before you could, the guy in front of you turned slightly, throwing up one hand in mild protest.

“Hey, man, no offence, but we were talking—”

Keegan didn’t even blink. He looked at you, not him, like the guy wasn’t even there. “You here with him?”

You felt your pulse hitch at the implication, at the clipped suspicion in his tone. “No. I’m not.”

A stall creaked open — rusted hinges whining — and before you could react, Keegan’s hand was closing around your wrist. You barely had time to shoot the guy a glare before the door shut behind you both and the lock slid into place. The guy’s voice sounded muffled beyond it, some frustrated protest, but it faded into the throb of bass from the floor above.

The bathroom was small, box-like, claustrophobic. Red tiles smeared with marker and pen and stickers curling at the corners. The air was thick with old smoke and piss, the floor sticky underfoot, and you were very aware of how close Keegan stood to you, chest rising and falling, the planes of his neck damp from exhaustion.

You turned on him, your voice already cutting. “What the fuck, Keegan?”

He didn’t flinch. He never flinched. Just planted one hand on the wall beside your head, the other brushing the edge of your hip, fingers light but possessive. “You gonna tell me what’s really bothering you?”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” you said, folding your arms even though your skin buzzed with his nearness, his scent, warm and male and too familiar.

“Bullshit,” he said, and his voice dipped, thick with something you couldn’t name. “I know when you’re upset.”

You scoffed, the sound sharp in the tile-walled room. “Right, ‘cause you know everything about me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be like this.”

“Don’t be like what?”

“This. Moody. Bitchy. Acting like I hurt you.”

You mimicked his voice — low, flat, bitter. “You can come if you want.”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared at him. Really stared. “Do you have any idea how shitty it feels to hear that? Like you didn’t give a single fuck whether I showed up or not?”

Keegan shifted back half a step, but only to run a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “You came anyway, didn’t you? So, what the fuck is the problem?”

“Forget it,” you muttered, reaching for the door, hand brushing the lock. But his palm pressed flat against it before you could slide it back. “Let me out, Russ.”

His jaw twitched. “Oh, it’s Russ now?”

“Move.”

He didn’t. He exhaled through his nose, dragging a thumb across his bottom lip before speaking. “You’re upset because I didn’t grovel for you to come see the show? Is that it?”

You laughed once, humourless. “Not grovel. But we’ve been seeing each other for what — a few months? And this is the first time I’m seeing you play. Why’s that, Keegan? How come you’ve never invited me before, huh?”

He paused. When he finally spoke, it was quieter, but no less blunt. “Didn’t think it was your thing.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Because what did that mean? That you weren’t the type of girl who liked music, like you hadn’t spent nearly every fucking day in his basement while he played? That you weren’t the type of girl he wanted to show off, that you didn’t match the image he projected onstage?

Or worse — that he wanted to keep you hidden?

Like he always had.

You looked at him, his features caught in the murky overhead light, sweat curling along his jaw, and you felt the ache in your chest thicken. The casual sex. The lazy mornings. The way he touched you without hesitation and then held back everything else. And for once, the fire between your legs wasn’t enough to chase the cold from underneath your ribs.

“I get it,” you said, quietly at first, in that terrifying way before glass shatters, before someone walks away and means it. You stared at the cracked mirror behind his shoulder rather than look him in the eye. Your reflection was a smear of red light, pupils blown, mouth twisted around restraint. “You don’t want to be seen with me. I get it. You could’ve just said that.”

Keegan’s brows pulled together, expression breaking for the first time into something less solid, less sure of itself. “No, [Name], that’s not—”

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

He flinched like you’d struck him.

“What?”

You pushed the words out before you could change your mind, before the heat of him clouded your judgment the way it always did. “I don’t think this is good for either of us.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he snapped, the sound bouncing off the filthy red tiles, all gravel and fury and something almost like hurt tucked deep beneath his voice. His jaw tensed, hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’re gonna pull this now? Here?”

“Yes,” you said, and it took everything in you to hold your ground. “Because I listened to you, Keegan. Every time. I showed up when you needed someone, no questions asked. When you needed to fuck the silence out of your system, when you needed a body to fall asleep next to. I was there. I was always there for you.”

His nostrils flared.

“I get that we’re not together,” you went on, stepping closer now, breath quick and sharp, “but I thought I was at least your friend. I thought you liked me enough as a person to want to fucking — I don’t know — hang out outside your place. Or mine. Maybe grab a fucking drink like normal people do.”

“You’re not just some girl I sleep with,” Keegan said lowly, like the sentence fought its way out of his throat. “You think I let just anyone in my house? In my bed?”

“How should I know?” you asked bitterly. “We’re practically strangers.”

His eyes flared, that glacial blue flickering in the low light. He took a step forward, and your back hit the tile behind you again, his chest inches from yours, his breath warm on your face. You could smell the stage on him — sweat, smoke, a trace of cheap beer — and it stirred something you hated in your gut.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “I don’t do this shit — whatever this is — with anyone. You show up and get under my skin and make me feel shit I don’t know what to do with. I’m not fucking used to it, alright?”

“Oh, poor you,” you shot back, heart thudding loud enough to drown the music upstairs. “Must be hard. Must be so fucking hard having someone care about you.”

“Get off my dick, [Name]. I’m trying, aren’t I?” His voice cracked slightly, like each word scraped its way painfully out of his throat. “Letting you crash at my place whenever you want. Letting you use me however the fuck you feel like. What do I ask for in return, huh?”

You glared at him, that low flame of disbelief flaring into something hotter, something uglier. It hit like a slap you should’ve seen coming. “This isn’t supposed to be transactional, you dick,” you said, the hurt edging into every syllable. “That’s not how relationships work.”

He scoffed, almost bitter. “We’re not — I’m not your boyfriend.”

The words sucked the breath from your lungs. For a second, you forgot how to swallow. Your body went still, a rigid quiet rolling through you like ice creeping under skin. “I meant in general,” you said after a beat, and your voice didn’t sound like your own. You kept it low, but it still cracked against the knot in your chest. “But good to know.”

Keegan dragged a hand down his face, muttering cusses under his breath. “What do you want from me, [Name]? Just fucking say it. Let’s talk like adults. We’re not kids.”

A knock landed hard against the door, sharp and impatient, breaking the air between you like glass. Keegan didn’t even look. “We’re fucking busy!” he snapped, voice barbed, and whoever it was retreated in silence.

You huffed, eyes narrowed. “Great. Now people think we’re fucking in here.”

His smirk came and went, hollow at the edges. “Wouldn’t be as fucking exhausting as this.”

You barked out a laugh, humourless, burned around the edges. “Of course. God forbid we do anything other than have sex.”

The look he gave you then was more than wounded. It was defensive, cornered. “That’s not fair. You know that’s not fair. You know I care about you.”

“Do I?” It came out too fast, too soft. The words slipped through the cracks in your defences, almost gentle, if not for the razor hidden underneath. “Do I know that?”

“You should,” he said, quieter. “I thought it was obvious.”

You stared at him, disbelief curdling into something sour in your chest. “To who?” Your voice sharpened as your jaw set. “To you? Because it’s sure as fuck not obvious to me.”

Another knock, lighter this time, followed by Ajax’s voice from the hallway. “Yo, Russ, come on. It’s showtime.”

Keegan turned his head, exhaling hard through his nose. “Give me a sec!” he shouted, then turned back to you, jaw tight. “Look. Just — come backstage. Watch the second half. We’ll talk after, alright?”

He looked at you like he was trying to hold you in place with his eyes. But something in you had gone quiet. Distant. “Sure,” you said flatly, the word stripped of any real weight. It felt like a lie before it even left your mouth.

Keegan took a breath like he didn’t buy it either. Then he stepped in, closing the space between you. His hand slid to the back of your neck, rough and warm, and he kissed you.

There was nothing soft about it.

It was messy and hungry, a clash of teeth and tension. His mouth tasted like sweat and smoke, and the unspoken things he couldn’t bring himself to say. His fingers grasped the nape of your neck and his body pressed against yours, hard and impatient. He kissed you like the truth lived in his mouth and he needed to make you taste it. And you let him, for what it was worth, because that was the rhythm you knew, the only language he seemed fluent in. You kissed him back because you didn’t know what else to do with the ache in your chest.

When Keegan finally pulled away, there was something half-formed in his gaze. Regret. Guilt. Maybe just fear. But you didn’t wait for him to explain it.

You stepped out into the hallway first, blinking against the sharp red haze that coated the space like a wound. Ajax was a few steps away, ready with a smirk and some easy line — “Hey, you came!” — but the rest of it died the second he caught sight of you. Of your face. Of Keegan behind you, his expression like a storm, like he’d shoved every feeling he didn’t know how to handle deep enough to rot. Ajax raised his brows slightly and stepped back without a word, giving you a path toward the stairwell.

Keegan didn’t say anything either. Just brushed past, heading for the door at the far end of the hall, footsteps too heavy in the quiet.

And you didn’t follow.

Your legs moved on instinct, up the other set of stairs, through the crowd and the heat, your body humming like the strings of a guitar pulled too tight. The venue felt louder now, rawer, the red lighting bleeding into your vision like a warning. You pushed your way toward the exit instead of the bar, instead of the stage, instead of him.

Because if you stayed another second, you weren’t sure if you’d cry — or worse, forgive him too easily.

You just needed to breathe before the ache hollowed out something you wouldn’t be able to fill again.

[cod-imagines]

consider this:

drummer!Keegan.

i'm popping off with the next fic, you guys aren't even READY ❗❗

[cod-imagines]

imagine #11

character: David “Hesh” Walker  words: 8116  cw: 18+, drinking, smoking, weed use, light sexual content (sorta smut but not really)  description: AU in which you’re Logan’s best friend but you’re crushing hard on his older brother.  a/n: a lovely anon requested something for Hesh and I will use any excuse to write for him :))) 

Meeting Logan Walker was, without exaggeration, both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to you. 

The best — because he was exactly what you hadn’t even known you were searching for. A best friend, sure, but more than that. A constant. A safe place. Moving across the country to San Diego for university had been a lonely kind of upheaval. The city was bright and loud and sprawling in all the ways your old life hadn’t been, and it had taken you years to feel even remotely rooted. And then, in your final year, a fluke of course scheduling dropped Logan into your lap. Some upper-year elective you’d registered for on a whim — just to fill the gap — and suddenly you were sitting beside a boy who made the whole world tilt a little differently. 

You clicked immediately. No awkward phase, no second-guessing. Just laughter — real, belly-aching, eye-watering laughter — right from day one. He was razor-sharp, quick with a joke, always ready with some dry comment under his breath that turned even the most boring lectures into something worth showing up for. But it wasn’t just that. There was a warmth to him, a gentleness, that caught you off guard. A way of seeing you when you didn’t say much, of reaching out before you had to ask. 

In a year full of exams you were convinced you’d flunk, of late-night breakdowns and messy almost-relationships that left you gutted and hollow, Logan stayed steady. Always with a Red Bull and a dumb grin, always picking up your calls at 2am without asking why. He didn’t flinch when you were at your worst. He cracked a joke, handed you tissues, reminded you — quietly, always quietly — that you could do this. You weren’t sure how you would’ve survived that year without him. He became a fixture in your life. Unshakable. Golden. 

But it was also the worst thing. Because Logan had an older brother. And his older brother was really fucking hot. 

David Walker — Hesh, as everyone called him — was the original blueprint. Where Logan was easygoing and irreverent, Hesh was sharp-edged charm and sun-kissed confidence. You’d caught onto it early, that Logan’s dry wit, his music taste, even the brand of cheap beer he insisted on drinking, all traced back to his brother. Logan would never say it aloud, but the resemblance in tone and manner was too strong to ignore. Hesh was the kind of man who could fill a room without trying. Not loud — no, never that. Just present. Unmistakably so. 

And you were so hopelessly, absurdly, silently drawn to him it made your teeth ache. 

Of course, you never said anything. God, no. That would’ve been a betrayal; whether real or just imagined, it didn’t matter. You weren’t oblivious. Logan was your best friend, and even if the two of you had never so much as flirted, never crossed the threshold into anything charged or intimate, the bond between you was still sacred. Precious. Just looking at his brother — thinking about his brother — felt like trespassing on something you weren’t meant to touch. You’d seen enough films to know how stories like that ended. Messy. Torn. With someone walking away. And you couldn’t afford to lose Logan. Not when he knew your secrets. Not when he was the only person who’d ever made this foreign city feel like home. 

So, you buried it. Or at least, you tried to. Told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just boredom, some temporary glitch in your emotional programming. That you were lonely. Tired. Vulnerable. That Hesh being impossibly attractive didn’t mean anything. 

But then the weekends would come, and with them, the gravity of that house — the Walkers’ place, nestled in a peaceful, tree-lined San Diego suburb where the air smelled like citrus and cut grass and the pool sparkled under a soft sun like something out of a dream. You’d pack a bag, climb into Logan’s beat-up car, and by the time you stepped through their front door, every boundary you’d ever drawn in your head would begin to blur. It happened every damn time. And you always let it. 

Hesh had a way of slipping into your life without warning, like smoke under a doorframe. He didn’t ask permission; he didn’t have to. He was just there, folding into your dynamic with Logan like he’d always belonged, like the trio of you had been a unit forever. He’d offer to drive the two of you in his own truck, blasting half-forgotten 2000s hip-hop tracks or obscure punk songs you’d never heard before but would fall in love with anyway, just because they were his favourites. He’d pick up takeout, remembering everything you liked to eat, pass you a beer before you even asked, show up with a freshly rolled joint between his fingers and a look on his face that made your breath catch. He was generous in a way that didn’t feel performative. Casual. Natural. Like he liked doing things for you. Like watching you react to him was part of the pleasure. 

And still, Logan never flinched. Never noticed the way your voice squeaked when Hesh was in the room. Never clocked the way your eyes lingered a second too long when his brother leaned against the counter, forearms dusted with flour from making late-night pizza from scratch just because, head tilted as he teased you. If he had, he never said a word. 

But you noticed. You noticed everything. 

Like the way Hesh never simply handed you the joints you smoked. No, he made a whole goddamn ritual out of it. He’d hold it up — two fingers, loose and casual — lips twitching with the hint of a smile, and wait. Wait for you to meet his eyes, for you to shift a little closer, for your lips to part. He’d guide it to your mouth slowly, thumb brushing your chin, and linger there just long enough to make your pulse flutter. And when you exhaled — smoke curling from your lips in slow, trembling ribbons — he’d let out this low, knowing laugh, then shift back like he hadn’t just stolen your breath. 

It drove you insane. 

He should’ve felt like an older brother. That was the script you were meant to follow. Hesh was Logan’s sibling. Off-limits. Family by extension. But nothing about him fit that mould. Not the way he looked at you, slow and curious, like he was working out a puzzle with his eyes. Not the way his arm brushed yours in the kitchen — bare skin on bare skin, that faint heat always pulsing outwardly. Not the way he’d call you angel in that velvet So-Cal drawl, not playful so much as suggestive, like he was savouring the taste of the word on his tongue. 

And then there were the times — few and far between but burned into your memory — when he got close. The way he’d reach around you to grab a glass from the cupboard, his chest pressed to your back, breath fanning against the shell of your ear as if he had no idea what that did to you. The way he’d sit too close on the couch, knees brushing, fingers idly playing with the strings of your hoodie as you tried to focus on the movie. The way he’d watch you when he thought you weren’t looking — green eyes darkening, thoughtful, lingering on your lips. 

You knew what you were feeling wasn’t innocent in the slightest. 

You were infatuated. No, more than that. You were tangled up in him, in the scent of his skin — pine, salt, something faintly metallic from his work — and in the way he laughed when you said something sarcastic, low and rumbly, like he was genuinely delighted by you. You were hooked on every brush of contact, every shared smoke, every glance that lasted too long. You were losing sleep over him. 

And there wasn’t a single thing you could do about it. 

⟡ 

It was the first weekend after graduation, and instead of packing your life into boxes and driving north to whatever waited back home, you’d stayed. There’d been no big, dramatic decision about it. San Diego wasn’t finished with you yet. The city was just now starting to feel a little bit more like a place you might belong in, and besides, Logan had insisted. Practically dragged your suitcases out of your hands, said the guest room was yours for the summer. Said Elias was fine with it, already signed off on the idea before you’d even asked. You hadn’t even had time to argue. Not that you would’ve. Not when the thought of leaving made your throat tighten. 

So, you stayed. And for now, you were in the Walkers’ garage, sunk low into a sun-bleached folding chair that creaked every time you shifted your weight. Your bare legs were sticky against the vinyl, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to your skin as the afternoon dragged its heels. The garage door was wide open, golden light spilling across the concrete floor and out onto the driveway. Beyond that, the neighbourhood was still, hot and green, palm trees swaying lazily like they had nothing better to do. The air smelled like cut grass, engine oil, and weed. 

Hesh was crouched beside Logan’s piece-of-shit Civic, sleeves bunched around his biceps, black T-shirt clinging damply to his back. He was wrist-deep in the guts of the front wheel, muttering something to himself as he pried at the brake pads, forearms slick with sweat and streaked with grease. You couldn’t help watching him — tracking the shift of muscle under skin, the flex of his jaw as he leaned forward. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the stubble creeping along his cheekbones caught the light, making your stomach twist a little. There was something rougher about him today, more worn-in, like the heat had stripped away whatever polish he usually wore. He was hot. Stupidly so. And he didn’t even seem to notice. 

Logan, in contrast, was sitting cross-legged on a spare tire, a smug little smirk on his face as he ground up flower with practiced hands. The rolling tray sat not in his lap, but yours, balanced across your thighs as he hunched over it, elbows digging into your knees. You were his workstation, apparently. The loose shake of weed clung to your skin, sweet and earthy, and every time he shifted the tray or tapped it, your whole body tensed, not entirely sure if it was from the ticklish motion or the knowledge that Hesh could see everything from where he was. 

You weren’t dressed for anyone. Just a tank top and shorts, skin still warm from the shower you’d taken an hour ago. But with the sun pouring in and Logan so close and Hesh right there, it felt more exposing than it should’ve. You crossed your ankles, then uncrossed them, then bounced your foot without noticing, restless in the heat. 

Logan gave your thigh a firm smack, his palm landing with a sharp clap. “Stop moving your legs,” he muttered, the tray wobbling as he tried to pinch the paper shut. “Can’t roll when you’re twitching like that.” 

You blinked, startled. “Sorry,” you mumbled, freezing in place as his fingers worked swiftly. You hadn’t realised how fidgety you’d gotten. Hadn’t realised, either, how quiet the garage had become, the only sounds left being the low scrape of tools and the flick of Logan’s lighter. 

You glanced over at Hesh again — just once, just to check — and caught the flicker of his eyes lifting towards you. His gaze swept up your legs, lingered, then slid back down to the car like nothing had happened. 

The air inside the garage clung to your skin like oil, heavy and slow. The heat pressed in from every direction, humid and humming, the late-afternoon sun dimming into golden sheets that lit the dust motes like sparks. Somewhere down the block, a neighbour’s lawnmower whined half-heartedly, the sound fading in and out beneath the louder thrum of cicadas, the creak of metal, the occasional clatter of tools on concrete. Still, none of it quite cut through the coil of tension wound tight in your stomach. Not with Hesh so close, his arms working beneath the wheel well of Logan’s car, swearing low as sweat tracked down the curve of his throat and disappeared beneath his collar. 

“Logan,” Hesh called, voice echoing slightly off the garage walls, “put some fucking music on before I start tweaking.” 

Logan barely lifted his head. He was hunched over on the tire, joint paper stuck to his lip as he ran his tongue across the seam, slow and precise, like he was savouring it. “You do it,” he muttered, thumb smoothing the edge with practiced ease. 

Hesh yanked his hand out from under the car, flipping it upright to show off the black smears of grease and grime that coated his fingers all the way to the knuckle. “Yeah? Wanna come suck the fucking oil off my fingers while you’re at it?” 

You laughed — couldn’t help it — and tried to cover your grin as you pushed out of the chair, the metal groaning under your weight. “I’ll do it,” you said, brushing your palms on the back of your shorts as you crossed to the cluttered shelf where the Bluetooth speaker sat between an old socket wrench set and a half-empty bottle of Gatorade. Your phone connected with a familiar chime, the screen lighting up under your thumb as you scrolled through your music. You hesitated for a second, then tapped a track you knew he liked — a song that screamed late '90s sunshine. 

The opening riff of “Semi-Charmed Life” exploded from the speaker like a jolt, brash and unapologetically upbeat. Logan groaned theatrically, flopping his head back. 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Hesh called from behind the wheel well, the smile obvious in his voice. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” 

“Thought you’d appreciate it,” you said, easing back into your seat as the lyrics kicked in, cheeky, rough-edged, hot in a way that stuck to your spine. The weed smell thickened in the air as Logan finished rolling and sparked the joint, the flame licking at the paper until the tip glowed molten red. He took a few slow drags, eyes half-lidded, holding the smoke in his lungs like it was sex itself before letting it leak out through parted lips. 

“Jesus,” Hesh muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. He crouched back on his heels and shook his head. “Puff, puff, pass, dumbass. You ever gonna learn?” 

Logan made a face but handed it off to you. “You want it so bad, come and get it.” 

You plucked it from his fingers before Hesh could. The joint was still warm from Logan’s mouth, the filter damp. You didn’t care. You brought it to your lips, inhaled deep, the sweetness of the strain blooming in your chest before you exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. It made everything blur at the edges — your limbs, your thoughts, the shape of the sunlight falling across Hesh’s shoulders. You hit it again. Then once more, greedily. Everything was slipping into soft focus, but him? Hesh was still in crystal clarity. 

He was standing now, just a few feet away, sweat trickling down the side of his head, the smudge of engine oil staining the inside of one leg. He nodded toward the joint, then gave you a slow tilt of his head. 

“C’mon,” he said. “Help a guy out.” 

You blinked. “But your hands are gross.” 

“Exactly,” he replied, and the grin he gave you wasn’t innocent. Not even close. “You know how this works.” 

Of course you did. 

You stood, your heart tapping a slow, thudding rhythm behind your ribs as you stepped toward him. The music played on, the lyrics skating under your skin with a wicked pulse: 

Those little red panties, they pass the test… 

The joint trembled just slightly between your fingers as you lifted it, brought it up to his mouth. His head dipped to meet you halfway, the scruff of his cheek grazing your wrist as he leaned in and closed his lips around the filter. 

Slides up around the belly, face down on the mattress… 

Hesh held your gaze as he inhaled, slow and deep, the cherry flaring hot. You felt it all — his breath, the faint heat of his tongue behind the paper, the whisper of his lips as they brushed your knuckles. He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, so close your skin prickled, so close your stomach twisted with longing. 

Then, he exhaled the smoke straight into your face. 

The effect was immediate. Your eyes stung, your chest hitched, your pulse jolted. You coughed once, hand rising instinctively to your mouth, and then you laughed, breathy and embarrassed, a little shaky. The haze clung to your hair, your lashes, your throat. You breathed it in like perfume. 

Hesh grinned. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick, before crouching down again, just like that, like nothing had happened. 

Like he hadn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire. 

Logan’s voice tore through the mellow stretch of the afternoon like a fork dragged across a plate. Nasal, impatient, endearingly whiny in that way only he could get away with. “I’m starving,” he groaned, letting his head fall forward like the weight of his hunger was some great affliction. “Like, fuck me — I’m going to pass out. Or die.” 

Hesh didn’t even glance his way. Still half-submerged in his work, he kept wrenching away at whatever rusted, stubborn piece of machinery had his attention. “Then go get pizza,” he shot back, voice echoing slightly off the concrete floor. 

Logan made a wounded, theatrical sound deep in his throat — one part drama, two parts laziness. “We could just order in,” he offered, drawing the words out like they were sweeter when stretched. 

“Or,” Hesh replied, the wrench slipping against metal with a sharp, hollow ping, “you could walk your ass to Rocco’s. It’s fifteen minutes, maybe less if you haul ass.” 

The Bluetooth speaker hummed in the background, still low and insistent, a pulse of music threading through the heat like a second heartbeat. The track shifted and “Two Princes” by Spin Doctors kicked in, all jangly guitars and sun-drunk momentum. The air shimmered in the open garage; the moment pulsed golden. 

Logan groaned again, dragging himself upright with the weight of a martyr. “Wanna come, [Name]?” he asked. 

You didn’t even hide your smirk. “In this heat?” you asked, leaning back in your chair until it creaked beneath you, one bare leg thrown lazily over the other. Your eyes flicked toward the open garage door, where the sun baked the blacktop into something near-glowing. “Not a chance.” 

Logan pressed a hand to his chest like you’d shot him. “You’re soft,” he accused, with mock horror. “You’ve gone soft on me.” 

“Hey,” Hesh chimed in. “You heard the lady. Besides, I’m the one fixing your brakes, so get on with it.” 

Logan paused for just a moment — long enough to glare at no one in particular — then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like traitors, patted his back pockets to check for his wallet, and headed toward out the driveway on foot. 

The silence rolled in after he left. Just you, the speaker humming, the scent of weed still curling like incense, and Hesh working beside you in the shadows of the car. 

After a moment, he slid out from underneath it, back flat to the ground, arms streaked black to the elbow. He looked up at the ceiling for a second, sweat beading along his brow before he gave a slow shake of his head and murmured, “Little shit,” as if the insult held more fondness than frustration. “Always trying to worm his way out of everything.” 

You were already reaching for the tray Logan had left behind, stretching languidly, your tank top shifting against the curve of your back. “Must be tough being the big brother.” 

“You have no idea,” Hesh said, sitting up and pushing his hair back with the inside of his wrist. The move pulled his shirt tight across his chest, damp in places where it clung to him, the fabric darkened with sweat and grease. He nodded toward the tray in your lap. “Roll another?” 

You hesitated, fingers hovering above the grinder. “I’m not good at it,” you admitted, glancing down at the scattered green and torn paper tips. “I’ve watched Logan do it a hundred times, but still.” 

“He learned from me,” Hesh said, mouth tugging up at one corner. “Which means you’ve technically been watching me this whole time.” 

You gave him a look, half-teasing, half-defensive — but your hand moved anyway. Reaching for the grinder. Tapping it open. You began the process slowly, the sharp scent of flower rising from the crushed leaves as you rolled them back and forth between your fingertips, watching the pile grow in the shallow tray. The paper felt dry and delicate in your hands. You licked the edge carefully, just the way you’d seen him do it — slow and even, tongue dragging across the seam with a sensual precision that wasn’t lost on you, even now. You hoped Hesh noticed. 

It wasn’t perfect. A little loose near the filter, a touch off-centre. But it held. 

Hesh didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you. His eyes a little heavy-lidded. His mouth tilted with something you couldn’t quite place. 

“You’ve been taking notes,” he said after a long beat, his voice low and amused. “That’s cute.” 

You didn’t reply. But your gaze met his and held there, and it said enough. 

He pushed to his feet, brushing the palms of his hands on the thighs of his shorts. The sound of him heading into the house echoed in the hollow quiet, screen door creaking open, then slapping shut behind him. You stayed where you were, still holding the joint, your pulse slow and heavy in your throat, your thighs tacky against the chair. The heat was unbearable now. You couldn’t tell if it was the sun or something else, something internal, something gnawing slow and deep in your belly. 

Hesh returned not long after, stepping barefoot onto the concrete again. His arms were still a mess — smeared black up to the elbow — but his hands were cleaner now, damp still, scrubbed pink. Not pristine, but usable. Clean enough to touch. Clean enough to smoke with you. 

He lowered himself onto the same spare tire Logan had vacated not long ago, legs sprawled, elbows propped on his knees. The sun caught the edge of his jaw, the new stubble dark, coarse, textured like sandpaper. He didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you, then down at the joint still cradled between your fingers. 

“Here. Pass.” 

Hesh reached out, his fingers brushing over yours, his touch faint but searing all the same. He plucked the joint from your hand with the ease of someone who never had to ask twice, never rushed anything that didn’t need to be rushed. There was no hurry in the way he moved, only the slow, intuitive rhythm of a man who lived comfortably in his skin. He brought the paper to his mouth, lips parting just slightly as he tucked it into place, the flame from his lighter flaring gold and hungry for half a second before it kissed the tip. The ember bloomed red, pulsing like a heartbeat between his fingers as he drew the smoke deep into his chest. 

Then he leaned back, letting the weight of his body settle into the curve of the spare tire like gravity had finally claimed him. One arm slung across his knee, the other holding the joint loosely, he closed his eyes, lashes feathering down against flushed skin. And then it came — that sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. Something deeper. A low, rough moan dragged from the back of his throat, warm and unguarded, the kind of noise that uncoiled slowly through the air and found its way straight between your legs. His lips parted, and the smoke flowed from him in a sinuous stream, curling into the thick afternoon heat. 

When he opened his eyes, they found you instantly. 

He extended the joint, holding it out again — not to hand over, but for you to take from him, like you always did, his fingers steady, the paper still burning softly. 

You leaned in without hesitation, your lips brushing the edge of his knuckles as you wrapped them around the joint. You inhaled, long and slow, your chest tightening, lungs stretching wide. When you exhaled, it was quieter than before, more careful, like the act of breathing next to him was something far too intimate in itself.  

“You looking for a place this summer?” he asked finally, his voice rough with smoke and something quieter beneath it. 

You blinked, trying to find your voice. “That’s the plan,” you murmured. “Something not too far from campus, I guess.” 

He nodded, thumb flicking ash onto the concrete beside him. “Dad wouldn’t care if you stayed longer,” he said. “You know that, right?” He glanced up at you again. “Logan’d be happy.” 

The words settled somewhere beneath your ribs. You tilted your head, eyes tracing the long column of his throat, the way it moved when he swallowed. “Why haven’t you moved out?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could think twice. 

A faint smile curled the corner of his mouth. “I did,” he said, pausing to take another drag. “After high school. Went to college, had my own place out near El Cajon for a bit, but I hated it. Hated being away from my everyone.” He looked away for a second. “Family’s everything, you know?” 

You nodded before you even realised you were doing it. You did know. You knew what it felt like to miss people so badly your chest ached. What it meant to crave that kind of closeness even in silence. “I get it,” you said, quiet but sure. “I hate being away from your family too.” 

That made him smile. “Yeah,” he said. “You fit right in.” 

The music shifted again, the speaker humming the opening notes of “Californication”. Hesh took another puff, the ember pulsing against his fingers as he stared at it for a moment, gaze gone distant. The sun picked out the gold in his stubble, the shadows under his eyes. 

“Hey,” you said, barely above the music, “you alright?” 

He blinked, pulled out of whatever thought had taken him. His eyes met yours again, that small half-smile returning. “Yeah,” he said, but it was softer now, almost dreamy. “Yeah, I just — I wanna try something.” 

Before you could ask, he brought the joint to his lips once more and took a long, purposeful inhale, dragging the smoke deep into himself, filling his lungs until his chest swelled. Then his other hand lifted — slow and steady — as he reached for you. 

His fingers slid behind your neck, warm and rough, the calloused pads of his hand pressing against the sensitive skin at your nape. He didn’t even pull. Just guided. Thumb grazing the curve of your spine as he tilted your mouth toward his, your pulse thudding in your ears as his breath mingled with yours. 

Then he kissed you. 

It wasn’t sweet or shy. It was smoke and heat and hunger all wrapped into one quiet, staggering moment. His lips were soft but firm, parted just enough to let the smoke slip into you, and you opened for him, instinctive and aching. The exhale hit your lungs like silk. Like heat blooming from the inside out. You breathed him in — his weed, his sweat, his skin, his mouth — until there was nothing in the world but the weight of his palm and the press of his lips and the dark hum building low in your belly. 

Hesh's hand tightened slightly at the base of your skull. Grounding. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t float too far away. 

The kiss didn’t last long, but it felt like it had cracked something open. When he pulled back, his breath was shallow, lips barely brushing yours, eyes hooded. 

“You alright?” he asked, voice ruined, like gravel left out in the sun too long. 

You nodded, mouth still parted, lungs still full of him. 

Hesh grinned. 

That same crooked, careless grin he always wore when he was playing coy — when he knew he had the upper hand and didn’t feel the need to prove it. He didn’t say a word. Just dropped the half-finished joint to the concrete and crushed it under the arch of his bare foot, grinding out the embers until there was nothing left but ash. No afterword. No smirked joke. No breathy, teasing comment about what had just happened. 

You stayed frozen for a beat, still tasting him. Still full of him. Your lips buzzed faintly from the way he’d pulled you in — how easily it had happened, how impossible it was to figure out what it had meant. Was it impulsive? Casual? Something he’d done a dozen times before with other girls on a haze-heavy afternoon? Or had it been as electric for him as it had been for you? 

He didn’t give you a chance to ask. 

He crouched again beside the Civic, grease-streaked arms disappearing under the chassis like nothing had changed. Like your pulse wasn’t hammering against your ribs. 

Slowly, you stood. 

Your limbs felt loose, almost disconnected — part weed, part adrenaline, part confusion that was setting in thick and heavy like the late-day heat. You crossed the garage, the concrete cool beneath your bare feet despite the sun. You were trying to play it normal, trying to stay steady, but your thoughts were moving too fast to hold in one place. You had no idea what came next. Whether there was a next. 

You moved to the side of Logan’s car and leaned back against it, letting the warmth of the sun-soaked metal press into your thighs as you watched him work. He hadn’t looked at you again. Not once. His fingers tightened around the wrench, arms flexing with the motion as he worked something loose, the weight of silence settling thick between you. You didn’t know if it was supposed to mean nothing. Or everything. 

Eventually, he glanced up. 

That grin was still there, tugging at the corners of his mouth like he was holding in a laugh. Like you were funny. Like the way you were hovering beside him, waiting for something, anything, was something he expected. 

You swallowed. Tried to speak casually, like your heart wasn’t sitting in your throat. “What was that for?” 

Hesh paused. Not long — just enough to let it sit. 

Then he rolled his shoulders, wiped his hands on a rag, and shrugged. “What was what?” 

It was infuriating. And yet not surprising. Not from him. 

You scoffed under your breath, not even bothering to hide the smile that was already curling its way across your mouth. The weed made it impossible not to smile — your muscles soft and unwilling to fight the rush of heat in your chest. You looked away, pretending to watch the shimmering street outside, even though the only thing you could feel was him. The echo of his mouth. The firm hold of his hand at your nape. The taste of his breath, the way he’d exhaled into you like it was a promise or a challenge or something in between. 

You said nothing else. 

And neither did he. 

⟡ 

The living room was dark except for the flickering glow of the television, which painted shadows in sharp relief across the terracotta floor tiles and arched stucco walls. The room, like the rest of the Walker house, was far too large, all burnt ochre and cream, rustic wood and wrought iron. A pair of tall, arched windows stood behind the couch, their heavy curtains drawn for the night, but you could still hear the faint murmur of crickets from outside, the occasional rustle of breeze against the lemon trees in the courtyard. 

With Elias still gone on his fishing trip, the house had taken on a looser energy — a little less structured, a little more lived-in. There were empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter, pizza boxes stacked on the island, a pair of sandals abandoned near the door. No one had bothered to tidy, and it made everything feel easier, more intimate. 

You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, your bare thighs grazing the edge of a folded throw blanket. Hesh sat beside you, his thigh a warm line of heat pressed up against yours. The couch was huge, deep-seated and soft, with oversized pillows and a view of the wall-mounted TV that dominated the far end of the room. But despite all that space, Hesh was sitting close. Too close. 

Logan sat on the floor just ahead, cross-legged between the couch and the massive carved coffee table, fully immersed in the movie he’d insisted on, some grainy ‘90s slasher flick with bad lighting and an even worse script. He was already three beers deep and narrating the movie under his breath, trying to mask how on edge he actually was. It was bravado, plain and simple. But you could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way he kept glancing toward the windows like something might be waiting behind the curtains. 

“Bet you five bucks she trips on the rug,” Logan muttered, eyes glued to the screen as a half-naked girl stumbled down a hallway, breathless and doomed. 

Hesh shifted beside you, stretching casually, lazily. His elbow nudged over the back of the couch before his hand came to rest against your shoulder, fingertips grazing the top of your arm. His palm was warm, solid, the weight of it unspoken. 

You rolled your eyes, but it was mostly for show. A smile twitched at your mouth, no matter how hard you tried to flatten it. You turned your face away from him, tucking it half into your shoulder so he wouldn’t catch the way your cheeks were warming. 

Hesh, for his part, didn’t react. Didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the screen, mouth tugging slightly at one corner like he was savouring the secret of it. His hand remained exactly where it was, not squeezing, not moving, just there. Intimate. Heavy. And hidden in plain sight. 

Logan snorted as the girl finally fell. “There it is. Called it.” 

You gave a noncommittal hum and tried to focus on the movie, but you could feel Hesh’s fingers flex slightly against your skin, the soft pressure there, like a thumbprint being slowly pressed into warm wax. Your heart beat louder than it should. You crossed your legs at the ankles again, re-anchoring yourself. The weed you’d smoked earlier made everything feel just slightly off balance — not in a bad way, but enough that you were hyper-aware of every breath, every sound, every movement. 

“She’s gonna go in the basement,” Logan said with a scoff, shaking his head. “Who goes into a creepy-ass basement alone? Like, at night? While bleeding?” 

“You write the movie next time, smartass,” Hesh said, deadpan. 

That made you laugh. Hesh turned his head slightly, just enough to catch your profile, the way your lip curled. He didn’t say anything, but the look lingered. 

Then the music on screen cut out — that sharp, pre-jump scare silence that was too loud not to mean something. You leaned forward slightly, anticipating it, but when the scare hit, sudden and stupidly loud, you gasped, the sound catching in your throat as your body jolted back. 

“Shit,” you hissed, one hand clutching your knee. 

Logan turned immediately. “Oh my God, was that you?” His eyes lit up, smug and satisfied. 

You groaned. “Shut up.” 

Hesh barked a laugh beside you, hand tightening on your arm for a second, warm and firm and there. “Tough girl, huh?” he teased. “Thought you were the fearless one.” 

“Fuck both of you,” you muttered, trying to suppress your smile, but it was too late. 

Logan was still grinning. “Finally! It’s always me getting scared. That felt good. That was karma.” 

You buried your face in your hands for a second, letting the warmth of your embarrassment burn off in your chest. But even through your fingers, you could feel Hesh’s gaze, the weight of it as palpable as the heat still radiating off his body. His arm hadn’t moved. His fingers still rested against your skin, casual to anyone else, but you knew better. 

Logan didn’t notice a thing. Not the closeness. Not the undercurrent. He was too busy revelling in your flinch, replaying it aloud like he’d caught it on camera. 

And that was fine. 

You were still riding the aftershock of that scare, still breathing too fast, still acutely aware of how much fire lived between your ribs when Hesh leaned in, the weight of his chest pressing subtly into your side like a whispered promise. His arm stayed heavy across your shoulders, but there was nothing innocent about the way his body angled into yours, about the way his mouth found your ear like it belonged there. 

“You’re such a pussy,” he murmured, voice dipped in lazy amusement, soft and low, not loud enough for Logan to hear, not meant for anyone but you. 

The words might’ve been harsh coming from someone else, but from Hesh, they landed differently. He wasn’t mocking. He wasn’t cruel. He said it like a challenge, like a tease, like a spark tossed into dry grass. And the way he'd said it made your thighs press together. You felt the heat crawl up your face before you could stop it. 

You opened your mouth — maybe to fire something back, maybe just to tell him to shut up — but the words didn’t make it out. They evaporated the moment he shifted closer and pressed his mouth to the side of your neck. 

The contact was soft. So soft it didn’t feel real at first, just the warm brush of lips against your skin, barely there. You held still, every inch of your body pulled taut, strung with anticipation. His mouth drifted lower, found the hollow just beneath your jaw, and lingered. The kiss was slow, open-mouthed, impossibly tender. Your eyelids fluttered. You felt your pulse spike under his lips, your body reacting to the gentle weight of him like it had been waiting for this. 

The room dissolved. The sounds of the horror movie faded into background noise — screams, wet footsteps, frantic dialogue — but they didn’t reach you. All you could hear was the soft sound of Hesh's breathing, the faint drag of stubble against your throat as he moved lower, his lips mapping the curve of your neck, taking his time. When he sucked, you gasped again. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by a kiss that felt more like a seal. A mark. He was leaving something behind on purpose. 

Logan didn’t notice. 

“Dumb bitch is gonna open the closet,” he muttered from the floor in front of you, shaking his head. “Every fucking time.” 

You forced a breath. Forced a sound that might’ve passed for agreement. But your voice was thin, warped by the need crawling up your spine. You couldn’t look down. Couldn’t look at Hesh’s face either, which you knew would be smug. You could feel his smirk in the way he kissed you. Could feel the weight of his satisfaction pressed up against your hip. 

Then he pulled back, just for a moment, and reached for the throw blanket draped over the side of the couch. He tugged it over both your laps in one smooth movement, the fabric pooling softly around your legs like it belonged there. Like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. 

But everything had shifted. 

His arm slid from your shoulders down to your waist, lower still, fingers grazing your side, your ribs, until his hand found the underside of your breast. It was slow, but greedy. His palm cupped you through the thin cotton of your tank top, the shape of his hand fitting perfectly like he had always meant to hold them. His thumb brushed across your nipple once, the friction sending a jolt straight to your core. Then again. And again. He moved with intention, circling over the fabric until the flesh underneath tightened, hardened, ached to be uncovered. 

You couldn’t breathe properly. 

Your body was already reacting, nipples peaking beneath the soft barrier of your shirt, your thighs tense, clenched. He leaned in again, kissed the side of your neck just as your breath hitched. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, rough enough to awaken every nerve it touched. It made you shiver. You tried to suppress it, but it rolled down your spine like a wave, exposing you. The hand on your breast squeezed lightly, then returned to its slow, purposeful rhythm — the drag of his thumb, the press of his palm. 

And then his other hand moved. 

Under the blanket, his fingers found the bare skin of your thigh. He didn’t hesitate; just slid higher until his knuckles brushed the inside, just above your knee. You could feel him assessing the space, the shape of your legs beneath the blanket, as though he were mapping the way in. When his hand eased further up, you inhaled sharply through your nose. 

There was no room to escape. And you didn’t want to. 

Hesh's fingertips grazed the inside of your thigh, then paused, resting there like a question. Not yet touching you where you needed him most, but close enough that your whole body pulsed with the threat of it. Your underwear was already damp. You could feel the heat pooling low in your belly, spreading outward with every beat of your heart. Your breathing was shallow. Your chest rose and fell beneath his hand. You were slipping under, fast, and he knew it. 

Then, Logan shifted. 

It was subtle, just a lazy stretch, a roll of his shoulders, the familiar sound of his spine cracking as he leaned forward to grab another beer from the low coffee table. But the moment shattered all the same. Hesh’s hand vanished from between your thighs as if it had never been there. One second, you were burning under the heat of his palm, breath stuck in your throat, heart thundering at the risk of it all — and the next, the entire weight of him lifted. His mouth slipped from your neck, his arm from your waist, his thigh no longer brushing against yours. Like smoke through a screen door, he was gone, retreating into casual distance as though nothing had happened. 

But your body didn’t get the message. 

You sat frozen beneath the thin throw blanket, skin still aching, chest tight with unsatisfied hunger. Every nerve felt raw, exposed. Your nipples still strained against the soft cotton of your tank top, tingling from the attention they'd been denied. Between your legs, you were slick and clenched, your thighs pressed together in a vain attempt to quell the throbbing pulse he’d left behind. You stared blankly at the TV, some gory third act unfolding on the screen, and you didn’t see a second of it. You were lost in the absence, trapped in the echo of his touch, the phantom feel of his fingers teasing the inside of your leg, the memory of his lips along your neck. Your body was spiralling, your mind no better, wired and restless and stretched tight enough to snap. 

The movie ended in a blur of screaming violins and final girl theatrics. The credits rolled. 

Logan groaned, dragging himself off the floor with a yawn that cracked his jaw. “God, I need a shower,” he muttered, arms stretching above his head, shirt lifting just enough to flash a stripe of stomach. He turned back, blinking blearily at you. “You gonna shower before bed?” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, praying your voice wouldn’t betray how breathless you still were. “I already did,” you said, too fast, too high. 

“Fine by me.” And with that, he was gone, heavy footsteps creaking up the stairs, the bathroom door shutting behind him with a faint click that felt like a gun going off. 

Silence fell like a curtain. 

You turned your head, slowly, like your body didn’t trust itself to move too quickly. Hesh sat at the opposite end of the couch, pretending to be interested in the end credits, but his shoulders were a touch too relaxed. Too smug. That same teasing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

You smacked his arm. Hard. 

“What the fuck was that?” you hissed, the whisper hoarse and furious. Not just with him. With yourself. With your own wrecked restraint. “Seriously, Hesh — what the fuck?” 

He lifted his hands in mock defence, eyebrows raised, rubbing where you'd hit him. “Ow. Jesus, [Name]. I thought you were into it.” 

“I was,” you snapped, voice sharp with frustration. “But Logan could’ve seen. You were feeling me up right beside him! Are you insane?” 

Hesh's grin stretched wider, all self-satisfied and infuriating. “You think Logan doesn’t know?” he said, voice pitched low and smug, like he was letting you in on a secret you should’ve figured out months ago. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to ride me since the first weekend you stayed over.” 

You stared at him, mouth parted, momentarily speechless. 

“You’re such a little shit.” 

“You’re not denying it.” 

You shoved him again, but there was laughter now from both of you, real, electric, cutting through the tension like the first strike of a storm. Hesh caught your wrist before you could pull away, his fingers sliding down until they tangled with yours, and then he tugged. Just hard enough to pull you closer, and then again, until you lost your balance and ended up sprawled back on the couch, legs sliding to either side of his hips, his body hovering over yours like it had always belonged there. 

“How long have you known?” you asked, voice rough with want, with disbelief, with everything you hadn’t said before. 

“Since I first met you,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I’m not slow, angel. I know what you want.” 

The words landed low in your stomach, heat blooming outward in a wave that had you curling your fingers in the front of his shirt, needing to feel something real. “Then why wait so long?” 

His cockiness faded just a touch, replaced with something quieter, more careful. “Logan got to you first,” he said, mouth brushing the curve of your cheek. “Wasn’t about to swoop in if I thought he liked you.” 

You stilled. “And does he?” 

Hesh shook his head, no hesitation. “Nope,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “All mine for the taking, sweetheart.” 

Your breath caught again, and the part of you that had been aching since the moment you met wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar and crash your mouth against his. To finish what he started. To drag him upstairs and leave bite marks across his chest and scream into his shoulder while you came apart on him. 

But you weren’t going to make it that easy. 

You sat up slowly, pushing him off with a light shove. He let you go, slumping back on the cushions with a groan. 

“Well now,” you said, “who says I still want you?” 

Hesh threw his head back in exaggerated anguish. “Don’t do that.” 

You stood, stretching your arms above your head like you weren’t still throbbing from his touch, and headed for the stairs. 

“You gonna make me work for it?” he called out, voice rough and playful behind you. 

You looked over your shoulder, grin sharp and wicked. “Fuck yeah. I’ve gone through the motions. Now it’s your turn.” 

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking tease.” 

You laughed, light and breathless. “Goodnight, Hesh.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rolling his eyes, his gaze catching yours. “Just wait until morning, sweetheart.” 

The soft creak of the steps under your feet was your only answer as you disappeared into the dark, already counting down the hours until then.

[cod-imagines]

imagine #10

character: Phillip Graves  words: 5705  cw: 18+, drinking, smoking description: AU in which Phillip Graves is a bull rider and you’re the pretty young thing he’s got his eye on. (requested by the lovely @xkthrnx!!)  a/n: if only you guys knew about the rabbit holes I went down on for this fic lol 

The air that afternoon was thick with the smell of livestock and sunbaked asphalt, overripe warmth that clung to your skin the moment you arrived. Even from the parking lot of the grounds, the Stock Show & Rodeo unfurled like a small, bustling city within itself — flags snapping in the breeze above the gates, the echo of country music bleeding from tinny speakers posted along every walkway, and the hum of generators and families and farmhands all bleeding into one. 

You weren’t exactly thrilled to be there, but you were alone, and the freedom that came with that was something you could savour. Your father had offered — no, insisted — you take one of the executive passes, a badge clipped to your belt that gave you access to all areas, from the barns to the back corridors of the Frost Bank Center. He was proud of the whole thing, called it his legacy, and though you’d gone to college out of state and prided yourself on not being one of those Texans, the ones who wore boots to weddings and debated brisket like it was a religion, you’d said yes anyway. Maybe guilt. Maybe curiosity. Maybe just for the experience. 

By the time you’d gotten yourself sorted and actually wandered into the expo centre, the sun was starting to slant low, casting golden light through the tall glass panels above. Inside, the air was just barely cooler but still heavy with hay and sweat and roasted peanuts. Vendors lined every available stretch of wall and aisle, booths draped in flags and plaid, every table stacked with tooled leather, hand-stitched saddles, turquoise jewellery, antler-handled knives, belt buckles the size of saucers, hand-dyed bandanas, and racks of denim shirts in more shades of blue than you thought possible. The smell shifted every few feet — barbecue smoke, kettle corn, cinnamon churros, the faint chemical sting of livestock shampoo. 

You moved slowly through the crowd, your jeans stiff against your thighs, the festival t-shirt you’d bought earlier clinging slightly to your back with the heat. The shirt had a screen-printed steer skull and some dusty lettering, the closest you could get to playing the part. You felt eyes occasionally glance your way; locals could always spot someone not from around there. Still, you kept your pace easy, unbothered, pausing to thumb through some handmade soaps, their scents labelled with names like Prairie Morning and Cowgirl Clean. Somewhere nearby, a fiddle sang out in harmony with a banjo, laughter rippling under the music like a current. A toddler shrieked as a goat at the petting zoo nibbled her shirt. 

You stood off to one side near a stall overflowing with tooled leather goods, a paper-wrapped hot dog in one hand, your mouth slick with a mess of ketchup and mustard. It was dripping down your fingers, staining the napkin you kept trying to fold just right between bites, each wipe of your lips more futile than the last. There was nowhere decent to sit unless you wanted to risk the edge of a planter digging into your back or a bench already occupied by someone’s uncle in cowboy boots and a sweat-damp hat. So you ate standing, half-leaning against the booth’s wooden frame, chewing slowly while your eyes wandered over the glint of belt buckles hanging in neat rows along the side wall. 

They were gaudy things. Heavy silver-plated ovals and rectangles, all inscribed with cursive flourishes and bronzed filigree, some bearing scenes of rodeo riders frozen mid-buck, others etched with longhorns or American flags. A few had gemstones the size of dimes inset like prizes, like they’d been dug out of the side of a hill and polished until they gleamed beneath the overhead fluorescents. You licked your fingers absently, wiping them against the crumpled napkin again before sighing. You didn’t know a damn thing about any of this. Ranch life, livestock, bucking bulls — it all might as well have been an alien world. You were just some out-of-place transplant in a tourist shirt, feigning interest because you figured it was better than waiting in your father’s empty VIP box while he schmoozed with sponsors and old rodeo men. 

You leaned closer to examine a buckle shaped like the state of Texas, so large it probably weighed more than your phone, when someone brushed against you from the side, just enough to jolt your elbow and send a streak of mustard across your knuckles. 

“Shit — sorry,” you muttered, instinctively stepping back and glancing up. 

The man who’d bumped you stood taller than you in his boots, broad through the shoulders and dressed down in well-worn jeans and a black pearl-snap shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He had short, close-cut hair the colour of sun-bleached dirt and a faint, aged scar tracing upward from the curve of his jaw to just under his right cheekbone. His stubble cast shadows across a sharp jawline, and his eyes — deep, slate blue — crinkled faintly as he smiled, one hand raised in apology. 

“S’all good, darlin’,” he drawled, voice so low and so smooth that it practically melted into the background hum around you. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.” 

You blinked, caught off-guard more by the easy charm in his tone than the actual bump. “No worries,” you said quickly, glancing back down at your ruined napkin before crumpling it in your palm. “It got crowded all of a sudden.” 

“Always does around this time,” he replied, taking a step closer, not enough to smother you, just enough to glance over your shoulder at the buckles on display. “You eyein’ any of these? That one there’s a junior champ award buckle — see the little steer head etched on the sides? They give those out at the youth events.” 

You gave a faint, polite laugh. “I’m not really interested in buying anything,” you admitted, straightening up and gesturing at the hot dog still half in your hand. “Just killing time.” 

That earned a short chuckle from him, a rich, warm sound that came up from his chest and settled easy in the space between you. 

“Fair enough,” he said, eyes flicking over to the display. “Well, I ain’t the one sellin’, so you’re safe. Don’t have the patience for standin’ behind a table all day anyway.” 

You tilted your head. “So what, you just wander around mansplaining belt buckles to strangers?” 

His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you, soft, like he liked the way you talked. “Nah, I’m workin’ tonight. I ride.” 

You blinked. “Ride what?” 

His grin deepened like he was waiting for you to walk into it. “Bulls.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Dead serious. I’m on the roster for tonight’s event,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Figured I’d walk around and take in the sights before I try not to get my spine cracked.” 

You stared at him, unconvinced, feeling your stomach tighten under his gaze. “Right.” 

He touched a hand lightly to his chest, right over his sternum, eyes feigning sincerity. “Scout’s honour.” He stuck his hand out then, palm up, fingers splayed. “Phillip Graves.” 

You looked down at his hand, then back at his face — the scar catching the light now — and finally shook it. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and the callouses on his fingers sent the faintest of shivers down your back. 

“[Name],” you replied. Phillip repeated it under his breath, pleased, slow and smooth, the syllables falling from his mouth like he’d meant to savour them. You felt your cheeks heat at the stillness, strange and brief, before he nodded over his shoulder toward the stadium entrance. 

“Well, [Name], I’ll be climbin’ on a mean bastard named Widowmaker right ’round eight. You oughta come by. Ain’t every day you get to watch a man risk his spine for glory.” 

“Tempting. I’ll see if I have time.” 

Phillip stepped back, the crowd shifting around him, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he said, giving you a cocky little two-fingered salute. 

And then he disappeared into the moving swell of bodies, boots scuffing over concrete, his back framed by the haze of smoke curling up from a barbecue stall somewhere nearby. You stared after him for a moment, the hot dog forgotten in your hand, ketchup pooling at the edge of the wrapper. 

⟡

The stadium lights bore down heavy and bright, washing the entire arena in a glow that made the dirt shimmer like gold dust. You took your seat higher up in the VIP section, your dad’s laminate pass clipped to your belt. Below, everything bustled with motion: handlers corralling bulls behind chutes, announcers calling out names and numbers in a blur of slurred vowels, fans waving flags and screaming like the whole place was on fire. 

You weren’t here for the rodeo. You couldn't even pretend otherwise. Your gaze cut through the noise and crowd until you spotted him — Phillip Graves — waiting at the edge of the chute, one boot braced on the rail, the other planted in the dirt. He wore a black vest now over his shirt, protective but well-fitted. The moment he stepped into the holding pen, his movements were nothing but fluid confidence. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just muscle memory and rhythm, the easy sway of a man who had done this too many times to count. 

The bull beneath him was massive, dark as wet stone, the kind that looked bred for rage. Its shoulders rippled each time it kicked against the gate, froth dripping from its mouth like it’d been waiting all day to throw someone off. 

When the chute swung open, everything snapped into motion like a pulled trigger. 

Eight seconds. That was all he needed. You’d looked it up just to be sure. 

And yet it felt longer. Time dilated as the bull exploded from the gate, bucking with a fury that sent dust into the lights. Graves moved like water atop the chaos, his arm loose in the air, hips shifting with each violent twist beneath him. His legs stayed tight, his back never arching too far, not giving the beast an inch more than it needed. He looked focused but relaxed, eyes locked somewhere just ahead of the horns, his mouth slack as if he were lost in the rhythm. You half-expected him to smile. 

The buzzer rang, sharp and final. 

Phillip dismounted like it was nothing. Let the bull tear off across the ring, let the clowns distract it. He hit the dirt running, turned to the crowd with a little tilt of his hand in mock salute, and jogged off before they could even finish cheering. 

You didn’t stay to watch the next rider. There was no point pretending. You’d come just for that. For him. And now that it was over, the heat of the stadium and the echo of the crowd started to dull into background noise, fading as you made your way down the steps, out past the corrals, and onto the street. 

The bar you found a few blocks down looked like it had been yanked straight out of a western fever dream, corrugated tin roofing, wood siding, and string lights glowing warm from every beam and overhang. Inside, it was more of the same — rough-hewn walls, high ceilings strung with wagon wheel chandeliers, a haze of sawdust underfoot and the distant reek of beer-soaked wood. The music was live but far too loud, a band wailing into a fiddle and electric guitar hybrid like they were trying to summon something unholy. 

A dance floor opened up in the centre, already hosting couples in boots spinning with the rhythm, all hips and heels and confidence. But what caught your eye, more than the neon signage or the crowd or even the glow of the bar, was the mechanical bull parked near the corner of the room. It sat beneath a spotlight, roped off and looming like some strange, robotic altar. A teenage operator leaned on the controls nearby, disinterested. You scoffed under your breath. Of course they had one. A rodeo-themed bar with a fake bull, like some parody of the real thing you’d just witnessed not twenty minutes ago. 

You made your way to the bar, ordered a whiskey sour out of habit, and the bartender handed it to you in a flimsy clear plastic cup with a lime wedge floating lazily on top. Authenticity, apparently, only went so far. 

Settling into one of the stools, you nursed your drink and scrolled through your phone absently. Every few minutes, the crowd swelled. More boots, more hats, more noise. You figured most of them had come from the same event you had. Their shirts were still dusty, and a few of them even wore their contestant numbers half-pinned, half-forgotten on their backs. 

You were reading an article you weren’t actually absorbing when someone cleared their throat behind you. You turned your head, startled, thumb slipping against the glass of your phone. 

Phillip stood there, one glove tucked into his belt loop, the other hand braced casually against the edge of the bar. 

“Well now,” he said, voice like warm bourbon. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” 

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. He smiled, slow and amused, before tapping the empty stool beside you with two fingers. 

“Mind if I sit, darlin’?” 

You let your gaze travel down first — scuffed boots worn at the toes, a fine layer of arena dust still clinging to the hems of his jeans and the sleeves of his shirt. His belt sat crooked on his hips like he’d fastened it in a hurry, and there was a smear of dirt just under his left forearm where it looked like he’d leaned on something rough. He looked as if he’d walked straight out of the ring and into this bar without skipping a beat. You lifted your drink and took another sip, the rim of the plastic cup pressing cool against your lips before you spoke. 

“You following me?” you asked, voice dry. “’Cause I’ve seen horror movies start this way.” 

That slow, familiar laugh rolled out of him again, warming everything around it. He slid onto the barstool beside you like he didn’t need your invitation anyway. 

“Well, I was thinkin’ about it,” he hummed. “Tried to find you back at the stadium.” 

“Oh? Didn’t know you wanted my attention that badly.” 

“'Course I do,” Phillip said, that grin of his spreading, teeth flashing beneath the warm bar light. “Hell, I was afraid I bored you.” 

“I left after your ride,” you said, letting your fingers trail around the rim of your drink. “What more was there to see?” 

“So you were watchin’,” he said. 

You gave him a flat look, the barest twitch of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Unfortunately.” 

“Ouch.” He winced theatrically, one hand pressed to his chest like you’d just wounded him. “Damn. Tough crowd.” 

You let your elbow rest against the bar, chin sinking into your palm as you studied him openly. He looked good like this — relaxed, leaning back with the faintest sheen of sweat still clinging to the curve of his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone and framing the sharp line of his collarbone. He smelled faintly of dust and something richer, like cedar and sun-warmed leather. You weren’t trying to stare, but God, he made it hard. 

“You made that bull look weak,” you admitted, voice softening a little. “Like it didn’t even put up a fight.” 

Phillip's grin pulled wider, a flicker of pride passing across his face. “Wasn’t its best day.” 

You tilted your head, letting the sarcasm bloom slow. “Sure didn’t look like yours either.” 

That got another laugh from him — real and rough-edged — as he turned toward you more fully. His knees brushed against yours beneath the bar, the contact casual, but electric all the same. His gaze didn’t waver, not for a second. 

“C’mon now,” he said, that familiar teasing lilt weaving back into his voice. “You tellin’ me that ride didn’t impress you?” 

You gave a shrug, slow and drawn out, like you were weighing it in your mind. “I mean, yeah — if I conveniently forget the part where you only lasted what? Eight seconds?” 

“Eight’s the magic number, sweetheart.” 

“For bulls, maybe,” you shot back. 

He smirked, interest sparking in his eyes. “Oh yeah?” 

You sipped your drink again, the condensation wetting your fingers, your gaze locked on his with practiced ease. “I’m just saying. Eight seconds doesn’t exactly scream stamina. If that’s the bar, I’d be worried for whoever ends up in your bed tonight.” 

There was a pause. Then another laugh. His hand curled tighter around the edge of the bartop, like he needed something solid to hold as he shook his head with a breathless grin. 

“Shit,” he said, voice a little husky now. “You got a mouth on you.” 

“Always have, cowboy.” 

“That so?” he asked, leaning in just a little, making your stomach dip. “Well, I like a challenge, sweetheart.” 

You stayed quiet a moment, swirling the last melting ice cube around in your plastic cup before finally tipping it back and draining it. The bartender drifted past again, and Phillip waved him down easily, gesturing towards you with a questioning look. 

“You stickin’ with that?” he asked, eyes dropping briefly to your empty cup. “No shame in cocktails every now ’n then, but beer’s where it’s at.” 

You set your cup down on the bar and shrugged playfully. “What, are you judging me now?” 

He laughed, waving dismissively. “Not judgin’, just sayin’. Beer’s reliable.” 

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes but grinning anyway. “Fine. Pick something out, then. Impress me.” 

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head at the bartender. “Two Lone Stars, please.” 

The bartender slid the beer bottles across the lacquered wood with a low scrape, their labels darkening where the moisture gathered and dripped in lazy rivulets. The overhead lights caught the amber inside, turning it golden. Phillip nudged one toward you with a casual flick of his fingers, and your hand met his in the middle, warm skin brushing briefly against yours. The contact was nothing, a blink, but it sent a ripple through your chest all the same. 

You took the bottle, pressed it to your lips for a slow sip. “It’s decent,” you said, cold droplets sliding down your wrist. 

Before Phillip could say something smart back, the bar erupted in noise — cheers, whistles, a few whoops of encouragement rising over the twang of the music. Your gaze snapped to the source: the mechanical bull, now alive and kicking beneath garish, rotating spotlights that painted the padded arena in pulsing reds and electric blues. 

A group of girls had taken centre stage, crowding around the bull with drinks in hand. They wore low-slung jeans that hugged every curve, crop tops glittering like confetti under the lights, and cowboy boots so pristine they probably hadn’t seen real dirt in their lives. Each one took her turn climbing aboard, laughing, stumbling, shouting to her friends over the music. The bull jerked to life with sudden force, throwing its riders into elegant chaos. Hair flew, legs flailed, hands clawed for the horn, and every time one of them hit the padded floor, the bar cheered louder, drunk on spectacle. 

You couldn’t help it; you giggled, soft at first, then fuller, shaking your head in amusement as you took another slow sip from your bottle. 

Phillip leaned in beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low enough now to curl beneath your skin. 

“Fun, ain’t it?” Phillip said, his voice curling at the edges, mischief flashing in the blue of his eyes as the cheers rose again from the bull pen. 

You gave a small shrug, eyes tracking one girl — tan, breathless, her ponytail swinging like a whip behind her — as she launched off the mechanical beast and landed in a heap, boot completely gone off one foot, shrieking with laughter. Her friends clapped and hollered, one of them holding up a phone like she’d just filmed the highlight of the night. 

“Sure,” you said, the word lazy, stretched out as you lifted your brow. “It’s entertaining, I’ll give you that. But it’s not really my scene.” 

Phillip hummed, inching closer. “Y’know,” he said, cocking his head, “you say that, but you’re starin’ at that bull like you’re thinkin’ real hard ’bout provin’ yourself wrong.” 

You turned to him with a laugh, shaking your head as you wiped a finger beneath your lower lip to catch a stray drop of beer. “Absolutely not. No way.” 

“Aww, c’mon,” he coaxed. “Don’t tell me you’re scared?” 

“I’m not scared,” you said, though your voice betrayed you. “I just don’t have a death wish or a desire to go viral tonight when I get launched halfway across the bar.” 

“Shit,” he chuckled. “You act like it’s the PBR finals.” 

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again. “You saw that last girl. Her boot flew off. Like, physically flew.” 

“She was showboatin’,” he said, waving a hand. “Didn’t have the technique.” 

You turned back to the pen, the lights spinning faster, casting the bucking bull in a dizzy blur of colour and motion. “Technique,” you repeated, deadpan. 

Phillip leaned back slightly, the grin never leaving his face. “You’re tellin’ me you came all the way down here, wearin’ jeans, that little rodeo shirt and all — lookin’ real damn cute, by the way — just to sit on the sidelines?” 

You tugged at the hem of your shirt self-consciously, eyes narrowing at him with a playful glare. “I didn’t dress up. This was ten bucks at a merch table. And anyways, I’m pretty sure that bull smells fear.” 

He scoffed and leaned in again, just a breath away now. “That thing ain’t got a heartbeat, sugar. It’s a glorified rocking chair with attitude. What’s the worst it’s gonna do — tilt you?” 

“I just don’t feel like making an ass of myself,” you muttered, even as your voice softened. 

He looked at you for a second, quiet, and then nodded slowly, a glint sparking behind his lashes. “Alright. What if I went up there with you?” 

You blinked. “Together?” 

He grinned, wolfish. “Why not?” 

You looked from him to the bull and back again, doubt creeping in despite yourself. “I don’t think that’s a thing. Is that a thing?” 

“It is,” he said, no hesitation. “Couples do it all the time. Seen it before. Two riders, one bull. Real romantic.” 

“That’s insane.” 

“It’s fun.” 

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. The bull shifted lazily beneath a new rider, and the crowd erupted again as she shrieked and held on for dear life. Your hands itched and you hated how tempted you were. 

“And what if I fall?” you asked, the words quieter now. 

Phillip leaned closer, the heat of him tangible now, and you could almost swear you felt the air between you shift. His voice dropped, steady and warm, the teasing fading into something gentler. 

“You won’t.” 

You glanced at him, unsure, heart thudding low in your chest. “You can’t promise that.” 

“I can,” he said. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go.” 

You went still. Then, as if sensing the weight behind your silence, Phillip reached up and gently brushed his fingers against your cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath catch. The crowd roared again somewhere behind you, but the sound felt miles away. 

“Cross my heart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you fall.” 

The mechanical bull loomed ahead, padded and ridiculous and swaying just enough to look like trouble. The operator — some kid in a dusty cap chewing gum with all the enthusiasm of a corpse — waved you over with a flick of his wrist. You should’ve backed out. Should’ve let the buzz of beer and flirtation die right there at the bar. But Phillip’s hand was warm on the small of your back, guiding you toward the edge of the mat, his voice low and smooth in your ear, whispering sweet praise with that unshakable confidence. 

And now you were climbing onto the damn thing, your thigh hitching over the worn faux-leather as the whole crowd cheered. Of course they were cheering. You could feel their eyes on you, laughter ringing out over the country music as you straddled the bull and grabbed the handle. Your heart thudded behind your ribs like it wanted out. 

A few women hooted when Phillip stepped up behind you, climbing on with easy strength, his jeans brushing yours as he settled in. 

You muttered, “Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I even doing—” 

“Ridin’ with a professional,” he said behind you, voice thick with amusement. His thighs pressed snug to yours, wide-set and firm, and then one strong arm wrapped around your waist like it had every right to be there. 

“Hold on,” he whispered into your ear, his breath brushing the side of your neck. “To me, not that damn handle.” 

You barely had time to respond before the bull jerked to life, jolting beneath you with a mechanical growl. You yelped, instinctively grabbing his arm instead, your body thrown back against his chest. His hand was splayed across your stomach now, hard and unyielding, fingers pressing into the soft skin there as he adjusted his grip and pulled you tighter. 

The ride bucked again, rougher this time, and you gasped, the motion bouncing you up against him, your back hitting his chest with each jolt. He was solid behind you, unmoving except for the flex in his thighs and the give of his hips. His breath was hot against your cheek, lips brushing so close to your skin you could feel the ghost of a smile there. 

Phillip's hand shifted lower, just slightly, fingers grazing the waistband of your jeans, then flattening again, fingertips pressing with a little more intent. He wasn’t subtle about it. He didn’t have to be. You could feel the heat of his palm, feel his thumb brush once against the bare skin just beneath the hem of your shirt. 

“Doin’ alright, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice rough against your ear. His free hand gripped the saddle horn with a steady surety, anchoring both of you while the bull twisted beneath you, spinning, bucking. 

Your breath hitched. “Are you feeling me up right now?” 

He laughed into your neck. “You sayin’ you mind?” 

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. The bull threw you again and your hips slid backward, back against the solid press of him behind you, his body molded to yours now, breath syncing with yours as you rocked together with every wild jerk of the ride. His scent clung to the collar of his shirt — sweat and leather, cedarwood, sunbaked cologne — and it filled your head until nothing else existed, not the cheers, not the music, not the ache in your thighs from holding on. 

Phillip's grip shifted again — up, then back down, fingers teasing under your ribs now, tips grazing the curve beneath your breasts as you gasped again. It felt like being trapped inside some fever dream, a mess of adrenaline and heat, the friction of denim and the undeniable weight of him behind you. The bull slowed finally, grinding to a halt with one last dramatic buck that sent the two of you forward, your chest crashing into the saddle horn, his body catching yours before you could fall. 

You stayed there, stunned, caught between him and the slow creak of the bull’s motor winding down. Your breath came fast and uneven. So did his. 

Phillip’s mouth was right at your ear when he spoke, his voice honeyed. 

“Told you I wouldn’t let you fall.” 

The cheers chased you as you stepped off the mat, heat prickling at the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the Texas air. You didn’t look back — not at the girls already climbing back on for a second go, not at the ones hooting and clapping in your direction like you’d done something brave or stupid or both. Maybe you had. Your skin still buzzed from the ride, from the way his body had moved against yours, from the way his hand had lingered just a little too long when he helped you down. You crossed through the bar without stopping, shouldering past the scent of beer and fried food and perfume and sweat, stepping out into the humid night, gasping for air. 

You stopped beside a dusty fence rail near the edge of the lot and let out a breath, one hand coming up to wipe your damp forehead. The air outside smelled like warm engine oil and honeysuckle, sweet and heavy in a way that only Texas nights could be. Your skin still tingled where his hands had been. Your mouth felt dry, but your thoughts wouldn’t stop moving. He was older. He knew exactly what he was doing. And you — God, you were still trying to pretend you weren’t smitten. 

That was the word, wasn’t it? Smitten. Giddy, breathless, caught off guard. You weren’t supposed to feel this way. He was a stranger. A stranger with strong hands and a voice that poured into your skin like bourbon heat, far too easy to let in. 

You didn’t hear Phillip until the screen door creaked open and then swung shut with a soft clang. His boots moved over the gravel like he’d walked this path a thousand times, sure-footed, unhurried. You didn’t turn right away. Part of you hoped he wouldn’t follow. Part of you hoped he would. 

“You disappeared on me again,” Phillip said softly, like his voice was only ever meant for you alone. 

“I do that,” you murmured, lips curving faintly. “It’s a bad habit.” 

He stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel his body radiating heat in the humid air, but he didn’t touch you yet. “You alright?” 

You laughed a little under your breath, eyes still on the soft glow of the streetlamp further down the lot. “Yeah. Just needed to catch my breath.” 

“Bull get to you that bad?” he teased, and you could hear the smile in his voice. 

“I stayed on, didn’t I?” 

“With me behind you. Not exactly fair conditions for a first-timer.” 

You let out a scoff. “Oh, sorry. Should I have told the operator to throw us off mid-ride?” 

He laughed, low and warm. “I ain’t complainin’. Just sayin’ — that was probably the sexiest ride that bull’s ever seen.” 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“I’m honest,” he said. “And I figure someone oughta tell you how damn good you looked up there.” 

Your cheeks flushed hot. “Right. Me, flailing around while you groped me in front of everybody. Real elegant.” 

“I did not grope.” 

“Oh please,” you retorted, laughing despite yourself. “You had your hand halfway up my shirt.” 

“I was tryin’ to keep you steady.” 

“By practically grabbing my tits.” 

“And did you fall?” 

You paused, mouth open, then snapped it shut. “That’s not the point.” 

Phillip took a small step closer. “Then what is the point, darlin’? ’Cause I won't lie to you — watchin’ you laugh like that, feelin’ you against me? I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.” 

You swallowed and looked away, shaking your head a little. “I should head back. To my hotel.” 

There was a beat of silence between you, just long enough for the statement to hang. 

“Yeah?” he said. “Where you stayin’?” 

You gave him a look. “That sounds like the setup to a very obvious line.” 

He held up his hands, still smiling. “Just makin’ conversation.” 

“I bet.” Another pause. Then you added, quieter, “I’m not here long.” 

“I know,” he said. “Couple days, right?” 

You nodded. “That’s all.” 

He tilted his head like he was thinking through every word before he said it. “Then we oughta make the most of it.” 

You breathed out a sigh, almost in disbelief, dropping your head briefly. “You don’t waste time, do you?” 

“Not when I know what I want.” 

“And what’s that, exactly?” 

Phillip grinned again, but it was slower this time, less cocky, more heat. “Right now? I wanna drive you back to your hotel. Maybe take the long way. Talk a bit more. Listen to that laugh of yours again. You let me in, I’ll keep my hands where they belong. ’Til you ask me not to.” 

You stared at him for a long moment, the noise from the bar fading behind you, softening into something distant and irrelevant. The floodlights over the parking lot buzzed faintly, casting a sickle of pale yellow over the gravel and stretching long shadows beneath your feet. Phillip stood there, so steady and sure of himself, the collar of his shirt slightly open from earlier, chest rising slow beneath it. There was a confidence in him that wasn’t performative, and it scared you. It didn’t demand attention, it simply existed, like it was stitched into the lines of his body, the rhythm of his speech, the way he looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking before you did. 

He made it feel easy. Too easy. The warmth of his voice, the heat of his hand on your waist, the way his laugh had curled around the edges of your restraint and tugged something loose in you. He knew the tempo of seduction by instinct. He made promises without needing to speak them. And still, your body leaned into the pull. 

“You have a car?” you asked, your voice betraying the eagerness you’d tried to hide. 

His grin returned, slower this time, like he felt it all too. “’Course I do.” 

The heat between your thighs hadn’t gone away. Neither had the ache in your chest or the way his voice played over your skin long after he stopped speaking. 

“Alright,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Lead the way.” 

[cod-imagines]

imagine #9

character: Simon “Ghost” Riley words: 6009 cw: 18+, sexual content, smut description: in which you live next door to Simon Riley and become friends with benefits. (requested anonymously, I hope I did okay!!) a/n: I think Simon is the hardest to write for but let me know what you guys think!! there will be a part 2 coming later lol

Living next door to Simon Riley had always been fairly uneventful. You’d moved into the flat a year ago, drawn by the top-floor view and the promise of quiet. What you hadn’t expected was the just how quiet it could be sharing a wall with a ghost. Simon, for all intents and purposes, was practically non-existent. Weeks would pass, months even, and there’d be no trace of him. No footsteps overhead, no muffled conversations through the walls, no lights flickering beneath his door at odd hours. Just a silence that belonged to the abandoned, broken only by the occasional echo of city traffic drifting up from the street below.

And when he was home — when he returned from whatever godforsaken corner of the world they’d sent him off to — he moved like a shadow. You’d hear the shift of weight in the stairwell, the low grate of his key in the lock. Nothing more. He never made a fuss, never lingered in the hallway, never bothered with neighbourly chatter unless circumstance forced his hand. The only reason you'd ever exchanged more than a few words was because of that one rainy night, nearly six months after you'd moved in, when you came home late from work and discovered your keys had vanished, likely swallowed whole by the city transit system. The landlady wouldn’t be in until morning, and you’d stood there in the hallway like a drowned cat, rain dripping from your coat, blinking up at the fifth-floor fluorescents that buzzed overhead like insects.

He’d opened the door a crack, just enough to peer out with one eye, and muttered, “Y’alright?”

You must’ve looked pathetic enough, because next thing you knew, you were on his couch, curled up beneath a coarse blanket with the smell of soap and tobacco lingering in the air. He hadn’t said much. Just grunted, handed you a pillow, and disappeared into his room.

After that, something quiet passed between you two. A truce, perhaps. Not quite a friendship, but something just as lived-in and easy. You rarely texted each other, and when you did, it was dry, succinct, never lingering past the moment. He didn’t pry when you brought people over, and you didn’t blink when he came home with the occasional woman’s perfume clinging to the collar of his jacket. You’d seen that look in his eyes — half-wild, half-hollow — enough times now to know better than to ask. You didn’t want the story. He never offered one.

It worked. Whatever it was.

Until the storm.

It was one of those early spring tempests that rolled in heavy and loud from the west, sweeping over the skyline. Rain lashed at the windows in endless sheets, streaking the glass with silver rivulets. Lightning split the sky every few minutes, flooding your apartment in stark, momentary flashes. The power had gone out not long after dusk, swallowing the flat in a pale, cobalt gloom. Without the hum of the fridge or the dull glow of your screens, the silence took on a weight all on its own.

You’d tried to distract yourself — a paperback, your phone — but everything felt stifled, thin. Your phone battery hovered near death, the red bar taunting you. There was no question of heading out into the storm. You weren’t about to go wandering through flooded sidewalks on the off-chance of finding some poorly-lit café with a functioning outlet and overpriced tea. The thought alone made your head ache.

So, in a moment of weak desperation, you thumbed out a text to the only person in the building who might answer.

you home? power’s out. my phone’s dying.

You hit send. Watched the little bubble hang on your screen. Prayed the message would go through before your screen went black. Whether Simon would respond — or even see it — was another story entirely.

Almost an hour passed in silence, gnawing at the edges of your patience, before you finally heard a dull knock, just two solid raps on the door, as if he knew you’d still be waiting. You opened it to find Simon standing there, shoulders hunched slightly beneath a damp grey hoodie, eyes shadowed in the hallway’s faint emergency lighting. His cropped sandy hair was wet, clinging at his temples, and he carried that faint, mineral smell of rain off concrete. You thought about snapping at him — what took you so bloody long — but the sight of him, silent and soaked, robbed you of the edge. You just stepped aside, let him in with a slight lift of your brow.

“Power’s out in mine too,” he muttered, kicking off his boots in the entryway, the faint squelch of soaked socks on the hardwood following behind him. “Whole block’s buggered, far as I can tell.”

He sank into your loveseat with a low, content grunt, like an old dog settling into a warm rug, his massive frame barely fitting between the arms of your second-hand furniture.

“Got a bourbon or somethin’?” he asked, voice gravelled and low as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’d murder for it now.”

You flicked your eyes toward the kitchen, already half-lit with the faint glow that spilled from the living room. You’d set a few candles earlier to chase away the dimness, some you’d forgotten you owned, tucked at the back of a drawer. The air smelled like blackberries and burnt honey, wax warming slowly in the little ceramic holders. Sweet, yes, but there was something earthy beneath it all, something that reminded you faintly of leather and smoke and late nights. It reminded you of him. Of the shadow he cast, of the grit in his voice.

“No bourbon,” you called back as you rummaged through your half-barren cupboards. “Only gin. Want a cocktail?”

There was a beat of silence before he let out a dry exhale. “Criminal,” he grumbled. “Better than nothin’, I s’pose.”

You didn’t bother with shakers or garnish. Just two mismatched glasses filled with ice, gin, a bit of flat lemonade you’d forgotten you’d opened, and a splash of elderflower syrup that had lived far too long in the fridge. You tried not to think about the perishables quietly spoiling away. The timing of the blackout was lucky though — you’d nearly gone grocery shopping that morning and decided, mercifully, against it.

You set one glass down in front of him on a crumpled napkin that had been rescued from under a takeout bag.

“Extra strong, just for you,” you teased, dropping into the armchair across from him and propping your sock-clad feet up on the coffee table’s edge.

“Cheers,” he muttered, raising the glass lazily before taking a sip, then grimacing like you’d fed him poison. “Jesus. Bit heavy on the syrup, innit?”

“It’s called nuance,” you said dryly.

He drank it anyway.

A bolt of lightning flashed, stark and sudden, illuminating the living room in one white-hot flicker. For a breathless second, you saw him clearly. Simon’s profile sharpened against the glow, casting shadows deep into the scars that carved across his skin. He wasn’t shy about them anymore. Not with you. You remembered when he used to keep that balaclava of his on even inside the building, back when you first moved in — when he didn’t trust you, didn’t trust anyone, really. Back when he was all dark fabric and heavy boots to you, the weight of his duffel slung over one shoulder, eyes like budding storms as he glanced your way and said nothing.

It hadn’t taken long to learn that he wasn’t hiding to intimidate. He was hiding because he didn’t think anyone wanted to look.

But you had. And when he finally stopped wearing the mask around you, when he let you see the twisted ridge of his nose and the gap where one canine used to sit, it hadn’t startled you. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t stare. Why would you? Everyone had their mess. Everyone had their little ruins they lived in. Yours just weren’t worn on your face.

“Where were you off to this time?” you asked, voice softer now, less biting. You took a long sip from your own glass and settled deeper into the chair, curling your toes slightly in your socks. The storm howled against the windows. The world beyond the glass felt far away.

“Al Mazrah,” Simon said after a beat, his voice rough like it had been scraped raw by sand and smoke. He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared into the milky liquid sloshing quietly in his glass. “Not important.”

You arched a brow at him, unimpressed, your expression halfway between mock offense and something gentler beneath. “God forbid a girl wants to know where you’ve been.”

He leaned back into the cushions, the grey fabric of his hoodie bunching at the elbows, his silhouette casting long shadows that wavered behind him on the wall. “Classified,” he said, slanting you a look beneath lashes still wet from the rain. “Way ‘bove your pay grade, love.”

You exhaled, dragging your foot across the coffee table’s edge, sock sliding over the wood. “How long you staying this time?” The question came lightly, but you hated how your tone always hinted at the absence you’d grown used to — an absence that always arrived without warning and left just the same.

He hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the base of his glass. “Few weeks, maybe. Two, three.”

Your smile curved slowly, and you brought your drink to your lips, watching him over the rim. “And you’ve made time for me? Out of your oh-so-crowded social calendar?” You let your free hand rest over your chest in a theatrical flourish. “I’m touched. Truly. I should buy a lotto ticket.”

He huffed out something between a chuckle and a grunt. “You’re gettin’ proper cheeky tonight.”

“Just observant,” you replied with a wink.

Simon took another sip of the gin, then pulled the glass away like it had just insulted him. He stared at the contents with deep suspicion. “Fuckin’ hell. If this’s what you give me, I dread t’think what you’re pourin’ for the other poor sods you bring over. Is this gin or floor cleaner?”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest again as if mortally wounded. “Hey! I do just fine, thank you. No one’s ever complained.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, nose wrinkling as he took another reluctant mouthful, “That’s ’cause they’re too hammered to speak. You’re knockin’ ’em flat on their arse after half a glass. Bet they don’t even know where they are, never mind complainin’.”

You laughed then, full and careless, the sound bouncing off the walls like it belonged there. “And that’s a problem how?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just shrugged one shoulder, the motion slow and easy, and settled deeper into the couch. Outside, thunder broke again, this time louder, rattling the windows in their frames. You twitched reflexively, a quick jolt up your spine, and Simon’s eyes flicked to you, noting it, though he said nothing. The candlelight fluttered as if startled by the noise, throwing the room into a slow dance of gold and shadow. Everything softened under the glow — his face, your living room, the wall art you never noticed was hung a little unevenly until now.

“You know,” you began, shifting in your chair, “there’s a new show I started. Just came out this week. Thought you might like it.”

He made a noncommittal sound, tipping his glass slightly to inspect the melted ice. “Mm?”

“Yeah. It’s about this policeman who—”

“Feel like havin’ a shag?” he cut in, voice casual, like he was asking if you wanted a second round. Flat and unbothered, slurred just enough to carry the nonchalance beneath the words. You blinked at him, startled mid-sentence, your mouth still half-open.

Simon met your stare with all the subtlety of a brick wall, one brow barely ticking upward. The corner of his mouth twitched.

You blinked once, twice, not quite sure if you'd heard him right. The room still hummed with thunder outside, but the silence that followed his question was louder than anything. Your glass hovered near your mouth, forgotten. You searched his face for a smirk, a wink, some trace of playfulness in the aftermath of the words — but there was nothing. Just Simon. Cool, unreadable Simon Riley, slouched on your couch like he hadn’t just dropped a match on oil.

“Are you being funny?” you asked, your voice a little too thin, a little too careful.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “No,” he said, simply. “Just askin’.”

And that was the part that unsettled you more than the question itself — how even his voice had been, how it held no weight, no tease. Like he was asking if you wanted a cigarette or the last piece of toast. Like it wasn’t meant to shake your understanding of whatever strange, tenuous thread tied the two of you together. Like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Your heart beat louder than the rain outside, louder than the creak of old floorboards beneath his feet. You stared at him, the edge of your glass damp against your thumb, and tried to piece together what the fuck this was. You’d never thought of him like that — not really. Maybe in the quiet spaces between midnight and sleep, when thoughts twisted without sense, when his name would drift through your head and your hand might slip beneath the sheets. But that didn’t count. Those were just flashes. Fleeting. And never like this. Never right in front of you with him watching and waiting, no disguise, no bravado.

You were just neighbours. Not even friends, not in the true sense of the word. Barely more than passing ships who occasionally shared a drink and a few quiet conversations. You didn’t talk about anything real. You didn’t share stories, not the ones that mattered. He didn’t ask about your childhood. You didn’t ask about his nightmares. And maybe that was the beauty of it — no expectations, no history. Just proximity.

But something had shifted.

Because maybe a man like Simon didn’t ask twice. Maybe he didn’t say things unless he meant them. Maybe this was rare for him — precious, even, in the way that wild animals only let their guard down when they think no one’s watching. And what if this was the only time he’d ever ask you something like that? What if this was it?

And why did that thought shake you more than anything else tonight?

The power was still out. Your fridge was still dying a slow death in the dark, the streets outside slick with rain, the wind rattling the old building with every gust — but all of that felt far away. Your eyes were still locked on his face, half in shadow, the flicker of candlelight giving him that same haunted edge you’d seen before — when he came home with tired eyes and bruises under his jaw, when he stood in the hall like a man with nowhere to go.

And you could say no. You could close this door and it would never open again. You knew that, bone-deep. With one word, you could snuff it all out like a flame, and he would let you. Simon Riley didn’t beg.

But you didn’t want that. God, you didn’t want that.

Because you had thought about him. Shamefully. In secret. When he was gone for weeks at a time and you were curled up alone in your bed, fingers between your thighs and his name buried in the crook of your elbow. You’d imagined what his hands might feel like — rough, scarred, patient. The way they might span across your waist, firm and decisive. How his mouth, always set in that grim line, might soften against your skin, kissing along your ribs, your stomach, your thighs with a hunger he never spoke aloud.

You’d imagined the way he’d whisper filth into your neck, voice thick with need, all grit and smoke and heat. The way he might say your name like it meant something, like he was trying to remember it long after you were gone. The way he might grip you by the hips and drag you beneath him, slow and heavy, like he had nowhere else to be.

“Right,” you murmured finally, your fingers shaking just a little. Your voice wasn’t steady, but it wasn’t uncertain either. “I guess so.”

Simon didn’t smile. Just tipped the rest of his drink back in one motion, throat flexing as he swallowed, then set the glass down with a soft clink on the coffee table.

⟡

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the fading flicker of the candles down the hall and the occasional strobe of lightning that cracked across the sky outside. The curtains billowed faintly from the breeze that sneaked in through the cracked window, but neither of you noticed anymore. The storm had become a distant thing — something outside and far removed, no longer loud enough to compete with the sharp, wet sound of your mouths colliding, or the muted creak of bedsprings beneath you.

You were on top of him, legs spread wide across his hips, knees digging into the mattress, thighs caging him in as you kissed him hard enough to leave bruises. It was messy — his teeth scraped your lip, his tongue slipped against yours with no rhythm, only need. The kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was all heat and want, your noses bumping, his breath hot and rough against your cheek as he exhaled sharply through it.

Simon’s hands gripped your ass, large palms kneading you with a kind of tenderness that didn’t match the hungry way he moved beneath you. His fingers curled through the waistband of your underwear, dragging the fabric taut against your skin before letting it snap back into place, rough and teasing. You could feel how hard he was beneath you, the tension straining between your bodies, the impatience coiled in the flex of his arms, the way his jaw clenched as your hips rolled down over his.

It wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually like this. You liked to linger. To draw it out. But with him, it felt impossible to think of anything beyond the burn in your belly and the way his hips twitched up to meet yours every time you pressed down. He didn’t even have to guide it; your bodies just fit. There was no awkwardness, no second-guessing. Only instinct. You followed the pace he set, even from underneath you, fast and rough and insistent.

You pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, hair falling across your face, your lips wet and swollen. You stared down at him, at the way his eyes were nearly black in the shadows, the way his chest rose and fell so quickly. You reached between the two of you, slipped out of your underwear with a shaky hand, baring yourself to him. Simon’s gaze never wavered.

You lined yourself up and sank slowly down onto him, inch by aching inch. Your mouth parted with a shuddered breath. He was thick, the stretch deep and raw, your body clenching tight around him in welcome. You barely had time to catch your breath — barely had a moment to adjust — before Simon’s hands were back on your hips, gripping you hard enough to leave a mark. His fingers dug into the softness there, grounding himself in the feel of you, like maybe the weight of your body above him anchored him to something real.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, low and hoarse, voice barely a whisper as he bucked up into you. “You feel fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.”

He thrust up again, sharper this time, hips snapping into yours with a force that made your spine jolt and your mouth fall open in a quiet gasp. You grabbed at the headboard in front of you, one hand braced for balance, the other splayed across his chest, feeling the slick heat of his skin. You rode him as best you could, hips stuttering with each bounce, legs trembling as he kept that same steady rhythm from underneath, every movement punching up into you, deep enough that you swore you could feel him in your throat.

He wasn’t loud. His voice stayed locked behind his teeth, his breathing sharp and uneven, broken by the occasional grunt or groan that rattled in his throat. You watched his face beneath you — flushed, jaw clenched, lips parted slightly. His eyes flicked over your body like he didn’t know where to look first. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your stomach, the place where your bodies met and he disappeared inside you.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. The faint light from outside caught on the long scar near his temple, made the colour in his cheeks look deeper, more vivid. His muscles tensed every time you rolled your hips down, the lines of his abdomen flexing.

And still, he held your hips in place, dragging you down onto him over and over like he couldn’t get close enough. Like something in him needed to be buried as deep as he could go.

“Y’keep ridin’ me like that,” he muttered through gritted teeth, thick and ragged, “and I won’t last much longer.”

You swallowed a moan, too breathless to tease him, too wrecked by the heat pooling low in your body to think of anything smart to say. You clenched around him, and his grip on your waist faltered for just a moment before coming back stronger.

You leaned down, your chest brushing his, and kissed him again. Slower this time. Fuller. His hands moved up your back, touching your skin like he needed it — like he was searching for something he thought he’d lost.

You didn’t know when it started happening — your thighs shaking from the burn, your breath caught in your throat, the knot in your stomach threatening to snap — but it hit you hard when he gripped you tighter and buried himself to the hilt, grinding his hips up once, twice, sharp and deep. You felt the way his whole body jerked beneath yours, the ragged, guttural groan that tore from his throat as his head dropped back against the pillow.

“Fuckin’ — fuck,” Simon bit out, low and strained, as if the pleasure had stolen the breath right out of him.

He tried to pull out at the last second, fingers twitching like he was fighting instinct, but you didn’t let him. You sank down harder, deeper, your walls tightening around him in one final, possessive clutch, and he came with a full-body shudder, leaving him trembling under you. You felt the heat of it flood inside you, thick and hot, painting deep, and you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. You just held yourself there, thighs burning, your forehead pressed to his chest as his heartbeat thundered against your skin.

And then it was quiet.

For a moment, neither of you breathed.

You slid off him with a soft wince, legs unsteady, your skin flushed and damp from exertion. Your inner thighs were sticky, a slick mess between your legs, but you didn’t move to clean up. You just collapsed onto your stomach beside him, the sheets warm beneath your cheek. Simon didn’t reach for you. Didn’t say a word. He just lay there with one arm slung over his eyes, chest still rising and falling as if his body hadn’t quite come down yet.

You felt full. Not just physically, though the ache between your legs still pulsed with the echo of him — but full in a way that gnawed at something deeper. And yet, even with the heat still lingering across your skin, you knew better than to ask for more. You weren’t entitled to anything more. Not after this.

Because what the hell was this, anyway?

You didn’t ask if he’d stay. Didn’t ask what this meant. Didn’t reach for his hand like you had the right to it. You’d given him your body, and he’d taken it in full, but this wasn’t some fairytale. There were no whispered promises, no post-coital confessions. Just two people who shared a wall and, apparently, a bed for one storm-drenched night.

Simon sat up slowly with a grunt, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. His back flexed as he reached down to grab his shirt from the floor, tugging it back on over his broad shoulders. You watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled on his jeans, zipping them one-handed. His shirt was twisted around his frame, the hem sticking slightly to his lower back with sweat, but he didn’t seem to care.

Then, with the quiet hum of power returning, the room lit up.

The overhead light buzzed to life like an unwelcome guest, casting the scene in harsh white glow. Your skin looked too exposed now, the slick sheen on your thighs catching the light. The warmth between you and him — the raw, golden hush of candlelight and shadow — was gone. Replaced by something colder.

Simon glanced at you, half-naked and panting, still sprawled across your sheets with your limbs loose and sore. His mouth twitched, a dry huff escaping as he reached down and smacked your bare ass with a sharp crack, the sting sudden and biting. You jolted a little and turned your face toward him with a breathless laugh, muffled by your pillow.

“Oi. Don’t get too fuckin’ comfy,” he said, his accent heavier now, slurred at the edges. “Y’look like you’ve been steamrolled.”

“I have been steamrolled,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “By a fucking truck with blond hair.”

He smirked, but it was faint, tugging only slightly at the corner of his mouth. You could tell he was more than tired. There was something worn in his posture, his shoulders loose in a way you didn’t see often. Like he’d finally let go of something he’d been holding onto too tight for too long. He didn’t say thank you, didn’t offer softness, but he lingered at the edge of the bed a moment longer than he needed to.

⟡

Over the next few months, Simon came and went like the tide — gone for stretches at a time, then suddenly back in your world, standing in your doorway with that quiet, brooding look in his eyes. And more often than not, after a handful of words and a drink or two, the two of you ended up tangled in your sheets or bent over the arm of your couch, his rough hands on your hips, his breath hot against your ear, that familiar low voice cutting through the dark like it belonged there.

You didn’t talk about it. Not once. Not the first time, not the fourth, not even when he stayed longer than usual one night, lying half-asleep in your bed with one hand lazily stroking the bare skin of your thigh, as if your body was something he could learn like terrain. You knew better than to ask him what it meant. And he never offered.

But a pattern emerged. Something comfortable. Predictable, even. Simon would send a text, short and to the point — Back Friday. Or sometimes just you home? And your stomach would twist, your breath would catch, your fingers would hover over your phone longer than they should. You weren’t stupid. You knew what it was. You weren’t in love with him, and he wasn’t in love with you. But still, every time he came back, every time he knocked on your door or let himself in with the key you claimed you’d given him for emergencies, you felt something bloom sharp and heady beneath your ribs.

You’d never admit it aloud, but you started counting down the days after he told you he’d be back. You’d caught yourself rereading his messages more than once, tracing the words like they meant more than they did. It wasn’t a promise. He never said he’d see you. He never said I’ll be over. But still, you couldn’t imagine him not showing up. Not anymore. Not after the last time, when he’d pressed you against your kitchen counter and fucked you slow, one hand around your throat, the other guiding your hips in time with the sound of your moans echoing off the tile.

Lately, he'd even started texting you while he was away. Nothing extravagant. Just small, strange offerings that always made your chest ache a little. A blurry photo of a stray cat curled up in a clay alley. A market stall in some unnamed country, hung with silks in colours so vivid you swore you could feel them. A line of text, dry and sharp as ever: Saw this. Thought you’d like it. Or, once, just a photo of his boots propped up on a crate with the caption: Bored. You’d hate it here.

It wasn’t romantic. But it was something. Something more than silence. Something that left you lying in bed with your phone pressed to your chest, wondering why your throat felt tight and your skin burned like it remembered his touch.

Now, your apartment felt too small, too loud in its quiet. You’d been pacing for the last half hour, unable to sit still, chewing the inside of your cheek raw as you glanced at the clock. You knew he wouldn’t text to say he was coming. He never did, not when he was actually on the way. That wasn’t how this worked. Still, your eyes flicked to the door every time the elevator groaned down the hall. You caught yourself fixing your face in the reflection of the microwave, fluffing your t-shirt like it mattered, like he hadn’t seen you sweaty and naked and writhing beneath him more times than you could count.

This isn’t anything new, you told yourself, trying to still the thrum beneath your skin. It’s just Simon.

So why did you feel like you were about to be swallowed whole by the anticipation? Why did your palms sweat every time your phone buzzed, only to sink with disappointment when it wasn’t him?

You sat down, stood back up. Wandered to the window just to stare at the street below. The late evening sun slanted through your blinds in golden stripes, casting long shadows on the floor.

Your pulse wouldn’t settle.

Because no matter how many times he showed up at your door, no matter how many times you came together in a frenzy of limbs and breathless curses and sweat-slicked skin, it never got easier.

It was just Simon.

But he wasn’t just anything to you anymore, was he?

The sound of the door unlocking was a quiet thing, just the turning of a key and the soft hiss of the latch, but it set your whole body on fire. It didn’t matter how many times he’d done this before — how often you’d heard those boots cross your threshold or watched the shadow of his frame stretch across the wall when he came in late. Every time still felt like something breaking open. You were halfway across the flat before your mind caught up with your feet, breath caught high in your chest, your bare skin prickling with a kind of heat you hadn’t let yourself name.

And there he was.

Simon filled the doorway like a storm cloud, the low fluorescents in the hallway tracing the edge of his broad shoulders. His duffel hung from one arm, worn leather, military-issue, the strap digging into his clothing. He hadn’t even taken his boots off yet. His face was all sharp planes and travel-fatigue — jaw bristling with stubble, temples smudged with sweat, a sunburn high on his cheeks like windburn, where his usual balaclava could never quite reach. But his eyes found you the moment he stepped inside. Dark, hooded, that heavy weight behind them already pressing into your ribs.

You didn’t plan the way your arms went around him. You collided with him hard enough to make the bag shift against his side, your face buried in the warm, faintly sour scent of his shirt — cigarettes, old sweat, airport soap. He stiffened beneath you, body going rigid, caught mid-step like he hadn’t expected it. Like maybe no one had done that in a long, long time.

And then — slowly, cautiously — his arms came around you. His hands gripped your back like he was anchoring himself to you, palms flat, fingers curling in the fabric of your shirt. His chest expanded with a long, audible breath, and his voice came low against the crown of your head.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “Didn’t reckon you’d be that chuffed t’ see me.”

You didn’t let go.

He gave in, just a little. His chin rested against your temple as he toed the door shut behind him, letting it fall into its frame with a weighty click. And then he pulled back enough to look at you — eyes flicking over your face, scanning your expression like he was still trying to make sense of the welcome. Still holding on.

Before either of you could speak, he reached down into the side pocket of his bag and pulled something free, slim and glossy, catching the light. A scarf. Long, plum-coloured silk, cool and expensive between his calloused fingers. It looked utterly foreign in his hands, like it didn’t belong there, like it had no business being near someone like him. But he didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate. Just offered it to you, crumpled and all.

“Snagged it in a market,” he said, voice still low and a bit hoarse. “Thought you’d look good wearin’ it.”

You swallowed hard. The scarf felt like water in your hands, too soft, too smooth. It glinted as it shifted, like wine in low light. You stared at it for a second longer than you should’ve, pulse hammering in your throat.

“Jesus,” you murmured. “Simon. It’s—”

“Don’t,” he cut in quickly, slipping past you with a shrug, duffel thudding to the ground. “It’s nothin’.”

You followed him, feet silent against the floor, scarf still bunched in your hand. Something had shifted already — the way he’d looked at you when you hugged him, the way he hadn’t let go right away. The way his eyes had lingered on the hollow of your throat. He hadn’t even taken off his boots. Hadn’t sat. He moved like he knew where this was going, like his body was already two steps ahead of the conversation.

“How’ve you been?” you asked quietly, more for the sound of it than for the answer. You barely heard yourself over the thudding in your chest.

Simon didn’t stop walking. Just glanced back at you, one brow raised. “Hot. Dusty. Fuckin’ knackered. Swear I’ve still got sand up my arse.”

You laughed, nervous and breathless, following him down the hall. “So just a regular week, then?”

He huffed. “Livin’ the dream.”

By the time you reached your bedroom, he was already pulling his jacket off, the thick cotton sliding down his back to reveal the deep, carved lines of muscle beneath. The shirt underneath clung to his torso, damp in patches, riding up enough to show a slice of skin above the waistband of his jeans. He was all tension, all bulk and tired rage, moving like a man who had too much in his blood and not enough time to burn it out.

You stood in the doorway, caught in the low lamplight, your body thrumming with heat.

Simon turned his head to look at you, eyes sweeping over your frame — bare feet, bare legs, the heaviness with which you swallowed. He licked his lips once, slow.

“Y’gonna stand there all night,” he rasped, voice thick now, hoarse and hungry, “or you comin’ over here t’ let me fuckin’ touch you?”

The scarf slipped from your hand.

[cod-imagines]

imagine #8

character: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick  words:  8508 cw: 18+, pining, slight angst description: in which you and Kyle are roommates in London and he comes back after a long deployment.  a/n: another one for my baby boy Kyle because I hate that he’s so dang underrated :(( he’s literally so pretty have y’all SEEN him??? 

The door was unlocked. 

You noticed it right away, fingers pausing on the handle out of habit, a beat of uncertainty flickering through you — until the sound of that old record player drifted into the hall. The needle was slightly off-centre as usual, warping the crooning ever so faintly, the music curling through the flat like breath. It was the one you’d bought him two years ago for his birthday, after a string of hints he thought were subtle. Al Green’s voice poured out soft and soulful, and already your shoulders eased, tension unspooling with every note. You stepped inside, breath catching in your throat, the door clicking shut behind you with a muffled thud. The scent of something familiar clung to the air — clean laundry, bergamot, the faintest trace of tobacco smoke from the coat he probably hadn’t aired out yet. You hadn’t even gotten your boots off when you heard the sound of footsteps from the hallway. 

And then there he was. 

Kyle stood in the frame of the corridor, broad-shouldered and solid as ever, a canvas duffle slumped half-heartedly on the floor behind him. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, deep crescents under his eyes, but there was a softness in his face that hadn’t dulled with exhaustion. He looked at you like he’d been holding his breath across time zones, and now, finally, he could breathe again. You peeled off your jacket slowly, fingers stiff from the walk home in the wind, and already the flat felt warmer than you’d left it. Toasty, even. He must’ve cranked the thermostat the second he walked in, the way he always did after being somewhere cold, somewhere bleak. 

“Hey, stranger,” you said, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “Finally got tired of being shot at?” 

Kyle let out a low laugh; it hummed through his chest more than his throat. “Something like that,” he said, and before you could say another word, he closed the space between you and pulled you into him. 

His arms locked around your waist, strong and certain. He didn’t say anything else, just held you — like he meant to stay there awhile. You pressed your face into the warm line of his neck, taking him in. He smelled like he always did when he came back from deployment: travel-worn and clean at once, faint citrus clinging to his skin, his clothes, that bergamot body wash you’d started using yourself when you missed him too much. For a long, still moment, you just stood there, breathing each other in, like the world had gone quiet. 

“Missed you,” you murmured, barely audible against his pulse. 

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a breath, low and rough like it hurt to exhale. 

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to see his face. To look at him properly. You’d memorised it in fragments over spotty video calls and pixelated photos, but nothing compared to this. His eyes were that same warm, deep brown, like wet earth after rain. Grounding. Steady. Like you could fall into them and not worry about finding your way back. 

“The place felt so empty without you,” you said, voice thick in your throat. “Didn’t even realise how quiet it got.” 

“Yeah?” he smiled gently, one corner of his mouth tugging up, and he reached out to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger, soft. “Can’t be having that, now, can we?” 

He brushed past you, stepping into the living room like he hadn’t been away a day, and you followed, feet padding softly on the wood floor. The space looked mostly untouched since he’d gone, but you could already see the way his presence reshaped it — his jacket slung over the edge of the sofa, the way he’d rearranged the cushions to sit more comfortably, the low golden glow of the string lights you’d strung up together last winter. He hadn’t turned on the ceiling light, of course. Never did. Called it too bloody clinical, like you were about to get your teeth cleaned instead of relax. Since he left, you hadn’t switched it on once. 

You shuffled into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, movements familiar, grounding. Tea had never been your thing before Kyle. But somewhere between your late-night talks, his quiet routines, and the way he needed a cup before bed — even after the worst days — it became habit. He had a way of reshaping things like that. You hadn’t meant to build your life around him, but he moved like gravity. He made you orbit. 

“Have you eaten yet?” you asked over your shoulder, already knowing the answer. 

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that relaxed sort of fondness that never failed to disarm you. “Nah,” he said. “Waited for you. Thought maybe we could head out? Grab something?” 

You turned, arching a brow. “Only if you’re paying.” 

Kyle chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “Fuck me. I’ve been home five minutes and already you’re rinsing me dry.” 

You smirked, pulling the faded ginger tea tin from the cupboard. “Oh, come on. You think the world stops spinning just ‘cause you’re off on some glamorous holiday?” 

He scoffed, eyes glinting with disbelief. “Holiday? You taking the piss?” 

You gave an innocent shrug. “You know. Jet-setting round the globe. Room service. Little bars in places you can’t pronounce.” 

“Right, yeah. All that glamour. Forget the bit where I’ve got some fucker shooting at me every other day.” 

“Exactly. Never mind that.” 

He laughed again — really laughed this time, head tilting back slightly — and you felt it in your chest, blooming like warmth. Then he stepped closer, took the mug you handed him with both hands, fingers brushing yours. 

You lingered in the quiet warmth of your flat, curled on the sofa beside Kyle, half-empty mugs of tea in hand. The low light from the string bulbs overhead gave the room a kind of softness, a golden hour that stretched and clung, unwilling to end. The record had long since stopped playing, but neither of you moved to lift the needle. You just talked —about everything and nothing at all. About the neighbour upstairs who still hadn’t figured out how to close a door without slamming it. About the leaky faucet you’d finally patched in the kitchen. About the café around the corner that’d switched owners again. You listened to the cadence of his voice more than the content, savouring the lilt and weight of it, the way he said your name like it belonged in his mouth. 

Eventually, you both got up, easing out of the comfortable lull. Coats were shrugged back on, boots laced, and the door clicked shut behind you. You padded down the narrow stairwell together — three flights of creaking wood softened by years of wear — until your feet touched the pavement of Electric Avenue. Even at night, Brixton was alive. A pulse underfoot, the kind you felt more than heard. There was music wafting in the distance — bass-heavy, vibrating through stone — and the smells of spice and smoke and exhaust hung in the crisp autumn air. The streetlights painted everything in a haze of yellow-gold, a little harsh but familiar. 

“Want the usual?” you asked, sliding a glance over at him as he reached into his coat pocket. 

He gave a short, knowing laugh, already fishing out a lighter. “Course I do. Been dreaming about that oxtail since bloody Kyiv.” 

You rolled your eyes as he lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the angles of his face — the curve of his cheekbone, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble. “Back to this nasty habit, are we?” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his as you walked. 

Kyle took a drag and exhaled slow, the smoke curling up past his brow. “Oi, don’t start. Let me have my one vice, yeah? Gotta cope somehow.” 

“Cope better. Chew gum or something.” 

“Gum doesn’t taste like this,” he said, tapping ash onto the sidewalk with a smirk. “Anyway, weren’t you the one who said I look fit with a cig? Don’t think I forgot that.” 

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “You misheard me. I said you looked full of shit.” 

“Mm. Same thing.” 

The little restaurant was just a few steps further, a corner joint you’d both wandered into one rainy night years ago, and then returned to again and again. No sign out front, just the glow of hanging bulbs strung along the window and the thick scent of jerk spices that hit you before the door even swung open. Inside was barely enough room to fit a handful of people — just a counter, a glass display case, and the warm, familiar woman behind it who gave Kyle a knowing nod the moment he stepped in. 

“Back again, huh?” she said with a grin. “Didn’t think I’d see your face ‘til Christmas.” 

“Surprised me, too,” he replied easily, charm thickening as he leaned on the counter, eyes flicking down to the foil trays behind the glass. “Gonna need two oxtails, extra rice and peas, some plantain. And whatever she wants, too.” 

He shot you a look like he’d dared you to protest. 

You arched a brow. “You sure? Might go wild. Get the whole menu.” 

Kyle made a show of sighing. “That’s alright. I’ll sell my kidney later.” 

Once you had your food in hand, wrapped tight in foil containers and already steaming up your fingers through the bag, you slipped back outside. The inside was too cramped, too hot, so you both slid into one of the little outdoor tables set beneath a heat lamp. The metal chairs were chipped and brightly painted, and the table wobbled slightly, but neither of you cared. The heater hummed gently above, casting an orange glow over everything, and the bite of the wind against your ankles made the warmth in your hands feel earned. 

The two of you dug in almost immediately. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a proper sit-down meal or that the table had some questionable graffiti scratched into it —everything tasted better after a long day, and better still with him sitting across from you. The rice was fluffy, the oxtail tender, the plantains caramelised just right. 

Between bites, you talked. Laughed. Traded jabs the way you always had. Kyle recounted the disaster of a flight home, the snoring seatmate, the broken vending machine at the airport. You told him about the mouse you swore you saw in the stairwell (which he flat-out didn’t believe) and how you’d nearly killed yourself trying to fix the leaky tap without his help. 

Eventually, though, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned forward, elbow on the table, fork still dangling in hand. “So, what happened over there? You gonna tell me anything this time? Any juicy details?” 

He shook his head slowly, chewing, taking his time to respond. Then: “You know the rules, love.” 

“Yeah, yeah, no work talk,” you said, but the pout in your voice was hard to hide. “You’re so annoying about it.” 

Kyle scoffed, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb. “I’m annoying because I don’t fancy telling you how I had to scrape someone’s mate off the fucking floor last month? Is that what we’re doing now?” 

You blinked, chastened — but he softened almost immediately, nudging your ankle under the table. 

“Look,” he said, quieter now. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. But I keep that shit separate for a reason, alright? You don’t need it in your head. You’ve got enough goingon.” 

You looked at him for a long moment, then sighed dramatically, dragging your fork into his tray and scooping up a fat piece of oxtail. 

“Oi — what the fuck—” he swatted half-heartedly at your hand, laughing, though he tried to look betrayed. “That’s bang out of order, that is.” 

“Go ahead and starve,” you said, chewing it smugly. 

By the time the foil containers sat mostly empty on the table between you, the street had grown quieter. The heater above continued to buzz gently, fighting the creeping chill of late autumn. The music from the nearby bar had shifted to something more mellow, the kind of rhythm that clung to the edges of your senses but didn’t demand attention. Across from you, Kyle sat back in his chair, one leg stretched out, the other tapping absently to the beat. He looked content — soft around the eyes, the edge of a smile playing on his lips. You could almost forget that he’d only just come home. That he was still shaking off the dust of some other country, some other life, and slipping back into yours like he’d never left. 

Then he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, and gave you a look that was just a little too casual. 

“So,” he began, stretching the word, drawing it out like he was toying with it. “You meet anyone while I was gone? Any lad manage to finally sweep you off your feet?” 

You blinked. The question dropped like a stone in your chest. It took a second too long to react, and you covered it with a scoff, tilting your head and letting out a dry laugh. 

“Really?” you said, forcing a smirk. “That’s where we’re going now?” 

He shrugged, grinning, unbothered. “Just saying. You’re always saying I’m the one with no social life. Figured maybe someone’d finally cracked that cold, cold heart of yours.” 

You tried to keep up the act, tried to match his tone, but the words didn’t land right. Not when they touched something too raw inside of you. The very idea of anyone else— of opening yourself to someone who wasn’t him — made your stomach tighten. You weren’t even sure why it stung so much. Maybe because it was so easy for him to imagine you with someone else. Maybe because he couldn’t see how deeply you’d rooted yourself in the space between his absences. 

“Please,” you said with a scoff, poking at the remainder of your rice with your fork. “Can’t exactly flirt with people when I’m too busy fixing leaking taps and taking care of your plants.” 

He laughed, shaking his head. “Could’ve fooled me. That lad from the corner shop, the one with the bad haircut — he’s always eyeing you up.” 

“That’s because I paid him in coins one time. He’s traumatised.” 

“Still. Wouldn’t blame you,” Kyle said, more softly now, his grin still easy, unaware of the way your chest was tightening. “Wouldn’t blame you if someone had caught your eye. S’been a while. Figured maybe—” 

You set your fork down more abruptly than you meant to, the clatter sharper than it should’ve been in the quiet. “Can you not?” you said, trying to sound light, but there was an edge creeping in despite you. “It’s not funny.” 

The smile slid from his face. Just slightly, but enough. His brow creased in that way you’d come to know over the years — a small frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression that said wait, did I fuck up? 

“Hey, alright,” he said gently, holding his hands up. “Didn’t mean nothing by it.” 

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say more. You didn’t want him to see how fast your appetite had vanished, how your chest felt like it was lined with lead. You pushed your food away slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the table as if grounding yourself. 

The silence between you stretched a little too long before he spoke again. 

“Wanna head back?” 

You nodded again, and the two of you rose, gathering your things, the laughter from earlier still echoing in the background but feeling miles away. 

The walk back to the flat was quiet. You trailed beside him, hands shoved deep into your pockets, eyes fixed on the pavement lit by flickering streetlamps. Kyle didn’tspeak, didn’t joke like he usually did to fill silences, and part of you wondered if he felt it too — the weight in the air, the change in tone. But maybe he was just tired. Or maybe itdidn’t matter to him as much as it did to you. 

You tried not to let your thoughts spiral, but it was hard not to drift. Hard not to think back to those first few years, when you and Kyle had just started hanging out. You’dmet through mutual friends, the kind of accidental friendship that formed without effort, and before long you were inseparable. Movie nights that turned into crash-at-each-other’s-place kind of weekends. Grocery runs that felt like dates even when they weren’t. After a while, the flat-sharing just made sense. Two people who trusted each other, knew each other’s habits, didn’t need to explain why sometimes the day was just too much. 

You’d watched each other fumble through relationships — his with women who didn’t get the job, yours with men who didn’t get you — and every time something ended, it was Kyle who poured the tea and listened without needing to fix it. And it was you who patched him up, who reminded him he was still soft under all that grit. The world always made sense when it was just the two of you. 

But lately — lately it had started to ache. 

Because no one had ever made you feel the way Kyle did. No one ever filled the space beside you like he did without trying. And you weren’t sure when it started to feel one-sided — when the realization hit that maybe, for him, this was all it would ever be. You could live with him. Laugh with him. Travel through seasons and years. And still be nothing more than a friend. 

The thought made your throat burn. 

When you stepped back into the flat, the familiar scent of the place — clean soap, old wood, a faint lingering of Kyle’s cologne — hit you like a brick. You closed the door behind you, shrugging off your coat without a word. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” you said, eyes on the hallway. 

“Yeah, no worries,” Kyle said. 

You moved toward the bathroom, already tugging your sleeves up, but he stopped you just as you passed him in the hall. 

“Oi,” he said, gently, fingers brushing your arm. “You alright?” 

You hesitated, then turned toward him. His face was open, a little tentative. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pressed — but something in his eyes said he knew he’d said too much. Or maybe too little. 

“I’m fine,” you said, and smiled. 

It was small and soft and not entirely true. 

Kyle held your gaze a second longer, as if weighing whether to believe you, but in the end, he nodded, stepping back. 

You slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind you. The mirror fogged almost instantly as the hot water roared to life. You stood there a moment, watching the steam climb the glass, your own reflection vanishing into it. You stepped under the spray, let it scald your skin, let it mute everything else. Your fingers pressed into your eyes as the tears came, quiet and stubborn, barely more than a tremble in your shoulders. 

⟡ 

“Detergent?” 

“Yep,” you said, fingers curling around the familiar green Persil bottle. “Right here.” 

You plucked it from the top shelf, feeling the cool weight settle in your arms as you turned to drop it into the shopping cart Kyle was pushing. The bottle landed with a soft thud beside the eggs, and Kyle gave a low grunt of approval like you’d just solved some complex riddle. His sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms beneath the loose denim jacket he’d thrown on over a grey hoodie, the hood still up from the brisk walk over, casting a faint shadow over the top of his face. He didn’t bother to push it down. If anything, the way it framed his face only made him look more effortlessly at ease, despite the fact that he was maneuvering the stubborn cart like it was a wayward dog. 

You checked off the next item on your list with a short, neat stroke, your pencil lead dulled from use. The slip of paper had been folded and refolded enough times that the creases were beginning to tear, but you kept it pressed between your fingers like it was sacred. There was something comforting in the task, something grounding about moving aisle by aisle with purpose, ticking each item off like a promise fulfilled. The mundanity of it — the silence between shelves, the low hum of refrigerator units, the soft clatter of other carts in the distance — it all felt like a balm after everything. Domestic. Predictable. And for a moment, that was enough. 

Kyle trailed after you, one hand gripping the cart while the other occasionally reached for things you hadn’t asked for. A bag of crisps. A multipack of KitKats. A questionable-looking energy drink that you eyed warily but said nothing about. You walked slightly ahead, weaving through the store with focused precision, too keyed in to the task to notice that your pace was almost brisk. 

“You tryna outrun me or something?” he asked eventually, the sound of the cart wheels squeaking behind him. “I didn’t realize we were doing the hundred-metre dash through the produce section.” 

You glanced over your shoulder, expression unreadable. “Just sticking to the list.” 

Kyle smirked, keeping up anyway, despite the slight veer of the cart that kept pulling left. “Right, of course. Can’t deviate. Strict military procedure, this.” 

“I learned from the best,” you muttered, eyes scanning for the next item. 

He let out a snort. 

Maybe, in another moment, you would’ve turned around and teased him some more. Maybe you would’ve nudged his side with your elbow and laughed properly, like you used to. But you were still shaken from last night, still carrying that bruised feeling deep behind your ribs — the kind of ache that stayed even when you tried to smother it. It wasn’tjust a crush anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. Being around Kyle made your stomach twist, made your heart race in ways you’d tried to ignore for months. Years, maybe. But it had reached a point where even looking at him made you feel too much. 

Still, you went through the motions. Together, the two of you made your way through each aisle like you’d done a hundred times before. He asked if you needed more toothpaste. You reminded him that he finished all the milk without telling you. You picked the right kind of bread. He added a loaf of the wrong kind just to make you roll your eyes. It was easy in that way it always was with him — familiar, smooth, lived-in — but there was a strange undercurrent now. Something unsaid, something too sharp around the edges to ignore. 

At the meat counter, things shifted. 

You approached it with practiced ease, smile already slipping into place. Liam was there — young, broad-shouldered, apron streaked with fresh red. He spotted you and grinned, pushing a container of marinated chicken to the side so he could lean across the counter a bit. You’d spoken to him a few times before, usually when Kyle was gone. It was nothing serious — just enough teasing to get a better cut, a bit shaved off the price, a wink here or there to keep things friendly. 

“Back again,” Liam said, flashing that crooked grin of his, the kind that always looked a little too practiced. He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his apron and leaned forward against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Could’ve sworn you were just here.” 

You rested your weight on one hip, propped your elbow casually along the glass case, and matched his smile with one of your own — smaller, thinner, a touch brittle around the edges. “I live here now. Figured I might as well let you know.” 

Liam chuckled, brushing a lock of hair away from his forehead with the back of his wrist as he reached into the display for the sirloin. “Good thing,” he said. “You’re my favourite customer.” 

“Don’t you say that to everyone?” 

He gave a little shrug, already slicing the meat with clean, confident motions, his fingers moving with the kind of practised ease that came from doing this every day. “Only the ones who laugh at my jokes.” 

You laughed lightly, even though it didn’t quite bloom all the way in your chest. The sound came out thinner than you’d hoped, but he didn’t seem to notice — or maybe hechose not to. You glanced briefly over your shoulder, catching the shape of Kyle behind you. He was quiet, unusually so, standing just far enough away to be uninvolved but close enough that you could feel the tension radiating off him. His hands were in the pockets of his denim jacket now, the hood of his hoodie still up, casting a faint shadow over his eyes. He hadn’t moved since you stepped up to the counter. 

Liam’s voice brought you back. “You want the same cut as last time?” 

“Yeah,” you said, letting your chin rest in your hand. “And if you could mark it a little light?” 

A playful smirk curved his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.” 

You turned the charm on just a bit more, leaned in ever so slightly as he handed you the wrapped parcel, your fingers brushing his just enough to make it look effortless. You weren’t flirting, not really. You didn’t care enough to mean it but you knew how to play the part when it helped. Especially when it meant getting an extra pound or two shaved off the total. 

“You’re too good to me,” you said, grabbing the brown-paper wrapped meat and letting the words slide from your mouth like water. 

“Don’t let it go to your head.” 

The whole exchange lasted less than a minute, just a few beats of light banter and a discount slipped under the table. It should’ve meant nothing. It did mean nothing. But when you turned to drop the parcel into the cart, Kyle’s expression stopped you short. 

His arms were folded across his chest, shoulders squared, jaw clenched just a fraction too tight. There was no humour in his face, none of that easy, sarcastic warmth he usually carried. His gaze wasn’t on you — not directly — but somewhere in the middle distance, like he was trying very hard not to look at anything in particular. 

“Bet that wanker does that for every pretty girl,” he muttered, voice low, just above a whisper, but enough for you to catch every word. 

Your brows lifted. “Excuse me?” 

Kyle shrugged, finally pushing the cart forward without glancing your way. “Nothing. Just saying. He was a bit eager, wasn’t he?” 

You stood still for a moment, the weight of his words catching you off guard, as if someone had taken a swing at your ribs without warning. “What’s your problem?” 

“No problem,” he said, with a dryness that scraped. “Didn’t realize we had time for a full flirting seminar at the butcher’s.” 

Your glare bored into the back of his hoodie, but he didn’t turn around. You followed a few steps behind, the knot in your chest drawing tighter with every stride toward the checkout. He wasn’t making sense, and worse, he wasn’t acting like Kyle. Not your Kyle, not the version of him who teased and laughed and bumped shoulders with you in passing. This one was closed off. Edged. 

You reached the tills without saying another word, both of you moving into position like actors in a scene you didn’t rehearse for. You began to unload the cart automatically — bread, fruit, detergent — lining everything up by weight and category like always, your hands working while your mind spun uselessly in place. Kyle busied himself with the end of the belt, bringing up snacks, placing the eggs carefully behind the milk like that mattered more than whatever just happened. 

The silence between you felt enormous, bloated and uncomfortable. Each beep from the scanner hit your ears like a pulse. 

Finally, you broke. You glanced sideways at him, voice low, firm. “Seriously. What’s with you?” 

He didn’t look at you. He was still fussing with the groceries, stacking the chocolate bars with too much focus. “Nothing’s with me.” 

“Kyle,” you said again, this time more softly, but edged with disbelief. You knew when he was lying. 

He let out a breath, not annoyed, not even angry — just weary, like he was tired of pretending. “I dunno,” he said eventually. “Just wasn’t expecting to see you go all out at the counter like that.” 

You frowned. “I was being nice. We get better meat when I smile.” 

He nodded slowly, lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Right. Didn’t realise smiling meant flirting with some bloke who probably prints his number on the back of the receipt.” 

Your breath caught. You stared at him, unsure if you’d heard him right. The words were so out of place, so not like him — at least not like how he usually was with you. Your heart beat faster, a flicker of heat rising in your throat. 

“That’s not fair,” you said quietly, stunned. 

Kyle turned to look at you then, finally. His eyes met yours, and something flickered behind them — raw and brief, something almost too human to name. It passed in an instant, so fast you couldn’t be sure if you imagined it, but for that moment, he looked as lost as you felt. 

“Maybe not,” he murmured. “Don’t worry. Not my business anyway.” 

⟡ 

The dishes clinked softly as you rinsed them one by one, the warm water running over your hands and turning your skin raw with heat. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting everything in a soft yellow wash that made the small kitchen feel more intimate than it should’ve. Behind you, the quiet bubbling of the stew on the stove filled the silence with gentle, rhythmic noise — almost comforting, if not for the thickness in the air between you and Kyle. He moved behind you in slow, measured steps, going through the motions of cooking like it was muscle memory. You could hear the way he opened drawers, the clatter of utensils, the scrape of a pot lid being lifted and set down again. Every few minutes, he’dcome up behind you, not saying a word, and drop whatever he’d finished using into the sink — a knife, a cutting board, the wooden spoon still stained with tomato. And still, the silence lingered. It wasn’t the quiet comfort that sometimes settled between you two when words weren’t needed. It wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Coiled tight. 

You didn’t even know why he was still cooking. You didn’t know why you were washing dishes either. He’d made enough for both of you — measured out portions the way he always did when he knew you hadn’t eaten all day — but the thought of food turned your stomach. You had no appetite when there was tension like this, when things between you felt out of sync, like a wire that had been stretched and frayed and was one tug away from snapping. You rinsed off the chopping board and set it aside, letting the water run for a little too long, watching it swirl down the drain. Maybe if you focused on that — on the hiss of the tap, the warmth of the water — you could ignore the dull ache in your chest that had been sitting there since the grocery store. 

Because that had been a fight, hadn’t it? Even if neither of you said the word out loud, even if you hadn’t raised your voices or stormed off in opposite directions. The air had shifted. The usual rhythm between you — familiar, easy, comfortable — had faltered. And you were still fumbling to find your footing. 

Then you felt it. The unmistakable heat of him at your back. You looked up just as he stepped closer, his chest brushing lightly against your shoulder as he reached over you to open the cabinet above the sink. You turned your head without thinking, and for one suspended, breathless moment, he was right there — close enough that you could see the stubble on his jaw, the faint freckles on his nose, the way his lips parted slightly as he exhaled. His breath mingled with yours in the small pocket of space between you. The heat of the stove, the running water, his body — it all blurred into something that made your pulse spike. 

Kyle didn’t say anything. Just grabbed the plates he needed and stepped away, barely brushing your shoulder as he moved past you, carrying them to the table like nothing had happened. But your skin tingled where he’d been. Your breath caught in your chest, and for a heartbeat you stood frozen, hands dripping water into the sink, eyes staring at the place he’d just been. Had he done that on purpose? Did he know what that kind of closeness did to you? Did he know? 

You turned the tap off slowly, fingers trembling slightly as you reached for the dish towel. You wiped your hands in silence, watching him from the corner of your eye as he moved back to the stove, lifting the lid of the pot and giving the stew another stir, his back turned to you. 

“You going to stop being mad at me?” you asked finally, your voice quiet but steady. 

He didn’t respond right away. Just kept stirring, the spoon scraping softly against the bottom of the pot. “I’m not mad,” he said, but his tone lacked its usual softness. There was an edge there, something clipped, like he was holding back the rest of what he wanted to say. 

You folded the towel in your hands slowly, pressing it flat against the counter. “You say that,” you murmured, “but you’ve barely said two words to me since we got back. You haven’t looked at me properly all evening.” 

“I am looking at you,” he said, turning slightly, one hand still on the spoon. His eyes met yours for a moment before he looked away again, back into the pot. 

You stepped closer, closing the gap between you by only a few feet. “You’re doing that thing,” you said. “Where you say you’re fine but everything in your voice says otherwise.” 

He let out a breath through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. “Maybe I’m just — confused,” he said. 

You frowned. “Confused about what?” 

He finally stopped stirring, setting the spoon on the edge of the pot. He turned to face you properly now, arms crossing over his chest, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his expression tight. “You told me you weren’t lookin’ for anything. You told me straight up, didn’t you? That you weren’t interested in dating. Said it clear.” 

“I did,” you said, unsure of where he was going with this. 

“Right,” he said, nodding, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “So I guess I just don’t know what to think, yeah? ‘Cause then I see you today — flirting with that butcher like it’s nothing. Laughing. Touching his hand. You don’t do that with just anyone.” 

You blinked. “Kyle—” 

“And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe that’s just how you talk to people. But I’m standing there with the cart, watching the whole thing, and I can’t lie — it fucked with my head.” 

You stared at him, the words sinking in slowly, like syrup down the sides of a glass. You hadn’t even thought he was watching. “I was being polite. You know he gives us better cuts when I’m nice.” 

“That’s not all that was,” he said, voice low. “That wasn’t just nice. You don’t lean in like that with just anyone. And it’s not about the bloody steak. It’s the fact that I thought I knew where you stood. And then I see that, and I start thinking maybe I don’t.” 

You stepped back, chest tight, the edges of your thoughts fraying. “Why does it matter to you?” you asked, not yelling, but your voice rose all the same. “Why does it matter what I do or who I smile at? Why do I have to make sense to you?” 

He hesitated. Something flickered in his face — hurt, maybe, or disappointment. “It matters,” he said after a moment, “because it’s you. And I guess I thought I mattered enough to you that you wouldn’t be out there flirting with strangers just because you can.” 

You stared at him, stunned into silence. Your throat felt dry. Too dry. 

After a long pause, you let out a breath, voice quieter now. “I’m not even hungry anymore.” 

His shoulders dropped slightly, the fire in him flickering down into something gentler. He looked at you with something softer in his eyes this time — regret, maybe, orworry. 

“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping forward just a little. “Don’t skip dinner ‘cause of this. I made what you like.” 

The words shot out of you faster than you could stop them — sharp-edged and thinly veiled, born not of cruelty but bruised feeling, the kind of remark you only throw at someone who knows too much of you already. “Yeah? Well you’re being shitty company, Kyle.” 

You didn’t mean it — not really. Not in the way it sounded. But as soon as the silence swallowed it whole, you wanted to reach out and take it back. The kitchen held its breath with you. Kyle didn’t flinch. He didn’t return the blow. He just stood there, still as stone, the overhead light catching on the faint stubble along his jaw, the set line of his mouth. He looked tired in the way people do when something soft in them has been worn thin. Then he let out a slow, measured sigh — long enough that you could see the rise and fall of his chest under the hoodie — and scrubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to smooth out something twisted behind his eyes. 

“I’m not upset with you,” he said finally, voice lower now, rougher, with that familiar lilt curling around the edges. 

He shifted his weight back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest like he needed something to hold onto. His gaze flicked to the floor, then to you. “It’s just —things feel off, y’know? I keep trying to play it back in my head, figure out where it started, but I’m stuck.” His brows knit together. “You got mad at me first, yeah? That night I asked if you were seeing anyone. I thought I was just takin’ the piss — like we always do — but you looked at me like I’d said something awful. And after that, it was like I could never quite find you again.” 

You said nothing, lips parted slightly, fingers twisting in the side of your pants. 

“Since then,” he continued, softer now, “you’ve been hot and cold. One minute you’re laughing at me like you used to, and the next I’m getting this wall. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.” He looked at you then, really looked at you, and his voice lost some of that usual steadiness. “I just want you back, yeah? The real you. The one who rips on my shit football opinions, tells me when I’ve put too much pepper in the stew, laughs like she’s got no one else in the world to perform for but me. That version of you I only ever see in this flat. That’s the version I miss.” 

His words slid into you like a knife softened at the tip — not sharp enough to wound cleanly, but deep enough to leave bruises. Your throat tightened. Your vision swam for a moment in a way that had nothing to do with tears, and you felt your grip falter — not just on the dish towel but on the carefully constructed wall you’d been holding in place for months. 

Your voice, when it finally surfaced, sounded too small, too thin. “You are the only one I’m like that with, Kyle.” 

You saw the confusion flicker across his face, watched his brow furrow as though the words didn’t quite compute. You could tell by the way his mouth opened slightly and then closed again that he didn’t understand. Not yet. And something about that — about the not knowing — lit the fuse in your chest. Because how could he not? How could he stand there and say he missed you, but not see that the version of you he missed was the one that existed because of him? 

“Christ,” you muttered, taking a step toward him, anger rising fast behind your eyes. “You’re such a fucking idiot sometimes.” 

That got his attention. He blinked. Straightened a little. “What—?” 

“You really don’t see it, do you?” you snapped, breath catching. “You think I’m like that with everyone? That I make jokes and laugh and put up with someone else’s weird food habits and rearrange the flat every bloody time they come back from deployment? That I bite my tongue when I want to scream because they leave their socks everywhere, or stay up with them when they can’t sleep, or cook them breakfast even when I’m running late for work?” 

Your voice cracked, and still, you kept going. 

“I’ve been pretending,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “Pretending like this is fine. Like I’m fine. Like being around you every day isn’t slowly pulling me apart.” 

He stared at you, frozen now, like he didn’t even dare blink. 

“I’m in love with you,” you said. “God. I love you, Kyle. And I’ve been dancing around it like a coward because I didn’t want to ruin what we had, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?” 

It spilled out of you like water breaking past a dam — raw, irretrievable, and mortifying. The second it hit the air, you wished you could take it back, wished you could reach out and gather it all up, shove it back inside the locked drawer where it had lived for far too long. But it was out now. The truth stood between you, unblinking and awful, and you couldn’t bear the silence that followed. 

You turned on your heel before he could answer, the shame clawing up your throat like fire, your only thought to get out. To put space between you and whatever came next. You headed for the archway, your cheeks burning, tears brimming in your eyes though you refused to let them fall. 

But you didn’t make it past him. 

Kyle moved quickly — too quickly — planting himself in the doorway like a wall. One arm braced against the frame, the other low by his side, broad shoulders filling the space and cutting off your escape. His chest was rising and falling with something that looked an awful lot like disbelief. The kitchen light cast a soft shadow beneath his jaw, and his expression was unreadable, something caught between shock and something you didn’t dare name. 

“Say it again.” 

You froze. “What?” 

His eyes didn’t leave yours, dark and steady and far too close. “Say it again,” he repeated, lower now. “Look at me and say it.” 

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. You tried to move past him, to duck beneath his arm, to end this before it got worse, but he shifted, holding firm. 

“Kyle,” you whispered. “Please. Just drop it.” 

“No.” His voice was firmer now. “I’m not dropping this. Not this time.” 

His arm stayed braced against the doorframe, unmoving, the heat from his body radiating in waves that made it hard to think — hard to do anything but stand there, pinned in place by the weight of what had just come out of your mouth. You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat, every instinct screaming at you to bolt, to run and pretend none of this had ever happened. But Kyle wasn’t moving. And more than that, he wasn’t letting you move either. 

He stared at you for a long, loaded second, and then his jaw flexed, voice low and tight in a way you’d never heard before. “No,” he muttered, “you’re the idiot.” 

Your eyes snapped up to his. “Excuse me?” 

He took a step forward, just enough to make your back skim the edge of the kitchen counter, his body still blocking the exit like a wall of heat and frustration and something else — something deeper. “Yeah. You heard me. You’re the bloody idiot here,” he said, voice quiet but cutting, every word weighted. “You think I didn’t know I was falling for you? You think I’ve just been swanning around this flat, completely clueless?” 

You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand and barrelled on, eyes never leaving yours. “You live with me. I see you every day. I see you in my clothes, making tea, humming to your shit playlists, sitting on my sofa like you were always meant to be there. You think I haven’t been losing my fucking mind trying to be respectful? Tellin’ myself not to fuck this up? That I shouldn’t cross a line ‘til you came to me first?” 

Your breath caught in your throat. 

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t say a thing,” he continued, words coming faster now, like he couldn’t stop them even if he tried. “Because this is your space too. And you’ve got boundaries. And I’d never — never — do something to make you feel uncomfortable in your own fuckin’ home.” 

He was pacing now, half-wild in the way only someone completely undone could be. One hand raked through his cropped hair, his mouth moving faster than you could keep up with. “But you have no idea what it’s like — being out there, facing proper hell, knowing you might not come back. The things I’ve seen, the shit I’ve done — none of it compares to how bad it’d be if I didn’t come back to you. D’you get that?” 

You blinked, stunned, mouth parted. 

“You’re my home,” Kyle said, softer now, but with a desperation that carved the words clean. “It’s you. It’s always been you. When I’m out there, when it’s pitch black and bullets are flying and my ears are ringing from the last blast — I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about this flat and your tea and your laugh and that stupid little way you write out the grocery list in block letters. That’s what brings me back. That’s what keeps me alive. You.” 

The room was spinning. Or maybe you were. 

He stepped closer again, his voice lower now, breath brushing your cheek. “All this time, I’ve been keeping my hands to myself. Bein’ good. Bein’ patient. Thinking if you ever wanted more, you’d say so. And now you’re standing here saying you’re in love with me — finally — and I can’t take it anymore.” 

His hand hovered by your cheek, not touching, just barely there. 

“I’m going to kiss you right now,” he said, voice rough, mouth so close you could feel every syllable. “And you better kiss me back, or I swear on my mum, I’ll—” 

You didn’t let him finish. 

Your fingers fisted in the collar of his hoodie and yanked him down hard, your mouth finding his in a kiss that wasn’t soft, wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t anything close to restrained. It was all fire. All months of silence and second-guessing and repressed want crashing forward like a wave you could no longer hold back. He groaned against your mouth, hands finally grabbing at your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the world fell away, burned clean with the heat of it. 

Kyle kissed you like it cost him nothing and everything at once. 

Like all the tension that had lived between you had finally broken, not in a whisper, but in a tidal wave — pulling you under, swallowing every unspoken word, every sidelong glance, every time one of you had looked and looked away. His mouth met yours with a hunger so fierce it made your knees buckle, his hands already cupping your jaw like he was anchoring himself to the one solid thing in the world. You felt him in every part of you — chest to chest, breath to breath, the scrape of stubble against your skin, his hoodie soft beneath your fists where you gripped the collar like it might keep you from falling apart. 

You kissed him back with everything you had, with months of aching held tight behind your ribs. And still it didn’t feel like enough. 

There was nothing careful about it. His kiss was heated and possessive and real, a little messy from the way neither of you seemed to know how to slow down, like you were trying to make up for every moment you’d spent pretending you didn’t want this. You tasted him — the sharp edge of cigarettes clinging faintly to his lips, the soft trace of the ginger tea he drank religiously, something warm and familiar that wasn’t any one thing but just him. The man who took up half your flat and all of your heart. The man you had waited so stupidly long to reach for. 

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to let you breathe. Your lungs burned, your lips felt swollen and kissed raw, and your heart was knocking against your ribs like it didn’t know what to do with itself now that the thing it wanted was here. 

Kyle’s forehead rested against yours, his breath fanning out over your cheek, still coming quick and uneven. He hadn’t let go of you, not even an inch. 

“First,” he murmured, voice rough and low, thick with everything he wasn’t sure how to say, “you’ll sit down and eat the dinner I made.” 

You blinked, a little dazed, a laugh escaping you in a shaky exhale. 

He smirked faintly, but his gaze never wavered. “And then, we’re gonna make up for lost time. Properly. Yeah?” 

You looked at him, your fingers still curled tight in the fabric at his chest, your cheeks flushed, lips tingling, and every part of you thrumming with the kind of heat you didn’t think would fade anytime soon. 

“Yeah,” you breathed, barely louder than a whisper, but sure. “Okay.” 

His eyes flicked down to your mouth again, and before either of you could think better of it, you were pulling him in again, your mouth on his like you’d never stopped. Like the taste of him had ruined you already. Like the world could end and you’d die with your hands still wrapped in the hoodie he hadn’t even taken off. 

[cod-imagines]

working on a very domestic Kyle fic because my baby needs more loving 😌

(also I just like to imagine him unwinding after a long op in the comfort of his flat, listening to old records because you KNOW this man would have a collection)

[cod-imagines]

hello !!! no req, just wanted to say (like i say in ur comments. but im saying it here also. bc i mean it so hard!!!) that ur writing is like ... some of (if not the) best ive encountered in any fandom ive ever been in. its so so so good and so descriptive and full of life and in character and every time i see u post i do 20 backflips consecutively. i aspire to write like u some day :))

you’re literally the cutest cutie patootie ever 🥹❤️

i literally can’t thank you enough for all your sweet comments on my fics, it’s literally my fuel to write more you have no idea 😭

also!!!! your writing is incredible too wdym??? your phillip graves fic is making me 🫀💥🫦 with the way you’ve got his character so down!!

hit me up in my messages if u want!! I’m always down to talk cod and anything else :))

[cod-imagines]

HESH IMAGINE PLEASE IM OBSESSED WITH HOW YOU WRITE KEEGAN😭😭😭🫶🫶🫶

I delivered!! 🥺 also thank you for the sweet words ❤️❤️

[cod-imagines]

imagine #7

character: David “Hesh” Walker words: 9420 cw: 18+, smut, sexual content description: AU in which you move back to San Diego after years of being away and your crush on Hesh comes back tenfold. a/n: the fact that Hesh is canonically born in 1999 and so am I?? also Hesh reminds me strongly of my boyfriend ngl this was extra fun to write ;)))

The last time you saw David Walker, you were eighteen and invincible.

Or at least, it had felt that way — sunlight in your eyes, the wind tangling your hair as you leaned out the open window of his car, a second-hand Chevy his father had gifted him after graduation. The air had smelled of sun-warmed asphalt and honeysuckle from the neighborhood hedges, the radio murmuring something soft and distant — Eagle-Eye Cherry, maybe. Logan had been up front, long legs sprawled out and arm draped across the window like he hadn’t a care in the world. You’d been in the backseat, ankles crossed, your bare knees sunburned and stinging slightly, laughing at something Hesh had said. Somewhere along the line, he had told you not to call him David anymore — only my teachers call me that, come on — and with a roll of your eyes and a grin you’d since grown out of, you’d started calling him Hesh. It had stuck, the way summer freckles and childhood promises did. You were a part of their lives, and they were a part of yours. Simple. Easy. Like the seasons turning over and over without you needing to ask why.

You had promised, as so many do at eighteen, that you’d never forget them. Not Hesh, not Logan, not the way their house always smelled like cedar and motor oil or the way you used to sneak sips of beer in the backyard under the string lights, hearts racing from the thrill of being young and unseen. And in a way, you hadn’t forgotten — not really. But when college came calling, you’d packed your bags and gone east without looking back. Then came internships, job offers, long commutes, and bigger cities with empty skies. The years passed, quiet as dust settling on the corners of a room you no longer stepped into. You hadn’t come back. Not once. You told yourself it wasn’t personal. You were busy. Life had moved on.

But deep down, you knew they were excuses. Flimsy ones, even.

Now, standing in the center of your old bedroom, those excuses felt heavier. Like sediment built up over time. Nothing in the room had changed, not really. Your dad hadn’t touched a thing — same faded green comforter, same scuffed desk with initials carved into the side, same corkboard hung above it with memories pinned like evidence. Your reflection in the mirror didn’t quite match the girl who used to live here. Your hair was different. Your shoulders carried something they didn’t used to. You looked — older, maybe. Tired in places you couldn’t quite name.

Above your desk, a collage of sunlit ghosts greeted you. One photo showed you and Hesh at Linda Vista Park, skateboards propped at your ankles, your arm brushing his without meaning to, his smile bright enough to turn your stomach. Another, more chaotic, caught both Walker brothers lifting you onto their shoulders, your limbs flailing as the camera caught all three of you laughing — genuine, unposed, untouched by time. And then there was the last one: just you, lying in the grass of their backyard, your cheeks flushed, eyes closed, the smile on your lips soft and secretive, like you were dreaming of something you weren’t ready to admit.

You stared at that one the longest. Because the truth was, you didn’t recognize yourself anymore — not in the photos, not in the girl who had once been brave enough to dream of something more than friendship when it came to Hesh Walker. You’d buried that version of yourself somewhere along the way, beneath obligations and good intentions and the endless forward march of time.

And now, somehow, you were here again — home, of all places — getting ready for dinner like no time had passed. The Walkers were coming over. Hesh was coming over. You smoothed your hands down your shirt for the fourth or fifth time, restless, trying to anchor yourself in the moment while your thoughts drifted to the past. Your dad had insisted on the dinner. Said it was long overdue. That Elias and the boys had asked after you more than once, that everything they knew about your life these days came from second-hand stories he told over beers in the garage, or those occasional texts you sent that barely scratched the surface. “It’d be good for them to see you,” he’d said. “They missed you.”

You hadn’t had the heart to argue.

Downstairs, the front door opened with a creak you recognized from childhood, followed by the unmistakable echo of laughter and heavy boots against the hardwood. Voices rose up through the stairwell, low and warm, like thunder rolling in soft over familiar hills. You paused at the top step, heart tripping, breath cinched tight in your chest. You didn’t even have to strain to hear him — Elias. That voice hadn’t changed a bit. Steady, calm, a grounding kind of thing. The kind you trusted even before you understood why. It made sense, really. He and your father had gone through hell together, side by side in places you never dared ask too much about. They were the kind of friends forged in fire, in far-off deserts and forests thick with danger. That bond had always loomed quietly in your childhood, sturdy and unshakeable.

And then — there it was. A second voice, then a third. Younger. Laughing. The same cadence, deeper now. Hesh. Logan. It knocked something loose in you, something fragile and old and still warm. For a moment, your mind flared with memory — your legs swinging off the edge of their back porch, bare knees scraped raw from summer mischief, BB guns balanced over fence posts, tin cans dented from poor aim and poorer bets. You’d grown up in their orbit. The three of you, always a unit. Hesh especially — David, back then, but he hated when you called him that. Said it made him sound like a substitute teacher.

“[Name]!” your father’s voice bellowed from below, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. “They’re here!”

Of course they are. You already knew it. You’d felt it in your bones before the front door even opened. Still, your fingers trembled slightly on the banister as you made your way down the stairs, trying not to let your nerves show. Every step was slower than the last, like your legs didn’t trust you to carry the weight of what this meant. As you rounded the landing and met their eyes, the world tipped just a little.

“There she is,” your dad announced proudly, one hand sweeping out toward you as if unveiling a secret. “Isn’t she something? My baby girl, all grown up.”

You wished he hadn’t said that — wished he hadn’t drawn attention to how much you’d changed, because now they were looking. And you could feel it. Elias, standing tall and solid in the doorway, smiled first — kind, weathered, the sort of man who had never needed many words to say exactly what he meant. Logan beside him, posture easy, cocky little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. And then — Hesh.

Your breath hitched so sharply it almost hurt.

Gone was the lanky teenage boy you remembered. In his place stood a man, lean and broad-shouldered, eyes sharp beneath the weight of a few more years and a face that had grown into all its lines. His jaw had squared out, rough with scruff, and those eyes — those stupidly pretty green eyes — hadn’t lost their shine. If anything, they were deeper now. He looked like the kind of man who could carry the weight of a house on his back and not break stride.

And just like that, it was all over for you.

You went to Elias first, because it was easier. Because your heart wouldn’t stop thudding, and if you met Hesh’s gaze too soon, you feared you might never look away. Elias wrapped you in a hug, one arm slung around your shoulders like old times, solid and grounding.

“Good to see you again, kid,” he said with a chuckle. “Your old man’s been bragging about you out his ass.”

You laughed, awkward, soft, grateful for the familiar cadence of his voice. “That bad, huh?”

He nodded with mock severity. “He’s unbearable.”

He was older now, of course, lines etched deeper into the corners of his eyes, a touch more silver at his temples. But his strength hadn’t faded. His presence still filled a room. Looking at him, you understood all over again how the boys had turned out the way they had.

Logan was next, and he didn’t wait for formalities. He stepped right up and pulled you into a hug before you had time to think. Taller than you remembered — how had that happened? — but still Logan, still easygoing, still that sparkle in his eye that said he was holding back some smartass comment just for your benefit.

“Still shorter than me, I see,” he murmured against your ear, his voice full of mischief.

You pulled back, rolling your eyes. “You wish.”

He grinned, shrugging. “I know.”

You couldn’t help it — you laughed, really laughed, and it felt like something old and sweet rising back to the surface. God, you’d missed him. You’d missed all of them.

And then, of course there was still Hesh.

It took you a second — no, longer than that — to remember how to breathe when his eyes met yours.

The noise around you dulled, your pulse rising until it felt like it lived in your throat, pressing against the base of your tongue. He didn’t say anything right away — he didn’t need to. That smile was already there, the one you knew too well, the one you used to wait for like a secret reward. Crooked and easy, nothing forced about it, all warmth and none of the hard edges that life eventually carved into people. He opened his arms without hesitation, inviting, like no time had passed at all between now and the last time you’d seen him. He hadn’t changed that part of himself. Still confident. Still open. Still the safest place you had ever known.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and so achingly familiar that it carved through you like sunlight through fog.

And you went. You didn’t even hesitate, despite everything you were feeling — despite how aware you were of the heat blooming under your skin, of the way your hands twitched slightly before settling against his shoulders. He pulled you in like he meant it, arms folding around your waist with just enough strength to make you forget where you were. He was warm. He smelled like fresh pine and the faint bite of smoke and something clean beneath it all. You could feel your heartbeat thundering against your ribs, and for a second you were convinced he could feel it too. His chest against yours, the air between you far too close, and God, how were you supposed to come back from this?

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he said softly near your ear, barely audible beneath the voices around you. Your fingers clenched slightly in the fabric of his shirt. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, that grin of his still lingering, tugging at the corner of his mouth like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be playful or something quieter. “Glad you’re home, [Name]. Really.”

You tried to smile but it felt like your lungs were too full. “Glad to be.”

The moment didn’t last — your father’s voice called on the way out to the backyard, a sharp, teasing complaint about steak turning to charcoal. You stepped back, needing the space, needing to move. Something in your chest ached, but you kept it in check, forced your limbs to keep moving.

You slipped into the rhythm of hosting, thankful for the distraction. The door to the backyard creaked open, letting in the golden spill of late-afternoon sunlight, and the air outside was thick with the scent of grilled meat and freshly cut grass. Your father stood by the grill, tongs in one hand, beer in the other, looking pleased as hell about the whole thing. Elias hovered beside him, laughing at something, his voice low and steady. It felt like stepping into the past — only everything had gotten sharper in the years you’d been gone.

You played your part. Beer bottles handed out, napkins tucked under arms, water glasses refilled, extra chairs dragged out onto the patio from the garage. You didn’t even realize you were watching Hesh until you caught yourself staring — until you noticed how easily he moved through the space, how naturally he opened the cooler for a drink, how he knew exactly where your dad kept the bottle opener. And Logan too — barefoot already, drink in hand, acting like he lived here. It hit you then, unexpectedly hard, that they had been here. That this hadn’t stopped just because you’d left. They’d visited, checked in, sat in your chair at the dinner table, probably listened to your dad’s stories and helped him fix that busted porch step you’d been meaning to get around to.

You were the only one out of place now.

“So,” Hesh said beside you, setting down a bowl of corn on the table you were arranging, his voice pulling you back. “What’s the verdict? Are you back for good or just taking a break?”

You blinked, surprised for a second, then gave him a soft, lopsided smile. “Something in between,” you said, glancing at him. “Needed a reset. Life out there got — loud. Thought maybe some quiet would help.”

Hesh didn’t look away. “Quiet’s good. We’ve got plenty of that here. You know, if you decide to stick around longer.”

His tone was casual, like it didn’t matter either way — but you could feel it. The unspoken question under the words. The thing neither of you were brave enough to ask directly.

You nodded, gently smoothing the tablecloth with your hands just to have something to do. “We’ll see.”

Before anything more could be said, Elias called him over — something about the heat on the grill flaring up again — and Hesh gave you a quick, two-fingered salute and headed across the deck with a grin. You watched him go, heart rattling in its cage.

The kitchen felt cooler when you stepped back inside, a relief from the heat clinging to your skin. Logan was already there, sleeves rolled up, rummaging through the fridge with the same lack of boundaries he’d always had.

“Where the hell is the pasta salad?” he muttered to himself, then perked up when he saw you. “Ah, there’s my favorite hostess. You’re doing great, by the way. Feels like a five-star joint out there.”

You raised a brow and leaned against the counter. “You mean I’m doing all the work.”

“Hey, I’m bringing this salad out like a true gentleman,” he said, holding it up with exaggerated care.

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Heroic.”

Logan laughed, cracking open the lid and grabbing a spoon from the drawer. “No, but seriously. This is good. All of it. You being here. Your dad’s been in a better mood, even my old man’s been cracking more jokes than usual. And Hesh—” He trailed off slightly, glancing toward the open window that looked out onto the patio. His voice softened. “Hesh’s been lighter since he found out you were coming back.”

You looked at him, the question in your chest rising unspoken.

Logan met your gaze and shrugged, casual on the outside but unmistakably sincere. “He didn’t say it outright. You know how he is. But I could tell. He’s been different. In a good way.”

You said nothing at first, just turned back toward the counter and gently stirred the potato salad, mind racing. Something about the way Logan said it — offhand, but not really — lodged itself under your skin. You could still feel the echo of Hesh’s arms around you, the way his voice dipped when he said your name.

Logan didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel the smirk forming on his face from where he leaned against the fridge. It radiated like heat. You tried to ignore it — focused instead on helping him dig the pasta salad out of the cooler, peeling off the lid with slow, tender care — but the second he shifted his weight and cleared his throat with a little too much theatrical innocence, you knew it was coming.

“So,” he began, dragging the word out, savoring it like a piece of gum he didn’t want to throw away. “You and my brother.”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

“What?” he said, holding up both hands in mock surrender, but the grin had already spread across his face. “I didn’t say anything. You’re the one sounding guilty.”

You finally turned to face him, brow raised. “Seriously, Logan.”

“Seriously,” he echoed, placing a hand over his heart with mock sincerity. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of adorable. Like one of those long-lost high school love stories. You’re back in town, he’s still single, there’s beer on the table and fireflies in the yard — it’s practically fate.”

You swatted him lightly with a dish towel, which only made him laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He ducked out of reach, cracking a beer with a grin. “Okay, okay. I’ll shut up. But for real — when are we catching up? Just you and me. I got stories to tell.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Good ones or ones that’ll make me regret ever knowing you?”

He sipped his drink, shrugged. “Bit of both.”

You shook your head, unable to stop the smile from tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Sounds about right.”

⟡

After dinner, the sky deepened into that soft, dusky blue that always meant summer was settling in for the night. Crickets started up somewhere along the fence line, the occasional bark of a dog floating from another yard over. The smell of grilled meat still clung to the air, mingling with the sweet perfume of blooming jasmine and citronella candles flickering low on the patio table. Your father and Elias had already migrated to the living room, where the familiar drone of the Padres game crackled from the television, their laughter low and full-bellied as they settled in for the night with fresh beers in hand.

Hesh reappeared at your side just as you were gathering plates from the table. He nudged you gently with his elbow.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was meant only for you. “You up for a walk?”

You blinked at him for a second, caught off guard by the question, but nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Logan appeared before you could even ask. “Already grabbed my shoes,” he said, tugging them on as he stepped down from the patio. “Like I’d miss this.”

You followed the two of them out into the street, the warm pavement still radiating heat beneath your sneakers. The neighborhood had fallen quiet, most houses dark now, porches empty, blinds drawn. The three of you walked down the middle of the street like you used to — shoulder to shoulder, silhouettes cutting down familiar blocks like shadows returned to their source. Hesh walked beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours now and then.

Without a word, Hesh pulled a joint from the pocket of his flannel, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tiny flame bloomed against the night, casting his face in brief gold before it disappeared again. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled toward the stars, the smoke curling up into the dark like a quiet spell.

He offered it to Logan first, who took it with a knowing look, puffing once and passing it along without missing a step.

“You still smoke?” Hesh asked as you accepted it.

“Sometimes,” you said, watching the tip glow as you inhaled. The warmth spread through your chest like a memory. “Depends on who I’m with.”

He chuckled, that same lazy sound that had once echoed across fields behind your house when you were all younger, wilder, laughing at nothing until your stomach hurt. The three of you passed it back and forth, slipping easily into that old rhythm. Stories started pouring out — half-remembered dares, broken fences, the infamous incident with a bottle rocket and someone’s garden gnome. Logan did impressions of your high school principal. Hesh recounted a camping trip gone wrong with a raccoon and a bag of beef jerky. You doubled over laughing more than once, the smoke blurring the edges of the night, making everything feel slow and soft and suspended.

Somewhere between the second joint and a retelling of Logan’s failed attempt at skateboarding down your old driveway, Hesh turned to you again.

“So,” he started, drawing the word out just like his brother had earlier, but with less teasing, more curiosity. “You seeing anyone? Back east or whatever?”

You glanced at him, then at Logan, who was watching you with a very obvious smirk and raised brows.

“Wow,” you said, laughing. “You guys are really trying to grill me tonight.”

“We’re just curious,” Logan said, all innocence.

You shook your head, the second joint burning warm between your fingers. “No. Nobody serious. Nobody worth bringing up.”

“Good,” Hesh said simply, his tone unreadable. He reached out and slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side as you walked. “Just checking.”

You let yourself settle into the space beside him, his arm draped comfortably over you, fingers resting against your shoulder like they’d always belonged there. He smelled like cedar and campfire smoke and something distinctly him, and you didn’t try to hide the way you leaned just a little closer.

The park appeared at the end of the block, tucked between quiet houses and a row of overgrown hedges. The playground was dark, empty, and half-lit by a flickering streetlight at the edge of the grass. It looked almost exactly the same — worn monkey bars, a plastic slide sun-bleached and faded, the swings creaking slightly in the breeze like they were moving of their own accord.

You stepped off the sidewalk without thinking and made a beeline for the monkey bars. Your body moved without asking, muscle memory kicking in as you hoisted yourself up with both arms and swung your legs up like you’d done a thousand times before. You climbed until you were perched at the top, legs dangling, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. The whole neighborhood stretched out in shades of indigo and silver beneath the moonlight.

“Still got it,” you called down smugly.

Logan was right behind you, pulling himself up in one clean motion, climbing after you with ease. “You’re not the only one with core strength,” he muttered, mock competitive, settling a few bars away.

Hesh came last, slower but more focused, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows as he gripped the metal rungs, the veins in his forearms flexing under the strain. He climbed like it was nothing, just to prove he could.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, tipping your head back toward the stars. “God. Boys.”

Both of them grinned, breathing slightly heavier now, and for a moment — just a moment — you felt like you were floating somewhere between past and present. Caught in a night that felt like it had waited for you to come home.

Logan sprawled across the top of the monkey bars like he owned the night, one leg slung lazily over a rung. The breeze carried the faint scent of weed and dust, cooling the sweat at your temples. From your perch, you could see the neighborhood stretching out in quiet darkness — familiar rooftops silhouetted against the sky, the hum of streetlights, the occasional flicker of a distant porch lamp. You felt wrapped in it all, like the past had pulled a chair up to the table and asked to stay the night.

“Man,” Logan said suddenly, tapping his lip with his thumb. “You remember Casey?”

You paused, brows furrowing slightly. The name didn’t register at first.

Hesh’s groan filled in the blank for you. “Dude,” he muttered, not even looking up. “Don’t.”

Logan ignored him, already grinning like he’d found an old wound and couldn’t resist pressing on it. “Wait, you have to tell [Name] about Casey,” he said, turning to you now. “Hesh’s girlfriend back in college. Blonde, always wore those yoga pants and had that weird obsession with essential oils?”

You blinked once, then looked toward Hesh, curiosity piqued. He didn’t meet your gaze. He just stared off into the dark like maybe if he focused hard enough, he could teleport somewhere else.

“She hated when we smoked,” Logan continued, chuckling to himself. “Like, full-on meltdown if she so much as smelled it on our clothes. Remember that time she tried to throw out your stash?”

“Logan,” Hesh warned again, this time with a little more edge in his voice. “Seriously.”

“Relax, I’m not dragging her,” Logan said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk betrayed him. “I’m dragging you. You put up with so much crap, man. All that nagging, and the lectures, and the guilt-tripping about your diet. You couldn't even eat carne asada fries in peace without her giving you the look.”

You let out a quiet laugh, trying to mask the tightness that had crept into your chest. Jealousy was an ugly thing, and you knew it wasn’t fair — this was old history, long buried — but you couldn’t help it. The thought of Hesh with someone else, someone who knew him in those years you’d missed, stirred something sharp inside you. And at the same time, that familiar relief slipped in beside it — because it was over. He wasn’t tethered to anyone. Neither were you.

Still, you couldn’t resist. “She your college sweetheart or something?” you asked, voice a little too casual, like you weren’t secretly hoping the answer would disappoint you.

Hesh let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “No,” he said simply. “Just a girl I dated for a while. It wasn’t anything serious. Not really.”

Logan snorted. “Serious enough that she tried to make you give up beer.”

“She was opinionated,” Hesh allowed, then turned his gaze toward you. His expression was gentler now, the edge from earlier gone. “We were just in different places. I think we both knew it. It ran its course.”

You nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch between you for a beat before asking, “Where’d you go to school?”

“USD,” he replied. “University of San Diego.”

That caught you off guard. Your brows lifted, and you tilted your head toward him. “Really? You stayed that close?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small shrug. “Thought about going farther. Even got into a couple schools up north. But it didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to be too far from home. You know. Just in case.”

The words sat heavy in your chest. He’d stayed. Rooted himself close, within reach of everything you had left behind without looking back. You didn’t even know how to respond at first, your throat tight with guilt that had been quietly building since the day you returned. You shifted on the bars, the metal cool beneath your palms, grounding.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” you said after a moment, your voice low. “I didn’t plan to vanish after graduation. It just happened. Life got loud. I got busy. One year turned into more. It wasn’t personal.”

Hesh looked at you for a long moment, and you could see the flicker of something behind his eyes — recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice quieter now, slower. “I get it. Things change. People move on.”

“But I didn’t mean to move away from you,” you said, and there it was — bare and honest, even if it made you wince. “I just — I got caught up in everything. And before I knew it, it felt too late to come back.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Well, you’re here now.”

That was all he said. But it was enough to make you look down, to swallow hard past the ache forming at the back of your throat.

Eventually, Logan hopped off the bars with a grunt, stretching his arms over his head. “Alright,” he said, voice breaking the quiet. “All that beer earlier caught up to me. I’m gonna head back before I end up pissing in someone’s hydrangeas.”

You laughed, the sound a little too loud, too grateful for the interruption. “Charming, Logan. Really.”

He just winked and sauntered off ahead, shoes scraping against the pavement as he went. You and Hesh lingered behind, walking side by side beneath the trees. The night had thickened around you, cooler now, the sky darker than before. Streetlamps hummed overhead, casting patches of pale yellow on the sidewalk as you meandered back toward the house. Conversation turned softer, quieter — bits of nothing, memories and fragments of high school stories, the way your town had changed and stayed the same all at once.

By the time you reached your front yard, Logan had already disappeared inside. The screen door clattered behind him, leaving you and Hesh alone on the porch beneath the soft glow of the porch light. It buzzed faintly above your heads, casting a warm halo over the weathered wood planks, the railing chipped and familiar beneath your fingers.

You turned to say goodnight, but Hesh was already looking at you.

There was something different in his expression now — something quieter, unguarded. His eyes flicked down, then back up again, and he stepped a little closer, just enough to close the distance but not enough to make it uncomfortable.

“You looked really pretty tonight,” he said softly, voice rough with something you couldn’t name. “Just thought I should say that.”

Your breath caught. You tried to thank him, to make a joke maybe, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you felt the warmth bloom under your skin, your heart thudding in your chest like it was trying to reach for something it didn’t know how to hold.

He lifted a hand, almost without thinking, and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. His knuckles skimmed your skin — just barely — and then he stopped. Paused. His hand hovered there, so close it made you shiver, but he didn’t touch you again. He let it fall back to his side, his mouth twitching like he was about to say something, but thought better of it.

And then the moment passed.

“See you inside,” he said, voice quieter now.

He turned and disappeared through the threshold, the screen door creaking behind him. You stood frozen on the porch, the wood creaking faintly beneath your weight, arms wrapped around yourself as though you could trap the warmth of him in your chest before it faded.

⟡

A few nights after that moment on the porch — after Hesh had looked at you too long, and you’d stayed outside too late, pretending the air hadn’t shifted — he texted. Just one message: Burgers? I’ll drive. No context, no emoji. Typical. But it was after ten, the house was quiet, and the thought of staying in your room again, lying on that old bed surrounded by memories you hadn’t asked to keep, felt unbearable. So, you went.

You pulled on the hoodie you used to steal from your dad’s closet back in high school — oversized, frayed at the cuffs — and padded barefoot down the hallway. Outside, the night was warm and still, the sky an indigo blur overhead. Hesh’s familiar truck idled at the curb, headlights low, engine humming soft against the quiet. When you climbed into the passenger seat, the door creaked like it always had. He glanced over at you, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the console.

“You hungry?” he asked, eyes flicking toward you with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got us the usual.”

You leaned back in your seat, pulled your sleeves over your hands. “Good. I’m starving.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He pulled out of the neighborhood with a turn so familiar it made your stomach ache. The windows were cracked, letting in the scent of warm asphalt and eucalyptus. Streetlights passed in a slow rhythm, painting the dashboard gold, then shadow, then gold again. The town blurred past your window in softened outlines — the gas station where you bought slushies, the closed-up diner with the flickering sign, the corner store that still hadn’t changed its awning. He didn’t say where you were going, but you knew. You felt it in the turn of the wheel. In the way he sped up just before the road curved inland toward the cliffs.

“Lover’s Lane?” you asked, feigning innocence, though your voice gave you away.

He glanced at you, already grinning. “It’s a classic. Why mess with tradition?”

You raised a brow. “You realize Logan’s gonna think this is a booty call.”

“Logan’s probably passed out with a bag of chips on his chest and Die Hard 2 playing in the background.”

You laughed, and it was loud in the stillness of the cab. His smile widened like he’d been waiting for that sound. But underneath it, that familiar tension curled in your stomach — one you hadn’t felt in years, one that made you feel sixteen again, reckless and tongue-tied. You and Hesh had spent hours here before, up on this ridge with greasy burgers and soda cans, throwing fries at each other and trading music recommendations. It had always been casual. Never romantic. Never anything like this.

But this time was different. Not just because the hour was later, or because you were older and slower to laugh. It was in the way he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, how the air between you had gone thick with something unnamed. It was in the way your heart tripped a little when he pulled into the familiar overlook, headlights sweeping briefly over the edge before he turned them off and parked in the hush of the dark.

Below, the ocean roared somewhere out of sight, black and infinite. Above, the stars burned low and quiet. The whole world felt tucked away, like a secret.

He handed you a burger, already unwrapping his, the scent filling the truck cab like memory. “Tell me this place doesn’t still slap,” he said through a mouthful, leaning back against the door like he was settling in for something more than just a late-night meal.

You popped a fry into your mouth, smirking. “You sound like Logan.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

He laughed, biting again into his burger. “Alright. That’s fair.”

The two of you ate in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by the rustle of paper, the hiss of crickets outside, and the occasional satisfied sigh. He handed you his pickles, like always — still hated them, and still remembered that you didn’t.

It felt easy. Almost. Like slipping on an old jacket and finding something in the pocket you didn’t know you’d missed.

“So,” you said as you tossed your wrapper into the bag with a crinkle. “Casey.”

He groaned immediately. “Fuck’s sake.”

You grinned. “What? Poor baby. She had you eating kale chips and drinking oat milk? Terrible.”

“She did not,” he said, though it sounded more like a protest than a defense. “Okay, once. But only because she insisted.”

“Logan also said she made you give up carne asada fries?”

He threw his head back against the headrest with a groan. “That was a dark chapter of my life.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“She had opinions, alright? Strong ones.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Did you love her?”

The question lingered in the air like smoke. He didn’t answer right away. Just finished the last bite of his burger, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stared out the windshield into the dark.

“No,” he said finally. “I cared about her. I tried. But it always felt like — I don’t know. Like she was a placeholder.”

You turned toward him more fully, heart skittering. “For who?”

He looked over at you then, really looked — eyes searching your face, jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. He didn’t smile this time.

“Who do you think?”

The air felt like it stopped moving. You didn’t blink.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said, voice low. “Not with me. You either say it out loud, or you don’t say anything at all. I’m not guessing.”

Hesh didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, slow. Like he’d known you were going to call him out.

“I had the fattest crush on you back in high school,” he said, finally. “And I mean — bad. When we’d smoke under the bleachers, when you’d talk shit and drop three-pointers at lunch, when you’d hang with me and Logan like it was nothing. I kept telling myself you were just one of the guys, but then — that night?”

He didn’t have to explain which night. You remembered it. The one where the three of you ditched prom, ended up on the beach with a cooler full of stolen drinks and a shitty Bluetooth speaker, barefoot and drunk and chasing the sunrise like it owed you something.

“You were laughing,” he said, softer now. “Hair everywhere, sand all over your legs. You looked at me and smiled like you weren’t even thinking about it, and I swear to God, it wrecked me. You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“And you still are,” he added. “That hasn’t changed.”

Neither of you said anything for a long time. The truck was silent. The world was too. You heard the ocean, steady and far away, like it was waiting.

Something cracked open in your chest. Not a flood, not a collapse — just a quiet shift. Like something inside you had turned toward him, after all these years, and finally stopped looking away. You looked at him for a long moment, your heart thudding, chest tight with all the things that could have been — back then, and maybe even now. The words slipped out before you could soften them. “You should’ve told me, Hesh.”

He glanced at you, brow creased, expression unreadable in the dark.

“Back then,” you went on, voice quiet but firm. “If I’d known — maybe I’d have come home more often. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time trying to forget this place. If I’d known there was someone waiting.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just let the silence stretch, his jaw shifting as he looked out toward the edge of the overlook. The moonlight cut a line across his cheekbone, faint and silver.

“There was always someone waiting,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “You just didn’t see it.”

That made your stomach twist, not because it hurt, but because it was too honest. Too real. You wanted to crawl back in time and knock on your younger self’s skull — tell her to stop being so scared, so sure that everyone else would forget her the moment she left.

You sighed, trying to push the air back into your lungs, then leaned over and nudged his shoulder with yours. “Well,” you said lightly, trying to pull the conversation back from the edge, “maybe if I’d known, I could’ve saved you from Casey. Think of all the quinoa you could’ve avoided.”

That earned a half-laugh from him, but he rolled his eyes. “Hey, don’t knock quinoa. It made me regular for the first time in months.”

You groaned. “That’s gross.”

He smirked. “I’m just saying. And say what you want about Casey, but she did have a few talents.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Please don’t—”

“I mean,” he went on, grin widening, “she was a pain in the ass, but girl could ride.”

“Oh my God,” you said, doubling over with laughter. “Stop. Stop talking. I take it back — I would’ve let you rot with her.”

He laughed too, full and unguarded, knocking his head lightly against the headrest. “You asked!”

“No, I absolutely did not ask for that visual. Jesus Christ, Hesh.”

The two of you couldn’t stop laughing for a moment, too many years of buildup, too much unspoken tension finally venting in the only way it could. But the thing was — you felt it. The moment he said it, the second the conversation turned that sharp corner toward something more physical, everything inside the truck shifted. You felt it in the way the air thickened between you, how his voice dropped just a little lower. How the space between you, once filled with wrappers and banter, now felt too small.

You looked over at him — and you saw him. Not just the Hesh who’d known you since you were in diapers. Not just the guy who used to flick bottle caps at your forehead and throw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. No. You saw the man he’d become. The heat in his eyes. The line of his jaw, the cut of his biceps under that worn flannel sleeve. He wasn’t just your friend anymore, and maybe he hadn’t been for a while.

He was a man sitting beside you in the dark, a man who liked you — who wanted you, if the tension in the air was anything to go by. And fuck, how could you blame him? Your skin was humming, your whole body keyed up with something you weren’t sure you could name, only that it made you want to slide into his lap and see how long he could keep talking if you kissed him just once.

You didn’t even notice you’d zoned out until you heard him snap his fingers near your face.

“Yo,” Hesh said, peering at you. “Where’d you go just now?”

Your eyes snapped back to his, wide and startled — and you knew he saw it. Knew, by the slow way his smile curved, that he felt it too.

You unbuckled your seatbelt with a sharp snap, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He just watched you — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils wide in the low light — and you could feel it, the air stretching thin between your bodies. You didn’t hesitate. You slid one knee onto the console, the leather warm against your shin, and climbed into his lap. You didn’t ask. You didn’t explain. You just moved, slow and sure, as if your body had already decided where it needed to go before your mind caught up.

His seat groaned beneath the sudden shift, and Hesh grunted softly as he leaned back, palms instinctively catching your waist. His hands settled there, firm and warm, thumbs brushing the skin just beneath your shirt, and he didn’t push you off — just let you straddle him, your right thigh brushing the door and his ribs. Your legs were bare, your shorts hiked high, and the feel of denim under you — thick and strained — sent a pulse straight through your gut.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, but his voice was different now — lower, huskier, like the words had to drag themselves out past his teeth.

You smiled, slow and quiet. You could feel him beneath you, hard already, pressing up against the heat between your legs like a question you hadn’t answered yet. You rolled your hips just enough to make him groan, a quiet, broken sound that made your stomach clench.

You leaned in, lips brushing his throat, the faint stubble catching against your mouth as you kissed down the slope of his neck. He tasted like sweat and salt and something that had always belonged to summer. He inhaled sharply when your tongue flicked against the curve just below his jaw, and you felt the way his hands twitched at your hips — like he meant to pull you off but couldn’t quite remember why.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “We should slow the fuck down—”

But your mouth was already trailing lower, teeth grazing his pulse, and your hand slid up into his hair, tightening just enough to tilt his head back for you. His throat arched beautifully, and you kissed a hot, open line down to his collarbone, sucking there until you tasted skin, until he was shifting under you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Friends, right?” you whispered, lips pressed to the hollow of his throat. “Friends who used to want each other.”

Hesh breathed your name like a warning — low, guttural, but with no fight in it.

You rocked against him once, slow and purposeful, and he groaned again. This one wasn’t polite. It came from deep in his chest, ragged and raw. You felt it everywhere. The weight of him, the pressure, the heat curling up your spine like smoke. Your voice was still quiet, still playful, but your eyes locked on his.

“How many times have you jerked off thinking about me, Hesh?” you asked, not blinking.

His whole body jerked beneath yours, head tipping back against the seat, jaw clenched like he was trying to rein himself in. But the tremble in his breath gave him away.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, voice rough, barely hanging on.

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t need to. The heat between you had already turned molten, coiling up from where your bodies met and burning through every inch of space that had ever dared to exist between you.

You shifted in his lap, the seat reclining just far enough to hold the weight of you. His hands were everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, fingertips leaving trails of pressure that made you dizzy. His chest rose against yours, unsteady, and his breath was loud in the small cab of the truck, fogging the windows with each exhale.

You rocked against him, slow at first. Testing. Letting the friction build between you like the hum of a song you used to know. Hesh groaned — head tipped back, eyes closed, teeth sinking into his lower lip like he was trying not to lose himself too quickly. You could feel him straining against his jeans beneath you, and it only made your movements slower, more purposeful, until he cursed under his breath and gripped your hips tighter, guiding you where he needed you most.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.

You kissed him — really kissed him this time. No teasing, no hesitation. Just your mouth on his, hot and open, tongues tangling, breath shared. You felt it in your teeth, in the tips of your fingers, in the place between your thighs where your body ached to close the distance.

Your hand slid down, working at his belt, both of you fumbling, half-laughing through the desperation. You felt the zipper lower beneath your fingers, felt the heat of him through the fabric, and when he finally helped you push everything down far enough, it was like a dam breaking.

You sank onto him slow — too slow — and he gripped the edge of the seat like he was holding himself together. You exhaled into his neck, shuddering, your nails digging into his shoulders as your hips rolled once, then again, and his hands found your ass, holding you there like he couldn’t stand to let you move too far away.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t soft either. It was messy and real and aching with the weight of years that could have been, should have been. Hesh’s mouth was on your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach, and yours was in his hair, at his jaw, whispering his name every time your hips ground down harder, deeper.

“Look at me,” he said, voice cracked and low, one hand sliding up to your jaw. “Please. I want to see you.” His thumb traced along your skin as he said it, holding you there. Not roughly. Not sweetly either. Just with purpose, with heat.

So, you did. You opened your eyes, met his, and it nearly knocked the breath out of you — how hungry he looked, how hard he was fighting to keep it together. His hands gripped your hips tight, pulling you flush down against him again, and this time he didn’t hide the sound that came out of him. You felt it everywhere — in your thighs, your stomach, in the tight stretch between your legs where he filled you completely, deeper now with the way you were riding him, slow and unrelenting.

You rolled your hips again, pressing your knees tighter around his sides, grinding down on him so he couldn’t move without you. His head fell back against the seat, mouth parted, breathing hard. You leaned into the curve of his throat again, kissed it open-mouthed, biting lightly just under his jaw, and his hands jerked at your waist like he was losing control of himself inch by inch.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You feel so fucking good. I forgot — I didn’t think — fuck—”

You cut him off by lifting your hips and sinking back down hard, slow, making him feel every inch of you dragging along him. His hips bucked up instinctively, driving into you from below, and the angle made you gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders through his shirt.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, voice raw against his ear. “Oh fuck, Hesh, don’t—”

His hand slipped under your hoodie, grabbing at your ass as he fucked up into you again, rougher now. Each thrust jolted through your body — tight, sharp, wet heat building with every movement, every slap of your bodies meeting. You couldn’t stay quiet anymore. Your moans fell out of you fast and breathless, not delicate, not shy. You were past pretending.

“You thought about this, didn’t you?” he whispered, grabbing a fistful of your hair to keep your head back, so you had to look at him, had to see what you were doing to him. “You thought about me fucking you like this?”

“Yeah,” you gasped, barely getting the word out as you rocked down harder again. “So many fucking times.”

You were soaked now — could feel the slick drag every time he pushed deeper, could hear the wet sounds of it filling the truck, your thighs shaking around him. He shifted one hand between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your whole body jolt forward against his chest.

“Hesh—fuck—” You clenched down on him as he hit just right, and his groan turned into something nearly desperate.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted, his hand working between you as he kept thrusting up into your body, relentless now. “I wanna feel it. Right here.”

You kissed him — messy and wet and uncoordinated — tongues clashing, teeth catching, breath swallowed down into each other like it was the only thing keeping you alive. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body jerking forward as your orgasm slammed into you — hot and sharp and too much all at once.

You cried out against his mouth, legs trembling, your cunt fluttering around him as he groaned into your neck, thrusting once, twice more before he let go too. His whole body jerked beneath you, thick and hot as he spilled inside you, his grip bruising on your hips as he held you down to take all of it.

There was only the sound of the ocean below and the windows fogged with everything you’d just done, the space around you thick with the weight of it — of years, of tension, of something broken open and finally seen. You were straddling him, his hands still gripping your thighs like he didn’t quite believe you were real. Sweat clung to your skin, cooling where your bodies had been pressed too close, and for a long moment, neither of you said anything. It was just the sound of your heart slowing down, his thumb brushing absentmindedly across your hip, the truck rocking faintly in the breeze that slipped in through the cracked window.

And then Hesh, in true Hesh fashion, opened his mouth.

“Well,” he drawled, voice gravelly and half-breathless, “you might be almost as good as Casey.”

You leaned back so fast it made the leather creak, your brows shooting up in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

He gave you that shit-eating grin, smug and entirely unapologetic, even as his chest rose and fell beneath you. “I mean, I’m just saying — if we’re ranking things—”

“You are so lucky I’m half-naked right now, because that?” You slapped his chest with a soft thud. “That warrants me killing you later.”

“Oh, come on,” he laughed, catching your wrist loosely, clearly pleased with himself. “You know I’m joking.”

You narrowed your eyes, but there was no heat behind it. “Uh-huh. Say one more word about your ex and see what happens.”

“I’m just saying,” he teased, voice lower now, the humor still lingering at the edge of something else, “she never did it in the car. So maybe you’re tied.”

You groaned and climbed off of him, your legs unsteady, still trembling just enough to make it awkward as you fumbled for the burger bag. “You are disgusting. This is why no one takes you seriously.”

Hesh laughed again as he zipped his jeans up, eyes following you as you pulled a few crumpled napkins free and tried to clean yourself up with as much dignity as one could muster post-car-sex. “You didn’t seem too bothered a minute ago.”

You tossed a napkin at his head. “Shut up.”

He caught it midair, grinning lazily. “You want me to take you home?”

You paused for a second, thumb still brushing idly against your inner thigh, thinking about your empty bedroom and the quiet house waiting for you. Then you looked at him — shirt halfway undone, hair sticking up in places from your fingers, lips still pink and a little swollen from where you’d kissed him too hard.

“No,” you said, soft but sure. “Take me to your place.”

That stopped his grin cold, just for a beat. His gaze sharpened, his jaw working like he was trying not to look too eager about it. “Yeah,” he said finally, nodding as he reached for the keys. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”

⟡

The morning was already warm when you woke, sunlight sliding across the hardwood floors in slats, dust motes hanging lazily in the air like they had nowhere else to be. You rolled out of Hesh’s bed slowly, legs sore in the best way, your body still humming from every way he’d touched you through the night. The sheets were tangled behind you, the room a comfortable mess, like the two of you had fallen asleep mid-thought, mid-laugh, mid-something.

You didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed one of his old shirts off the floor — navy, faded, soft from years of washing — and pulled it over your head, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you padded downstairs barefoot. The sound of voices drifted up from the kitchen, low and familiar: Elias’s rumble and Logan’s sharper, brighter tone cutting in and out. The smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet greeted you like a second welcome.

You stepped into the kitchen and paused in the doorway.

Elias was standing at the stove, ladling out oatmeal into a bowl, his back half-turned. Logan was already at the table, chewing lazily on a piece of bacon, feet kicked up on the empty chair beside him. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps.

And then he smirked.

“Well, well, well,” Logan said around the last bit of bacon, voice just loud enough to carry.

Elias turned then — just enough to see you standing there, silent in Hesh’s shirt, bare-legged, hair mussed, clearly not just someone stopping by for breakfast. His hand froze midair, spoon still halfway to the bowl.

The silence was immediate. Heavy. It stretched out just long enough to make your cheeks flush, but you held your ground, moving quietly to sit down at the table without a word.

Logan snorted and reached over to clap a hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Pay up, Dad.”

[cod-imagines]

I'm not big into reading AUs. But those two fics on F1 Keegan were absolute perfection.

awww I’m so so happy!!

I know nothing about F1 (except that the drivers are hot lmfaooo) so it’s SOO rewarding to know you guys enjoyed it 🥹👉👈

[cod-imagines]

LOVED reading imagine 4! Kyle is my favorite 💜

omg you have no idea how happy I am to hear that!! Kyle is tied for my favourite lol I have SOO many ideas for fics for him 🩷 expect more sooooon 👀

[cod-imagines]

imagine #6

character: Keegan P. Russ words: 8059 cw: 18+, bit of angst, very mild sexual content (just a little) description: in which Keegan hides out on your family’s farm when a mission goes wrong. (requested anonymously, hope I did it justice!!) a/n: yee-haw I love farmer!Keegan lmfao I hope you guys like it!! this is set before the events of the cod: ghosts game btw!

Your routine never changed. There wasn’t room for variation anymore, not in this world — not here, beyond the Liberty Wall where the Federation watched everything. You got up with the sun, worked until it set, and tried not to be noticed. That was how you survived.

They said your family was spared for “provisions,” but you’d long since stopped pretending that was anything but a half-truth. The Federation let your family exist because you were useful — because your fields fed them, your cows gave milk, your hens laid eggs. And in return, they didn’t burn your land to ash like they did to the neighbours. As long as the soil stayed fertile, as long as the silence was kept, you were allowed to live. But that wasn’t freedom. It was barbed wire shaped into a leash.

You’d been young when it all fell apart — San Diego, your parents, the sky itself. The fire from above had blotted everything out, and by the time the smoke cleared, you were a teenage orphan on a half-burnt patch of land with two aging grandparents and nothing else. Ten years later, you were still there, grown now, hardened by it all. The sun was meaner, the wind sharper, and every shadow on the horizon made your chest go tight.

You stood among the chickens as they shuffled and clucked around your boots, their beady little eyes focused only on the corn you'd scattered. Stupid, greedy birds. But they were gold, in their own way — eggs for barter, meat for when things got bad, and the illusion of normalcy in a world that had long since turned to hell. You wiped your hands against your trousers, faded denim nearly threadbare at the knees, and turned back toward the house. The barn’s wide mouth yawned ahead of you, and your stomach growled as you passed through it, already thinking about the dinner you’d saved for yourself. One meal a day. That was the rule.

You didn’t make it far.

A pair of arms seized you from behind, fast and brutal. Hands clamped over your mouth and nose, cutting off your breath, dragging you backwards before the scream could even leave your throat. You kicked, thrashed, elbowed, but your attacker was stronger — taller, heavier, lean muscle packed into unforgiving armour. Your back slammed into the packed dirt, the scent of hay and oil thick around you as you were forced down behind a pile of straw bales. You twisted, but his weight pressed you flat, pinning you beneath him.

“Stop fighting me, kid—”

You bit his finger.

Hard.

He let out a sharp hiss, yanking his hand back before slamming you down again, his body pressing close to restrain yours. “Fuck,” he snarled. “Alright, alright — just stop! I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Your chest heaved, your pulse thundering in your ears. You froze, just long enough to get a better look at him. His face was half-concealed by a balaclava, a rough, dark thing marked with the faded white of a skull. His gear was military, American — though beat-up and dusted with travel, like he’d been crawling through hell just to get here. But it was his eyes that truly held you in place. Blue — so blue they almost looked unreal, stark and cold and furious. Watching everything.

“Don’t scream,” he said, voice rough, low. Not quite a command, but not a plea either.

You gave a small nod.

He hesitated, then peeled his gloved hand away from your mouth. You gasped in a sharp breath, the air thick with the scent of sweat and grain. Your throat felt raw already.

“You’re not Federation,” you rasped, eyes narrowing.

“No.” His voice was quieter now. “Definitely not.” A beat passed. “Are you?”

You scoffed, disbelief tightening your face. “Do I fucking look like Federation to you?”

“I’m just asking,” he said, raising one hand defensively, as if you were the unpredictable one here. “Calm down.”

The rage hit you all at once — hot, fast, blinding. You twisted your leg and kicked him square in the chest, hard enough to shove him off balance. He grunted, staggered back onto one knee.

“Fuck you,” you snapped, scrambling upright. “You don’t get to grab someone like that, asshole! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? If anyone saw you — if a patrol even thinks someone’s here — my whole family’s dead.”

His head tilted, skull mask shifting with the motion. “Do that again,” he said, voice clipped, “and I’ll break your leg.”

But there was no fire behind it. Just exhaustion. And something else — something that sounded a hell of a lot like desperation, thinly buried beneath the steel. He didn’t reach for his gun. He didn’t move to stop you again. He just looked at you like he was weighing something in his mind — whether to keep speaking or vanish back into the dust.

“I need somewhere to lay low for a while,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue but steady. “I got separated from my unit a few miles back. Your farm was the first shelter I saw.”

The audacity of it struck you like a slap. For a moment, you could hardly process what he was asking — not because it was complicated, but because it was so unbelievably reckless. Outrage rose sharp and immediate in your chest. Who the hell did he think he was? Some stranger in combat gear, skulking through your barn like a ghost, grabbing you in the dark — and now he was asking for sanctuary like it was nothing? Like it wasn’t your family’s blood on the line?

“You do realize,” you said, slowly, the words raspy, “that if they catch you here, we’ll all be executed. My grandparents. Me. And you.”

It wasn’t a hypothetical. The Federation didn’t ask questions. They didn’t issue warnings or offer mercy. They came with fire and bullets and orders, and they left with corpses. You’d seen it before — neighbours who made the mistake of helping the wrong person, or even just saying the wrong thing. You’d helped dig the graves afterward.

But then — he moved. One gloved hand reached up, and in a single motion, he tugged his balaclava off and dropped it into the hay beside him.

You weren’t prepared for what you saw.

He was a little younger than you’d assumed — probably just over thirty, if that — with sharp, storm-cut features that should’ve belonged in a world untouched by war. High cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a mouth set in a thin, pouty line. There was a deep, stubborn dimple in his chin, like a scar from childhood. And those eyes — still blue, still cutting — suddenly seemed far too human up close. Too beautiful. They caught you off guard in a way that had nothing to do with safety. Something pulled low in your stomach before you could even pretend to stop it.

“I’m asking you to trust me, kid,” he said, voice softer now. “Can you do that?”

You gritted your teeth. Manipulation. It had to be. A face like that didn’t just happen to look at you like that — not in a world like this. Not unless he wanted something. And maybe he did. Shelter. Safety. Food. You didn’t know. But what infuriated you the most was that it was working.

“You’ll have to speak to my grandfather,” you muttered. “I don’t call the shots here.”

He nodded once. “Fine. Take me to him.”

Of course your grandfather had said yes. Because that was the kind of man he was — old, wise, and generous to a fault. He’d looked the soldier up and down, taken in the dirt and the way his voice dipped with exhaustion, and simply nodded. No questions, no fuss. Just a quiet, “You’ll stay as long as you need to. Might as well eat too.”

Now, Keegan — he said that was his name, only once, like it didn’t matter — was seated at the dinner table, freshly changed into an old pair of your grandfather’s jeans and a soft, sun-bleached flannel. The shirt was a little too small for him, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders as he worked steadily through a plate of food meant for someone else. Meant for you.

You hadn’t said a word. Just watched from the corner of the kitchen, arms folded, mouth pressed thin. You hadn’t offered it to him, hadn’t made any grand gesture of sacrifice. But you’d let it happen. You’d stood by while your dinner was scraped into his bowl and you told yourself it was fine. You’d get used to the ache. You always did.

He spoke softly, now and then, responding to your grandfather’s occasional remarks or your grandmother’s quiet questions. Nothing personal. Nothing deep. He was careful not to give much away — always watching, always assessing — but polite. Cordial. It made you feel even more on edge.

When the dishes were cleared and your grandparents had retired for the night, you found yourself in the living room, dragging old blankets out of the chest by the hearth. The couch creaked under your touch as you layered one over the lumpy cushions, then another. You didn’t want to be hospitable. But your hands moved anyway, folding a pillow, adjusting the threadbare quilt. It felt mechanical. Performative. Like you were playing a role that had been handed to you long ago: the girl who obeyed, who made room, who didn’t ask for anything in return.

“I’ll sleep here,” you said without looking up, smoothing the blanket. “You can take my room upstairs.”

Keegan stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, arms crossed. You could feel his eyes on your back. You didn’t know if it was suspicion, or guilt, or something else entirely.

He didn’t thank you.

You didn’t expect him to.

⟡

The coughing didn’t stop. It had started faintly sometime before dawn, low and rasping, buried beneath the creaks of the old farmhouse, and by the time the sky turned the colour of pale ash, it had grown louder. Wet. Persistent. You heard it before your feet even touched the floor. It twisted low in your gut, a sound you recognized far too well, one that always carried the same dread-heavy question: Is this the one that ends him?

You padded down the hallway, socks catching against rough wood, and stepped into the kitchen that still smelled faintly of last night’s boiled potatoes. Keegan sat at the table, elbows resting on his knees, hunched forward like a man used to discomfort. His head tilted up slightly as you entered, eyes scanning you briefly before flicking back to the empty wall as if trying to make himself smaller. He didn’t speak. There was no food on the stove, no plates set, no hum of the kettle — just silence, thick and watchful, and the rhythmic hack of your grandfather’s lungs echoing faintly from the room upstairs.

Your grandmother came in moments later, her apron still tied from the night before, her hands trembling and dry at her sides. The way she looked at you — soft, resigned — told you everything before she even opened her mouth.

“He couldn’t get up,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “He’s burning up. Said it hit him in the night. You’ll need to tend to the fields today, sweetheart.”

You nodded stiffly, though a raw panic was beginning to thrum beneath your ribs. A cough like that could be anything — pneumonia, a cold — but none of those things ended well out here. There were no doctors. No antibiotics. No trips to town that didn’t come with a Federation checkpoint and the risk of being disappeared. And he was old. Too old to be fighting off something like this without help. You clenched your jaw to keep your voice steady.

“Okay,” you said.

You didn’t wait for Keegan’s reaction, didn’t look back to see if he was still watching. You shoved on your boots by the back door, pulling your coat over yesterday’s clothes, the fabric still stiff with dried sweat and dust. The barn smelled like cold diesel and sun-warmed hay, the morning light filtering in through the warped wooden slats in pale stripes. You moved automatically — feed first, then fence checks, then water line inspection — already running through the order of tasks in your head like a prayer. Like if you just focused hard enough, you could keep everything from falling apart.

You were halfway through setting the buckets when the barn door creaked behind you.

“You alright?” Keegan’s voice broke the quiet like a stone tossed into still water. You didn’t turn around.

“I’m busy,” you muttered.

He stepped inside anyway, heavy boots crunching on old hay. “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it.”

You spun, fast and sharp, the tension crackling off you like static. “Look, I don’t need your pity, alright? I need the sun to stay up, the cows to not kick over the pails, and I need him to not die, so unless you’ve got something helpful to say—”

“I want to help.” He met your glare without flinching. “I know I’m not family. But I’m here too for now. Let me do something useful.”

You blinked, taken aback by the way he said it — flat, almost weary. No smugness. No charm. Just that gravel-edged voice and those winter-coloured eyes trying to make you understand something unspoken. It should have softened you. It didn’t.

“What, you think you can just roll in here with your guns and your uniform and suddenly you’re farmhand of the year?” You crossed your arms. “You think pulling security detail and running through training drills somehow qualifies you to mend a busted irrigation pipe or birth a breech calf?”

Keegan’s brow twitched, but his voice stayed even. “Didn’t say I was an expert. Said I’d help.”

“You don’t know how,” you snapped. “You don’t know the land, or the soil, or how the gates swell in the rain and need a hard shoulder to close them. You don’t know the difference between feed hay and bedding hay. You’re a soldier — not a farmer.”

“I’m a survivor,” he said, stepping closer now, the quiet heat of his presence suddenly tangible in the morning chill. “And survivors adapt. You don’t think I’ve had to fix a generator in the dark with a busted hand? Or shovel out latrines after someone dumped a septic tank in the wrong place? You think I’m too soft because I slept on your couch and ate your stew?”

You scoffed, but your arms dropped to your sides. “No. I think you’re used to shooting your problems.”

“And you’re used to ignoring anyone who offers to help you.”

That landed like a slap.

You stared at him, jaw clenched, fists curling at your sides. You wanted to scream, to shove him, to ask who the hell he thought he was, stepping into your barn, into your world, and pretending like he had any say in what happened next. But the words didn’t come. They sat bitter and heavy in your throat.

“You want to help?” you said finally, your voice low and shaking. “Fine.”

You turned and stormed out of the barn without checking if he was behind you. You didn’t need to. You could already hear his boots crunching in the gravel, steady and maddeningly sure.

⟡

By the time the sun hit its highest point in the sky, the heat was a weight pressed against your back. Sweat soaked the collar of your shirt, dust clung to your skin, and the ache in your arms had settled into something dull and constant. Even Keegan looked worn, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, dirt streaked along his forearms and across the side of his neck where he’d wiped his face. You hadn’t spoken for the last half hour — not since your fourth argument, this one about whether the fencing near the orchard should be patched from the inside or out. You’d called him a stubborn bastard; he’d called you a mule in boots. Neither of you had been wrong.

Eventually, you muttered that you needed a break, and he followed without comment.

You led him to the clearing nestled deep in the cornfield, a place carved out by your own hands over the years — small, shielded, quiet. The stalks surrounded you like walls, thick and golden, swaying gently with the breeze, their dry rustling voices swallowing up the sound of the outside world. Even the house felt far away here, unreachable. This was where you came when everything grew too loud. When you needed to scream or cry or just sit and remember how to breathe.

You tugged the frayed old blanket from where it was folded in the crook of the crate you kept hidden beneath the corn, shook the dust off, and dropped it down over the grass. It was faded, sun-bleached, a patch of something that once might’ve been blue. You sat cross-legged and tossed a few apricots into the center from the bag you'd carried — soft-skinned and warm from where they’d been tucked in your pocket.

Keegan dropped beside you, lowering himself with a tired grunt. His weight sank heavily into the blanket, close enough that you felt the shift, but not close enough to touch. He took an apricot without asking, wiped the fuzz on his jeans, and bit in.

For a while, that was all you did. Sit. Chew. Swallow. Watch the sky through the weaving blades of corn above. The silence was almost comforting.

“They asked us to evacuate,” you said eventually, voice quiet and raw at the edges. “A few months after everything went down. They came in trucks. Told us it wasn’t safe to be here anymore. Said anyone who stayed was choosing to be forgotten.” You looked down at your hands. Dirt under your nails. Small scratches on your knuckles. You flexed them. “But my grandparents have lived on this land since they were kids. Same farmhouse, same soil, same prayers every Sunday. They weren’t going anywhere. And I wasn’t about to leave them behind just because some guy in a uniform told me to.”

Keegan didn’t respond right away. He leaned back on his hands, tilted his face up toward the sun. The light caught in the strands of his dark hair, made the blue of his eyes seem even sharper when he finally glanced at you.

“I get that,” he said, low and even. “I was eighteen when I enlisted. Barely out of high school. Didn’t even wait for the ink on my diploma to dry. Just signed up. Thought I’d see the world. Serve. Do something that mattered.” He took another bite of the fruit, chewed slowly. “I was a Marine. Before ODIN. Before it all burned.”

You looked at him. He didn’t seem lifetimes older than you now, but there was something about the way he sat — bone-tired and wary, like every inch of him had been carved out by years he didn’t talk about.

“Did you ever think it’d turn out like this?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just stared out at the stalks like he saw something else through them — ghosts of a world that had already crumbled.

You didn’t ask again.

Instead, you wiped your hands on your thighs, brushed crumbs of apricot from the corner of your mouth, and said, “Thanks. For earlier. I know I wasn’t easy to deal with.”

Keegan gave a short grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “Understatement of the century, kid.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “Still. You didn’t have to help.”

“Yeah, well. I’m stuck here, remember? Figured I might as well make myself useful before you try to smother me in my sleep.”

You laughed, quiet and short, and then stretched out on the blanket, arms above your head, letting the sun bake into your skin. The air smelled like warm earth and drying leaves, sweetened faintly by the apricots. For a moment, everything felt almost normal.

Keegan shifted beside you, the blanket rustling under his weight.

“Has it always just been you?” he asked after a pause.

Your eyes opened lazily, squinting up at the sky. “What do you mean?”

He scratched his jaw, glanced sideways. “I mean… anyone else around? Someone you care about? You got somebody waitin’ on you out here, kid?”

The word kid landed different that time. Less condescending. Softer, somehow. You turned your head toward him, caught the flicker of curiosity in his expression — genuine, but guarded. Like he didn’t know if he had the right to ask, but couldn’t help himself anyway.

You didn’t answer right away.

You turned your face back up to the sky, lashes fluttering against the swell of sun. It was easier than looking at him—than facing the question for what it was. You let the heat settle on your skin and inhaled deeply, as if oxygen alone could soften the ache in your chest.

“I can’t even think about that,” you said finally, voice quiet but edged. “Romance. Love. Whatever it is you’re asking about. It doesn’t matter here. My grandparents need me. They’re old, and this land is the only thing they know. They’ve got no one else. If I leave—” You trailed off and shrugged, a sharp motion against the warm ground. “Then I’m just one more person who let them be forgotten.”

Keegan was quiet for a second too long, and you could feel the tension pull taut beside you, coiling like a live wire. When he spoke, it was with a roughness that hadn’t been there before.

“You gotta live your own life, kid,” he said, the word clipped, tired. “You can’t just keep putting yourself last forever. That’s not survival. That’s slow suicide.”

You frowned, sitting up now, brushing bits of hay off your arm. “And do what, exactly?” you snapped. “Where the fuck am I supposed to find someone? Where do you think people like me go to fall in love? The ration line?”

His gaze cut to you then, sharp, but not cruel. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You sure?” you asked, your voice getting tighter, thinner. “You come in here, sleep under my roof, eat our food, help out for half a day and suddenly you’re giving life advice?”

He let out a slow breath, like he was trying hard not to let the bite creep into his voice. “North of the Liberty Wall,” he said finally. “It’s not paradise, but it’s not this. There’s no patrols breathing down your neck. No risk of being shot for walking too far from your own damn porch. No curfews. No checkpoints. It’s still broken, sure, but there’s a kind of freedom there. People date. They laugh. They live.”

You flinched, only slightly, but it was enough. He saw it. And the silence that followed dragged heavy between you, thick as the summer air.

You shook your head, eyes fixed on the crumpled blanket beneath your hand. “There was a boy,” you murmured. “Years back. I was maybe nineteen, twenty. He used to help around the farm. He was kind. Brave. I thought—” You stopped yourself, then blew out a humorless laugh. “Well. I thought a lot of things. And then one day, he shows up in Federation gray. Patch on his arm. Said it was the only way to stay safe. Said it didn’t mean anything. That he’d protect us.”

You looked up, eyes cold and distant. “Two weeks later, he watched them burn the neighbouring field. Didn’t even blink.”

Keegan didn’t say anything for a moment. His brows were drawn tight, but he didn’t speak until the silence stretched too long to ignore.

“Not everyone’s like that, kid,” he said gently. “Some people still know where the line is. Some still fight for the right things.”

“Do they?” you asked. “Because I haven’t seen them.”

“I’m right here, aren’t I?”

You looked at him then, really looked. The way his shoulders sat stiff beneath the worn flannel, the way his fingers flexed against his thigh like he wasn’t used to being still this long. His face was serious, unreadable, but his voice stayed low.

“I could get you out.”

You blinked. “What?”

“When my unit comes for me,” he said, eyes holding yours, “and they will come for me — I could get you out. Not your grandparents — we can’t make it to the wall with them. But you. I could get you north. Somewhere safer. Somewhere you could start over.”

The words hit you like a slap. You sat up straighter, heart pounding with a mix of disbelief and fury.

“You think I’d leave them?” you asked, voice sharp now, loud in the little clearing. “You think I’d just run off and start a new life somewhere while they stay here and die in the dirt?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You did. You fucking did. Think you can just throw a lifeline and make everything disappear.”

His jaw tightened. “Forget it.”

“No — go ahead. Tell me how grateful I should be, how lucky I am to be your little charity case.”

“I said forget it.” His voice cracked out like a gunshot, louder than you’d ever heard it. He pushed himself to his feet in one motion, tension bleeding from every line of his frame. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

You stared up at him, breathing hard, chest tight with something hot and cruel and unspoken.

He didn’t look at you as he turned to walk away. Just muttered under his breath, “Never mind, kid.”

His boot came down hard on the last apricot between you, crushing it into the blanket with a dull squish before he stalked off between the corn, vanishing into the rows without another word. You sat there alone, the sun heavy above you, and listened to the wind move through the stalks like a thousand whispers you didn’t want to hear.

⟡

A few days passed. The corn kept growing. The sky stayed blue. And against the odds, your grandfather began to mend.

It was a slow thing, the way his breath came easier, the coughs less chest-wracking. He could sit up by the third morning, grumble about the soup being too thin by the fourth. He still wasn’t out of bed, but you could see it — life returning in fits and starts, that same stubbornness you knew too well shining through the cracks in his frailty. Your grandmother wept once behind the shed, soft and private, her apron bunched against her mouth, but said nothing about it after.

And Keegan—

Keegan stayed.

He kept working. Fixing the fence you’d sworn couldn’t be salvaged. Feeding the livestock without needing to be told. Helping your grandmother carry buckets, lifting things with quiet precision. Still fought you on everything, though — still made you roll your eyes, still made you want to scream when he refused to back down about the proper way to fortify a trough or check for signs of rot. But he was there. Solid. Capable. And worst of all — he had planted something in you. Not quite a dream, not yet, but something just as dangerous: hope.

You hated him for that.

Because you caught yourself wondering, in the quiet hours, what the world looked like beyond the Wall. What your life might be if it wasn’t measured in chores and ration lines, in sacrifice. You wondered what your hands would feel like without blisters. What your name might sound like when it wasn’t only called in need, but in want.

And that made you sick. With guilt. With shame. Because you’d chosen this. You’d promised to stay. You were the one who didn’t run.

But still.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Your grandparents had gone to bed hours ago, the farmhouse fallen into its usual hush, all the weight of the day settled into the floorboards. You lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, a threadbare blanket tangled around your legs. The porch light still burned beyond the front window — dim and golden, filtering through the curtains like a safety net. You hadn’t turned it off in years. Couldn’t. Something about total darkness always made your chest tighten.

You heard the stairs creak, slow and hesitant.

Then Keegan padded into the room barefoot, dressed in a soft, washed-thin T-shirt and a pair of faded flannel pajama pants that looked older than both of you. His hair was messy, sticking up at strange angles, and his expression was quieter than usual, as if the night had made him smaller somehow.

“Can’t sleep either?” you asked, sitting up and drawing your knees close.

He shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah. Not really.”

You moved over instinctively, and he took the offered space beside you. The couch dipped under his weight, his thigh warm and close beside yours, and the quiet stretched between you like a thread pulled too tight.

“I owe you an apology,” he said eventually. “For before. For — all of it.”

You raised a brow. “You? Apologizing? Did you hit your head on a rake or something?”

He gave a dry huff of a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve just been — on edge. Not knowing if my unit’s still coming. Not knowing if I’m making things worse by being here. I didn’t mean to take that out on you.”

You looked at him then, more closely. Even in the low light, you could see it — how the skin around his eyes was tight, how the shadows clung to him. Not just fatigue. Fear. Loneliness. The kind that settled in your bones when you’d gone too long without touch, without kindness, without someone looking at you and seeing you.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t an ass.”

“I’m always an ass,” he replied, voice a little softer. “But yeah. More than usual lately.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, just a little tap, a half-hearted gesture meant to tease. But the way he tensed ever so slightly, the way his breath hitched for just a second — it told you everything. He wasn’t used to being touched. Not like that. Not without it meaning pain or orders or nothing at all.

Which was fucking rich, because you were starving too.

You tried to ignore how close he was. Tried to focus on the porch light, the faint rustle of trees beyond the window. But his warmth was radiating off him in waves, and every breath you took seemed to sync a little more with his.

You nudged him with your shoulder again, more out of habit than playfulness, trying to shake off the heaviness that clung to your conversation like dust in the air. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer, his knee now brushing yours where it hadn’t before. You should’ve shifted, should’ve drawn back, but the truth was — it felt nice. Familiar in a way that made you ache. Too many nights spent alone in that same spot on the couch, watching the porch light flicker against the glass while the rest of the world forgot you existed. And now here he was, warm and solid beside you, quiet for once.

Keegan glanced over, and his eyes lingered a moment longer than they should have. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t want things?” he asked.

You blinked, not sure if you’d heard him right. “What the hell are you on about?”

He smiled, faint and crooked. “Means you act like you’ve got everything under control. Like you don’t want more than this — more than this damn farm, this life. But I see it, kid. I’ve seen it in your face every time you look past me when I talk about the Wall.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what I can live with.”

“And you can’t live with wanting something?”

You didn’t answer, and maybe that was answer enough. The silence stretched again, thicker now, more charged. The air between you felt heavy with everything neither of you was brave enough to say.

Keegan leaned back slightly, resting one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. “You know,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your mouth, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you.”

The words made your pulse spike. They landed too suddenly, too softly, and for a moment you weren’t sure if you’d imagined them. You turned your head toward him, slow and unsure.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeated, voice low but unshaken, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you. For days now. Maybe since you bit my fucking finger back in the barn.”

You huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your throat was too tight. “You’ve got a real talent for choosing the worst possible time to open your mouth.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes still locked to yours, his tone dipping even further, “but I’m saying it now because I want to. Because I’m tired, and you’re tired, and if this is all we get — this night, this moment — I’d rather not waste it.”

You stared at him, trying to be angry, trying to summon that same edge you always had around him. But it slipped away, like mist between your fingers, leaving something rawer in its place. Want. Need. The horrible, aching recognition of being seen when you’d spent so long convincing yourself you were invisible.

“You really wanna do this?” you asked, voice rough.

“Yeah,” he said. “I really do.”

You opened your mouth to reply, maybe to tell him to shut up, maybe to warn him that you’d regret it, maybe to say yes. But before you could decide, he was already moving — leaning in slow, as if to give you time to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t cautious. There was no hesitation left in him. His mouth pressed to yours with a hunger that had clearly been building in the shadows of all your arguments, a collision of tension and heat and breath. His hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb rough against your cheek, and he kissed you like someone who hadn’t touched softness in years. Like someone who wasn’t sure if he ever would again.

You kissed him back just as hard.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was nothing left between you but shared warmth and the scrape of breath. He tasted like salt and dust and something clean beneath it all, something warm. Your body leaned into his without thinking, your knees brushing, thighs flush, the whole couch groaning beneath the weight of it. His hand dropped to your waist, not demanding, just holding — like he needed the contact to stay tethered.

You broke for air, only barely, your foreheads pressed together. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. His hand was still at your jaw, thumb stroking the edge of your chin, and your own fingers clung to the fabric at his chest like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

You stayed like that for a long moment — forehead to forehead, your breath mingling, the only sound the soft creak of the couch as the house settled around you. His hand hadn’t moved from your jaw, but it loosened now, easing into something gentler, his thumb brushing across the edge of your cheek like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

But eventually, he did.

Keegan pulled back slowly, just far enough to look at you. His expression had shifted — less heat, more something else. Something careful. His eyes searched yours for a beat, and then he gave a faint exhale, almost like he was laughing at himself.

“You should get some sleep, kid,” he said, voice quieter now. Rough around the edges. “It’s late.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your hands were still fisted in the front of his shirt, and for a second, you thought about holding on a little longer. Just a little more warmth. Just a little more proof that someone saw you.

But you let him go.

He stood slowly, the couch groaning beneath the shift in weight. His silhouette moved through the dim gold of the porch light as he crossed the room, every step a soft thud against the wood floor. At the base of the stairs, he paused, one hand on the banister. You thought he might look back, say something more. Offer another fragment of comfort or tension or whatever the hell this thing between you had become.

But he didn’t.

He just disappeared up the stairs, leaving you behind in the silence.

You sat back, slowly, your fingers tingling where they’d held onto him, your mouth still warm with the memory of his. The blanket was half on the floor. The porch light burned steady.

⟡

The kitchen was warm and still, the porch light casting soft gold across the floorboards as you stood in your worn nightclothes, spooning cherry stems into your mug. You could hear the frogs outside, the low rustle of wind in the corn, that sleepy hum of the house settling into silence for the night. Everyone else was asleep. You were supposed to be, too.

But you couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop remembering.

The kettle hissed on the stove, its steam barely audible, and you watched it with glazed eyes. The cherry stems were from the last harvest, dried and kept in an old jam jar, their scent delicate and faintly sweet. You brewed them sometimes to calm your nerves. Headaches, your grandmother claimed. Nightmares, maybe. But tonight you weren’t sure anything could settle you. Not when you were still carrying the phantom weight of Keegan’s kiss on your lips, your hands, your goddamn spine. You hadn’t stopped replaying it since it happened the night before — how close he’d been, how his breath had caught when your fingers curled into his shirt, how he’d looked at you like he meant it.

And fuck, you’d wanted more. Not just the kiss, not just the heat of his mouth against yours. You’d wanted to ride him into the couch cushions and grind every ounce of control back into your body. You wanted to stop feeling like a ghost haunting her own life and instead take something. Someone. Him.

But he’d walked away. Left you curled on the couch with your heart thudding in your ears like it was trying to break free.

You reached for the kettle just as a hand clamped over your mouth.

It happened so fast your brain didn’t have time to catch up — just the weight of an arm around your chest and the thick press of a body behind you, yanking you back so hard your feet left the floor for half a second. Your mug slipped from your hand and shattered across the kitchen tile, the smell of tea mixing with adrenaline, with panic, with your own stifled scream caught beneath a stranger’s palm.

“Where is he?” the voice growled in your ear, low and sharp and unfamiliar. “Where’s Keegan Russ?”

You thrashed, trying to turn, elbowing wildly against the stranger’s chest, but he didn’t let go. He gave you a hard shake — sharp, jolting — and repeated himself, louder this time. “Where is he?”

The floor creaked.

Then more footsteps, heavier now, coming from the stairs behind you. Light burst from the hallway as your grandmother’s voice rang out, trembling and confused. “Who’s down here?”

Another creak. A shift of weight. And then—

“Ajax.”

The voice was low and unmistakably Keegan’s.

The grip on you vanished in an instant.

You stumbled forward, catching yourself on the counter, gasping for breath, head spinning. Behind you, the stranger backed off, hands up in a half-apology, his frame still blocking part of the kitchen doorway.

Keegan came into view fast, shirtless and barefoot, flannel pants slung low on his hips, his expression half panic, half fury. Behind him, your grandmother hovered near the wall, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.

The man who’d grabbed you straightened and grinned like it was nothing. “Shit, my bad,” he said, voice relaxed now. “Didn’t realize she was yours.”

Keegan didn’t look at you yet. He stepped forward, shoulders relaxing slightly, and walked straight into the stranger’s open arms. They embraced like brothers, with a quick, hard clap on the back, and then another.

“Thought you got yourself killed,” the man said. “You know how long we’ve been combing this fucking region?”

“Long enough,” Keegan replied, voice quieter now. “You scared the hell out of her.”

“She looked like she could handle herself.” The man glanced back at you, grinning like you were in on the joke. “Didn’t expect you to be hanging around in civilian clothes and sleeping with chickens.”

You didn’t say anything. Your chest was still heaving, your hands trembling slightly. You could hear your grandmother breathing fast beside the doorframe, trying to calm herself, trying to make sense of the armed man in her kitchen.

Keegan’s attention turned sharply toward her then, his voice softening. “It’s okay,” he said. “They’re my team. This is Ajax. They’re not here to hurt anyone.”

Another shadow moved through the door, this one broader. A wall of a man, easily over six feet, with a square jaw and quiet authority that filled the room before he even spoke.

“Captain Merrick,” Keegan said, acknowledging him with a nod. He stepped back from Ajax, then motioned to you and your grandmother. “This is the family that took me in. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Captain Merrick stepped forward and offered a short, respectful nod. “We appreciate what you did,” he said, voice low but clear. “You didn’t have to, but you did. That means something.”

Keegan glanced back at his team, who were starting to crowd the entryway — more soldiers, all armed, all watching everything with sharp, tactical eyes. And then he looked at you, really looked. And his voice, when he spoke again, was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“She’s the one who saved my life.”

⟡

The realization that he was really leaving didn’t hit you like a sudden blow — it came in slow waves, creeping through your veins like cold water. Your fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. You’d pressed your palms together, tucked them under your arms, curled them into the fabric of your shirt, but it didn’t matter. The tremble was inside you now, deeper than bone, and it only grew worse every time you glanced at him. He looked too much like a soldier again, already halfway gone. Already belonging to something you couldn’t follow.

You didn’t say anything as you followed him up the stairs, your footsteps muffled by the old wood, shadows stretching across the walls like long fingers. His presence filled your bedroom again, but not like before — this time he moved with quiet purpose, his breath steady, his hands practiced. The gear you’d stashed beneath the floorboards now lay out in careful rows across your quilt: the worn fatigues, flak vest, the sidearm, the boots. You hadn’t touched it since the night you’d buried it there, just in case. Just in case the Federation came.

Keegan stripped out of his sleep clothes and began dressing in silence. You watched as the softness you’d seen glimpses of — the man who sat beside you in the dark, who kissed you like he meant it — slowly disappeared beneath layers of armour and camo. He tightened his vest, slotted his sidearm into place, adjusted the strap of his knife sheath. By the time he stepped into his boots, you weren’t looking at a person anymore. You were looking at a ghost, already halfway out the door.

You stood at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself. “So this is it,” you said, and even to your own ears, the words sounded small.

Keegan looked up, paused. His hands stilled over the last strap on his thigh. He didn’t ask you what you meant. He knew. The silence between you said everything. He walked toward you, slow, steady, until he was standing right in front of you again, reaching out to cup your face with both hands. His palms were warm, his thumbs rough from calluses but gentle as they brushed against your cheeks. You hadn’t realized tears had gathered in your eyes until that moment.

“It’s not too late,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with something heavier than he could hide. “You could come with us. With me.”

Your throat closed around the words. You blinked quickly, the tears refusing to fall, refusing to move. You wanted so badly to say yes. To grab your boots, your coat, throw yourself into one of those trucks and never look back. But you’d made a promise. And out here, promises still meant something. Especially when the people you made them to were old and tired and had already lost too much.

“You know I can’t,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly against his hands. “They need me, Keegan. My grandparents — they can’t do this alone. And I can’t — I won’t — abandon them.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. When he opened them again, they were clear and quiet, but something in his jaw tightened, like he was biting down on the things he couldn’t say.

“You’re too good for your own good, kid,” he said softly, and there was no teasing in it this time. No edge. Just something close to grief. “That’s the problem with you.”

You almost laughed, but it came out as more of a broken exhale. You leaned into his touch for one final moment, pressing your cheek to his palm. Memorizing the shape of him. The warmth. The steadiness you wouldn’t have tomorrow.

Downstairs, Ajax’s voice cut through the stillness. “Clock’s ticking, Russ. You ready?”

Keegan didn’t move right away. Just dropped his hands from your face and gave you one last look before turning to grab his balaclava off the dresser.

You walked beside him down the stairs, neither of you speaking now. Outside, the world felt larger than it ever had — too many shadows, too much air, and none of it felt like yours anymore. There were armoured trucks parked just beyond the corn line, their black paint glinting under the moon. You counted four, though there were more figures than that in the field — men in gear, weapons slung across their backs, all moving with quiet, military precision.

Keegan stepped off the porch, his boots crunching against the gravel path. You followed him, your hand brushing against his once, briefly, and he didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything until you reached the edge of the field where the tall corn began again, shivering gently in the wind.

He turned to you there. The moonlight caught in his eyes, made him look younger for a second — like the boy he might’ve been once, before the world cracked open.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed you.

His lips brushed your jaw first, then your cheek, slow and reverent, and finally found your mouth like it was the last thing he’d ever let himself have. His stubble scratched your skin, rough and real, and the kiss he gave you wasn’t frantic or hungry — it was honest. Warm. Full of everything he hadn’t said out loud. Full of everything you’d never forget.

When he pulled back, his breath was shallow. He rested his forehead against yours for a beat and whispered, “I’ll be back for you, kid.”

Then he stepped away and pulled the balaclava over his face, the white of the skull grinning back at you like a warning.

And without another word, he turned and walked into the field.

You watched him until the corn swallowed him whole. Until the trucks rumbled to life and slipped back into the dark, engines fading into nothing. Until the porch light behind you flickered once and then held steady again.

[cod-imagines]

imagine #5

character: Phillip Graves words: 4984 cw: 18+, drinking description: in which you and Phillip share a drink after a mission goes south (sort of part 2 to this fic). a/n: I’ll take any opportunity to write more stuff for Graves (requested by the lovely @echojays)

The bar you were holed up in looked like it had been carved out of a fever dream and left to rot in the sun. Somewhere between dive and ruin, its wooden siding had long since faded into a splintered, sun-bleached grey, the neon sign above the door humming with a dull, terminal buzz. Letters were missing. The ones that remained flickered like they were stuttering through their last night alive. Inside, the air was thick with old cigarette smoke that had worked itself so deep into the walls it felt alive, like a bad memory.

You’d picked a booth in the back without even thinking. Far from the bar, close to a sagging dartboard nailed unevenly into the wall. One dart hung crooked from the cork, the others strewn on the floor like someone got bored halfway through a game and never came back. The overhead light above your table buzzed low, casting everything in a sickly yellow that made the liquor bottles look like jars of piss and syrup behind the bar. There was no music playing. Just the soft clink of glass being dried by the barkeep, and the muted mutter of a man hunched over the wooden bar top, too drunk to finish his story.

You hadn’t planned to end up here. Hell, you hadn’t even planned on leaving the motel, not at first. But after two hours spent pacing a floor that smelled like mildew and bleach, staring at a television that only got static, you'd snapped. You needed somewhere else. Anywhere else. Someplace with noise, with other people’s lives happening around you, even if they barely noticed you. You wanted to vanish into someone else’s night for a little while. Needed to get out of your brain before it started chewing through your skull.

But the drink wasn’t helping. Your margarita sat in a chipped glass that sweated against your palm. It was too warm, the tequila so harsh it tasted like detergent. You drank it anyway. You weren’t after comfort — you were after numbness. The kind that pressed like a gauze in your chest and made everything a little less sharp, a little more manageable. But so far, it had only made things worse.

You’d been riding high. Ever since Tbilisi, it had felt like the tide was turning, like you were finally becoming more than just another green name on a list. Your missions had gone clean. Your instincts had been sharp. People were starting to trust you, starting to see you as more than just the youngest person in the room with a badge and a mouth. You’d put in the work, made calls that mattered, turned assets that no one else could reach. And now all of that was unraveling.

You’d believed the intel. You’d put your faith in a source who swore the deal was happening in Reno, that the buy would go down this week, that your presence would matter. But you were days too late. The warehouse you’d scouted had already been cleared out, every crate gone, every handler long vanished. The floor had been swept clean, not even a footprint in the dust. You’d shown up armed and ready, and there was no one left to kill. Or question.

It wasn’t just a failed op — it was an embarrassment. The kind that left a mark. The kind people whispered about in corridors and turned their noses up at. And the worst part? You didn’t know yet if it was a mistake, or if someone had fed you bad intel on purpose. Either way, the responsibility was yours to carry.

You tilted your glass again, watching the salt stick to the edge where your mouth had touched it. You should’ve ordered something stronger. Vodka. Whiskey. Something with less sugar and more pain. But you hadn’t been thinking clearly. You hadn’t been thinking at all, just moving. Muscle memory.

The front door swung open with a groan.

You didn’t look up right away — your body reacted before your eyes did. A shift in atmosphere, a pressure in your spine. You knew those boots. Heavy steps, scuffed soles. The casual, low conversation that followed — you recognized that too. The unmistakable sound of men who moved through the world like they owned every hallway. Shadows. Three of them.

You glanced up, and sure enough, they were walking in like they’d been here before. One gave a nod to the bartender, who nodded back. Familiar. Comfortable. They looked different out of uniform, but not enough to hide the way they carried themselves — upright, sharp-eyed, quiet but always watching.

And then came Graves.

Your stomach turned. Not in surprise. Of course he was here. Because if anyone was going to show up at the exact moment you didn’t want to see him — if anyone was going to walk into your silence and make it louder — it was Phillip fucking Graves.

He didn’t rush. He never did. Moved like the room owed him something, like the floor wouldn’t dare creak under his weight. Jeans, rolled sleeves, sweat still drying on the edge of his collar. The shirt clung to him in all the places it shouldn’t have, sun-bleached cotton stretched across shoulders that never slouched.

His eyes scanned the bar lazily. You knew the exact moment he saw you — the small shift in posture, the way his hand brushed over his belt like he was settling in. That look crawled across the room like it had a purpose. Slow and uninvited. You didn’t need a word from him to know what he was thinking.

Your lips pressed into a hard line, glass raised halfway to your mouth. You stared back for one breath, then turned away, jaw clenched.

“Fuck off,” you muttered under your breath, as if that would be enough to keep him away. But of course it wouldn’t. Of course not.

His Shadows spotted you before you had the chance to finish what little was left of your margarita. Their boots echoed across the sticky floor as they crossed the room, a rolling tide of sweat-slick confidence and uninvited familiarity. You didn’t bother looking up. You knew the rhythm of their footsteps too well by now. Ives, Reyes, Dipaolo — they came like a storm that had already decided where it wanted to land, all cracked grins and worn jackets and too much volume for a place this dead.

“Jesus, you look like someone ran over your dog,” Reyes drawled, sliding an empty barstool aside just to lean on it. “C’mon, don’t tell me you’re drinking that watered down garbage. That’s not how we do post-op, princess.”

Dipaolo thumped a heavy hand against your shoulder, half affection, half impact. You winced. Not because it hurt — though it did — but because you were trying so hard not to react.

“Lighten up, Langley,” he said, grinning like he’d won something. “You didn’t single-handedly lose the Cold War. You’re fine.”

Ives just chuckled, low and sharp, eyes scanning the dartboard beside your table. “Damn shame no one’s playin’. I’d bet good money she throws darts the same way she gathers intel. Horribly.”

You looked up through your lashes, trying to pretend the burn in your chest was something other than embarrassment. Or fury. You weren’t sure anymore. It had all started to blur together the second the Shadows walked in — no, the second he did.

Graves hadn’t said a word at first. Just watched the scene unfold with that unreadable glint in his eye, jaw loose, mouth curved like he was chewing on a secret. Then he moved — smooth, quiet — and slid into the booth beside you like he belonged there. His thigh pressed firm and warm against yours, no room to scoot away. The scent of leather and the faint trace of gun oil clung to his shirt, freshly laundered but still distinctly him.

You shifted, but he didn’t. He just draped his arm across the back of the booth, casual as sin, fingers brushing your shoulder. When the bartender finally shuffled over, Graves barely turned his head.

“Another round,” he said, voice low and solid. “Millers for the table, and—” he glanced at your half-finished margarita, then at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’ll have a real drink this time. Whiskey. Neat.”

You opened your mouth, already halfway to snapping something venom-laced, but he beat you to it. His hand tapped the edge of the table once — not hard, but sharp enough to quiet the words on your tongue.

“Sit down. Breathe. Drink.” His voice was flatter now, low and tight. “You’re not stormin’ a safehouse, you’re sittin’ in a bar. No one’s shootin’ at you, so calm the fuck down.”

Your mouth closed, jaw tight. The words stung more than they should have. Not because they were cruel, but because they were true. And you hated how easily he could disarm you. How the very sound of his voice dropped anchor right beneath your ribs.

The Shadows made themselves comfortable without needing permission. Reyes kicked his boots up on a nearby chair, Dipaolo helped himself to a basket of stale pretzels someone had left behind over at the next table, and Ives had already flagged down the bartender again for God knows what.

“So, boss,” Dipaolo started, leaning toward Graves with a grin, “you ever run another mission where your intel shows up three days too late and still expects a medal?”

Graves didn’t look at you — not exactly — but you could feel the smirk forming on his lips.

“Oh, don’t tease her,” Reyes chimed in, eyes sparkling. “She tried so hard. Probably even used coloured tabs in her little dossier.”

“Poor girl thought she’d break the case wide open,” Ives added, deadpan. “Instead we got an empty-ass warehouse and three rats fucking in a cardboard box.”

The table erupted in laughter.

You stared down at your new drink when it arrived — golden, sharp-smelling, amber clinging to the sides like it had weight to it. You hadn’t touched it yet. You weren’t sure if you were going to. Your pride was still sitting heavy on your tongue, and this little roast session wasn’t helping.

“Fuck all of you,” you muttered, lifting the glass anyway. “I should’ve told Halvorsen not to send you along.”

“Please,” Reyes scoffed. “You’d be dead in a day without us.”

You took a sip. It burned going down. Good. You needed something to hurt.

Graves turned his head then, finally letting his gaze land on you. That look again — too smug, too knowing, too close. His arm was still behind you, fingers now grazing the back of your neck, just barely.

“You always this much fun when you’re hurtin’, sweetheart?” he asked, drawl thick with amusement. “’Cause if so, I might start screwin’ up your missions on purpose.”

You glared at him, but your heart wasn’t in it. You could feel the heat rising under your skin again — not the kind from the whiskey.

“Try me,” you said, chin lifting, voice cut from defiance.

And Graves — oh, he smiled now. Real and slow, like he’d been waiting all night for you to bark back properly.

“Was hopin’ you’d say that.”

“God, you really are touchy tonight,” Reyes laughed, reaching over to ruffle your hair. You smacked his hand away, half-hearted, but he just chuckled and grabbed one of the paper menus from behind the napkin dispenser. “We ordering food, right? Ain’t no post-op drinks without greasy shit to soak it up.”

“I swear to Christ, if I see one fucking salad on that list—” Dipaolo started.

“Relax,” Ives cut in, already pointing at the laminated mess of offerings. “Wings, onion rings, chili fries, mozzarella sticks — look at this culinary excellence. Bet this is how Langley trains their analysts. All grease and caffeine.”

“Explains a lot,” Reyes muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You rolled your eyes so hard your skull ached. “You know I could kill you with a paperclip, right?”

Reyes raised his drink in a mock toast. “It’d be an honor, sweetheart.”

While they bickered over sauce choices and what level of heat qualified as “not for cowards,” Graves stayed beside you, his arm still stretched behind your shoulders. His hand brushed the base of your neck again when he shifted — not intentionally, maybe, but you felt it all the same. Felt the heat of him, solid and settled like he wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon. He hadn’t said much since ordering the whiskey, but now, with the others occupied and the bartender wandering back to the kitchen to call in the food, he turned slightly toward you, voice low and almost lazy.

“So,” he said, dragging out the word like molasses, “what’s next, Langley?”

You didn’t look at him right away. Instead, you let your head fall back against the booth with a sigh, the weight of the day pulling at your spine. The movement brought your temple against his forearm where it rested across the top of the booth. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move away.

“Please,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, “don’t talk about the fucking mission. I just wanna forget it happened.”

There was a brief pause. A shift in the air between you, something softer. Something with weight.

“Well,” Graves said eventually, “that can be arranged.”

The relief was instantaneous. As if saying it aloud gave you permission to let go of the last seventy-two hours and the barbed wire they’d wrapped around your chest. When you finally opened your eyes again, the others had moved. Reyes and Ives were crouched on the ground a few feet away, sweeping their hands beneath the dartboard and the surrounding tables. Dipaolo had found the missing darts from earlier and was now lining them up on the edge of a nearby stool like a man setting the table for war.

Reyes caught your eye. “You’re on deck after me,” he said, pointing a dart at you like a dagger.

“I’m not playing,” you called back.

“That’s what all losers say.”

You flipped him off, earning a dramatic gasp from Ives and a middle finger in return. Then the Shadows fell into their little game, each one pretending it wasn’t competitive while slowly becoming unhinged over scoring.

You and Graves stayed seated. Still pressed together on the vinyl booth, heat blooming where your legs touched. The table between you was littered with half-empty glasses and napkins someone had scribbled nonsense on, and he glanced at the mess, then back at you.

“So what do you wanna talk about?” he asked, arching a brow.

You turned toward him, resting your arm along the top of the booth too, touching his, mirroring his posture. You felt looser now, more yourself, which in your case usually meant being an insufferable little shit.

“I don’t know,” you said with mock sweetness. “Wanna tell me all about your tragic little backstory? What made the great Phillip Graves the way he is? Some girl break your heart in Texas?”

He snorted, eyes narrowing slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or offended. “Jesus. Right to the therapy questions, huh?”

“Well, I figured we’d skip the small talk,” you said, playing with the edge of your napkin. “We’ve already suffered together. Seems rude not to get to know each other now.”

Graves smirked, leaned back a little, his fingers tapping against the booth behind you. “Alright. You wanna know about my time in the Marines?”

You nodded, more serious now. “Yeah. I do.”

He was quiet for a beat. Choosing his words. You didn’t push. That surprised him, you could tell — he was used to you wanting his answers fast, or not at all.

“Joined right outta high school,” he said eventually, gaze fixed ahead, watching Reyes line up a dart with exaggerated focus. “Didn’t have much waitin’ for me back home. Small town. Real small. Not much but busted trucks and busted marriages.”

“Hence your accent.”

He glanced at you with a crooked smile. “What, you got a problem with it?”

“No,” you said, smiling back now, “I just think it’s convenient. You get away with more shit when you sound like sweet tea and church bells.”

Graves laughed — really laughed, low and rich and full in his chest. You didn’t realize how much you liked the sound of it until it lingered a second too long.

“Christ, you’re a piece of work,” he said, shaking his head. “Anyway. Did my time in the Corps. Recon. Loved the work. Hated the politics. Got out, figured if I was gonna keep gettin’ shot at, might as well make money doin’ it.”

“Shadow Company.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Built it up myself. Contracts rolled in, got the right people, cut the fat. Rest is classified.”

“Classified, huh?” You rested your chin in your hand, eyes narrowed. “That just your polite way of saying I don’t wanna talk about it, sweetheart?”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “But you say it with that mouth of yours, and somehow it sounds prettier.”

You felt that one land — a soft impact low in your stomach, more spark than punch, but still there. Still humming.

“You really don’t turn it off, do you?”

Graves leaned in a little, voice dipping just enough to send a chill down your spine. “Only when there’s nothin’ worth turnin’ it on for.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The air felt heavy between you again, heavy with the noise of the bar, the bad aim of the Shadows, the warmth of his arm behind you. You looked at him — really looked — and he met it, gaze steady, mouth twitching like he was seconds from saying something far worse.

You beat him to it.

“You ever get tired of hearing yourself flirt?”

Graves tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

“Nope.” He smirked, blinked, and took a sip of his beer. “But you keep givin’ me looks like that, and I might start thinkin’ it’s workin’.”

Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the noise of the bar around you softening into something almost warm, almost bearable. Or maybe it was just the weight of him sitting beside you, heat steady where his arm stretched behind your shoulders, fingers brushing faintly against the line of your neck every time he shifted. You’d been toeing the line all night — flirting, arguing, teasing — but now something quiet had crept beneath it. And your voice slipped out before you could stop it.

“This whole act of yours,” you said, gesturing vaguely at him, your fingers tracing the air in a lazy loop. “The charm. The slow drawl. The smug little smirk. You really think it’s gonna win me over, cowboy?”

There was a beat of silence. Then he let out a low laugh, settling deep in his chest and worked its way into your ribs before you could block it. His grin was lazy and crooked and entirely too pleased.

“Well,” he said, dragging the word out like it was meant to provoke, “you ain’t exactly runnin’ for the door, are you?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, but it didn’t have its usual bite. Because you weren’t. You were still pressed close, still half-leaning into the booth like his arm was something anchoring you. You hated that. Hated how easy it had become to fall into this rhythm with him. Like you hadn’t spent the last few months pretending he didn’t live under your skin, rattling around with his pouty lips and silver tongue.

“I’m not running,” you said slowly, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass, “because I haven’t finished my drink.”

“That so?” Graves murmured, tilting his head. “You sure that’s all it is?”

You didn’t answer right away. The joke was there, low-hanging, an easy path back into the safety of snark — but instead, you went quiet. The noise of the bar kept humming around you, Reyes shouting something about a bullseye, Ives groaning in protest, Dipaolo laughing too loud. And still, you stayed focused on the condensation sliding down the side of your glass.

Then, barely above the din: “I’m sorry.”

The words hung there, awkward and raw. Too soft. Too real. You didn’t look at him when you said them — you couldn’t — but you felt the way he stilled beside you. No more lazy fingers tapping the booth. No more smirking breath at your ear.

“I know we said no work talk,” you added, still staring at the table, “but I needed to say it. Tbilisi… that was on me. You shouldn’t’ve taken that bullet. I froze. I fucked up. And I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

Graves let out a slow exhale.

“You’re right,” he said, voice low. “We did say no work talk.”

“I know.” You finally looked at him then. “But I’m sayin’ it anyway. Because you’re not gonna hear it again. So enjoy it while it lasts.”

For a moment, there was something unreadable in his face — not the usual smugness, not amusement either. He looked at you like he couldn’t quite decide whether to take you seriously or not. Then his lips curled slowly, and that look came back, the one that made your skin heat in places you didn’t want to admit.

“Well hell,” he said, his voice dipping low again, that Southern warmth curling around the syllables like smoke, “if that’s the only time I’m gettin’ an apology from you, then I reckon you better make it count. Y’know, properly.”

You blinked. Felt the heat rise to your cheeks before you could stop it. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re deflectin’.”

“Fuck off.”

He grinned. “You like it.”

Before you could say something mean enough to wipe the smile off his face, Reyes returned with his arms full of food baskets like he was offering a feast to the gods. “Alright, degenerates, dinner is served.”

Ives followed, dropping down beside you with a groan. “I swear, I pulled something playing darts. My shoulder’s never gonna be the same.”

“You pulled your pride, maybe,” Dipaolo said, already digging into the fries. “That score was embarrassing. I’ve seen toddlers aim better.”

“You’ve been aimed at by toddlers,” Reyes added. “Remember Bucharest? That four-year-old with her sippy cup?”

“Fuck you. She had rage strength.”

You snorted into your drink, unable to hold it back. Something about the sheer ridiculousness of it, the banter, the ease. It shouldn’t have felt this light. You were surrounded by men who’d probably all killed more people than they’d saved, eating fried garbage in a no-name bar with the scent of hot sauce and beer clinging to the air — and yet it felt like breathing. For once.

“Here,” Ives said, nudging a basket of wings toward you, “get your protein, Langley. Might help you next time someone tries to shoot you.”

“Ha ha,” you muttered, grabbing one anyway. “Eat a dick.”

“You offering?”

Reyes practically choked on a fry, wheezing through a laugh. “Jesus. You walk right into it every time.”

“At least I have manners,” you said primly, licking hot sauce off your thumb. “Unlike you gremlins.”

Dipaolo raised his beer. “To gremlins then.”

Everyone clinked glasses. Even you.

⟡

The walk back to the motel stretched longer than the street it was on. The heat of the day still clung to the asphalt, rising in slow, ghostlike tendrils from the pavement, seeping into your boots and bones. Somewhere behind you, Reyes was singing — badly — and Ives kept interrupting to correct the lyrics, which only made him sing louder. Dipaolo barked a laugh that startled a dog behind a chain-link fence.

You should’ve been annoyed. Any other night, you would’ve snapped at them to shut the hell up. But instead, your shoulders had dropped somewhere along the walk, your chest loosening with every step away from the bar. The sounds of them felt oddly comforting, like radio static in another room — not intrusive, just there, proof that the world hadn’t fallen apart.

Graves matched your pace. Quiet beside you, like he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. It shouldn’t have felt so strange, but it did. You weren’t used to this silence with him. You were used to the bite of his voice, the smirk that came with every correction, the push and pull that defined nearly every interaction since Tbilisi. You weren’t used to him being still. Or kind. Or even just steady. It threw off your rhythm, made you aware of every inch of space between you. Not that there was much. Every time your hand swung a little wide, it brushed his. Every time your stride lengthened, he caught up. He didn’t try to touch you. He didn’t need to. He was close enough that you felt the weight of him anyway.

You didn’t know what it was — the whiskey, the heat, the fucking failure still sitting heavy in your chest — but something about his presence tonight had begun to feel less like a threat and more like gravity. Quiet and consistent, like he’d anchored you to the ground without meaning to. And that scared the hell out of you. Because comfort was a luxury, and Graves had never been safe.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself. You couldn’t let the softness settle without kicking it a little.

“So what’s your plan?” you asked, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, your voice light and needling. “Gonna walk me all the way to my door and hope I trip and fall into your lap?”

Graves didn’t even blink. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to end the night,” he said, voice low, casual, smooth like warm honey. “But I was thinkin’ more along the lines of you beggin’ me to stay.”

You scoffed and looked away, but your cheeks were hot, and he knew it. You could feel him watching you, feel the faint curl of his mouth without needing to see it. You hated that he could do that — get under your skin with just a few words and the slow slide of his voice. Hated it almost as much as you wanted more of it.

The motel was close — an old roadside dump with sun-faded doors and numbers that peeled off in strips. The paint was the colour of toothpaste left out too long, bleached by decades of Nevada sun. A flickering sign buzzed above the office, the Y in VACANCY sputtering weakly like it was on life support. A single row of rooms stretched out in both directions, all with the same rickety screen doors and blinds drawn crooked behind dusty glass.

Reyes and the others stopped a few feet ahead, clustered near the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool. The water shimmered under the yellowed floodlights, still and clear, untouched since probably the beginning of summer.

“Fuck it,” Reyes muttered, peeling his shirt off over his head. “It’s hot as hell. I’m goin’ in.”

“You’re drunk,” Ives said automatically, already following him.

“And I swim better when I’m drunk,” Reyes replied, kicking his boots into the grass.

“I believe that,” Dipaolo called out, toeing off his own shoes. “You float like shit.”

You paused, watching them climb the fence one by one, the metal creaking under their weight. They were a mess. Sloppy, loud, reckless. And they were yours. If only for tonight. The thought hit you with something sharp and bittersweet — the rare ache of something resembling camaraderie, something you hadn’t felt since before the badge around your neck meant anything. You lingered a moment longer, then turned back toward your door.

Graves followed without being asked.

He didn’t say anything until you stopped in front of your room. You stood there with your key in hand, heart drumming too fast, pulse loud in your ears. The porch light above your door cast him in amber and shadow, cutting across the strong line of his jaw, glinting off the metal buttons on his shirt. He looked at home here, somehow. With you. Just with you.

“So,” he said, that low voice settling in your gut like smoke, “you gonna let me in? Or you just gonna make me stand out here, wonderin’ what I did wrong?”

You turned the key in the lock but didn’t open the door.

“I don’t remember inviting you,” you said, quiet, not quite teasing.

“I figured I earned it,” he murmured, stepping just a fraction closer. “Took a bullet for you, didn’t I? Thought you wanted to thank me properly.”

There was heat behind the words, slow, smouldering. You felt it bloom low in your stomach. The air between you shifted, tightened, pulled taut with something unspoken but understood. You knew you shouldn’t. You knew exactly what this was, how messy it could get, how wrong it would look in the morning. But all that logic, all that hard-earned self-preservation, felt distant right now. Like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Because you wanted him.

Not just in theory. Not in passing.

You wanted his hands, rough and sure, skimming up beneath your shirt, wanted the press of his hips and the heat of his breath against your throat. You wanted to taste what that smirk felt like under your mouth, what that drawl sounded like when it was broken by pleasure instead of banter. You wanted the weight of him pushing you back against the door, his fingers digging into your waist, his voice low in your ear asking if this was what you’d been thinking about since Tbilisi.

Because it was.

You swallowed hard, chest tight.

“You’re real proud of that wound, huh?” you asked, bolder now. “Want me to kiss it better?”

Graves smiled slowly, crookedly.

“Somethin’ like that.”

You stared at him. Your fingers hovered over the handle. Then, without another word, you turned the knob and stepped inside, leaving the door open behind you.

[cod-imagines]

imagine #4

character: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick words: 3922 cw: 18+, slight blood description: in which you're a new field medic assigned to TF-141 and Kyle is running out of excuses to come see you (requested by the lovely @mommymarz) a/n: thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged my last three fics!! you guys have no idea how much it means :’)

The medbay still felt oddly strange to you — bright enough to banish shadows but sterile enough to breed discomfort. It smelled perpetually of antiseptic and metal, tinged with the distant, sharp scent of bleach lingering in the corners. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, casting a cold glow that seemed to drain the warmth from your fingertips. On the other side of the wall, muffled footsteps echoed, reminding you just how isolated your corner of the base really was.

You sat perched on the edge of a cot, hunched slightly forward, sleeves rolled up just above your elbows. Latex gloves hugged your fingers snugly, squeaking slightly as you arranged gauze pads and antiseptic wipes into color-coded bins. You sorted methodically, rhythmically, trying to find comfort in the routine.

But even routine couldn't fully quiet the anxious hum in the back of your mind, the constant, whispered reminders of your own inexperience. Fresh-faced and new, they'd called you. You heard it even more in the words they didn't say — the subtle hesitations when assigning you to an op, the careful sidelong glances exchanged between seasoned operators when you gave instructions. They treated you as delicate, something to be sheltered rather than trusted, a medic who'd only ever practiced textbook stitches rather than sewn flesh back together in the dust of a battlefield.

A sudden, sharp rap at the open door jolted you from your thoughts, scattering gauze onto the cold floor.

“Easy there, doc.” The voice was smooth and familiar, edged in gentle amusement. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

Your head snapped up, heart still stuttering unevenly in your chest, to find Gaz leaning against the doorway. His presence alone seemed to fill the sterile, empty space with warmth. He was dressed casually, off-duty fatigues smudged with dirt and sweat from training, his tactical shirt unzipped halfway down his chest, the silver gleam of dog tags catching the harsh medbay lights. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the lean, defined muscles of his forearms, dusted with faint scars and fresh scrapes. A smirk tugged gently at the corner of his mouth, eyes warm with amusement as he watched you.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, embarrassment at being startled mixing with something else — something deeper you couldn't quite name.

“You really need to stop sneaking around like that,” you said, trying for annoyance but failing spectacularly.

Gaz chuckled softly, low and easy. “Wasn’t sneaking. You’re just jumpy, is all. Practicing emergency surgery on air again?” He pushed himself upright, stepping further into the room and taking a slow look around. His gaze lingered on the neatly stocked shelves, the immaculate surfaces, the perfectly sterile silence. “Not exactly lively down here, is it? No wonder you're nervous.”

“I wasn’t nervous,” you protested half-heartedly, bending to pick up the scattered gauze pads. “Just startled. Big difference.”

Gaz raised an eyebrow but didn't argue, leaning his hip against the cot beside you, studying you quietly. When you straightened, you caught sight of a small trickle of blood running down his arm.

“You’re bleeding,” you said immediately, the medic in you snapping back into place. You reached instinctively, gripping his wrist gently, lifting it into the pale white of the fluorescent lighting. The cut wasn't deep, just a shallow scrape, but it sent a protective pang through your chest anyway.

“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, peering down as if surprised by the injury. “Didn't even feel it.”

“You never do,” you sighed, releasing him reluctantly to fetch antiseptic and bandages. “You should pay more attention, Kyle. You know better.”

He grinned crookedly, tilting his head. “Maybe I just needed an excuse to come visit.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't suppress a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “You don’t need to injure yourself every time you want to see me.”

“You sure?” he teased, eyes twinkling as he watched you return. “Seems like the easiest way to grab your attention nowadays. You've been quiet lately.”

You ignored the implication, pressing a fresh cloth soaked in antiseptic to his arm. He hissed sharply through clenched teeth, though you knew it barely stung. You fought to hide your smile at the exaggeration.

“Stop whining,” you scolded lightly. “This is nothing.”

“For you, maybe,” Gaz shot back, voice threaded with mischief. He winced again — overly theatrical this time — as you dabbed antiseptic near the shallow cut on his forearm. His expression was exaggerated, brows raised in mock offense, but his eyes never left your face. “Think you’re enjoyin’ this a bit too much, yeah?”

You snorted under your breath, trying to stay focused, but it was impossible not to match his smile. Still, something must’ve shifted in your expression — too quick to catch, but not quick enough to hide from him — because the next moment, his teasing faded. The lines around his mouth softened, his voice lowering with an almost imperceptible gentleness.

“But really,” he said, the humour slipping away like smoke. “Everything alright? You can talk to me. You know that, yeah?”

The shift in tone stopped you cold. Your hands stilled, latex-clad fingers pressed lightly to the heat of his skin. The warmth of him bled through the gloves, grounding and steadying in a way you hadn’t expected. You were suddenly hyper-aware of the pulse beneath your touch, of the stillness that had bloomed between you both — quiet, charged, and far too intimate.

Your throat tightened. “It’s nothing serious,” you said after a beat, barely above a whisper. You kept your eyes on his arm, on the faint trace of veins beneath the surface, the small, fading scars you’d never asked about. “I just — I hate this feeling. Like I’m constantly being monitored. Watched over. Like I haven’t earned the right to breathe on my own yet.”

You didn’t mean for the bitterness to creep into your voice, but it did. And Gaz — Kyle — didn’t flinch. He only looked at you, long and steady, and when he spoke, his voice was low and sure.

“Trust takes time,” he said. “Especially in this line of work. But believe me when I say — you’ve got more grit than half the blokes who’ve been doin’ this longer than you. Anyone with sense’ll see that.”

You blinked. Your gaze flicked upward before you could stop it, and the breath caught sharp in your chest. He was close — close enough that you could make out the very subtle freckling across the bridge of his nose, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. His eyes, that steady brown, were bright in the fluorescent light, warm and unwavering. You'd always known him to be calm under pressure, quick with a joke, easy to trust. But this? This felt like something quieter. Truer.

“You believe in me,” you murmured, not really meaning to say it aloud.

His mouth curved into a softer smile then, tenderness flickering at the edges. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I do. And eventually, they will too. You just keep showin’ up like you’ve been doin’. That’s all it takes.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the sting of unshed emotion in your throat. The moment stretched, unbearably fragile, like a glass about to tip. The hum of the room faded to the background — the overhead lights, the distant echo of boots down the corridor, the static-filled radios — until it was just him. Just you. Just the heat of his skin and the silence of everything you couldn’t say.

“Thank you,” you breathed, fingers brushing once more against his arm before you withdrew them, the absence of contact sudden and almost aching. “I needed that more than I thought.”

Gaz said nothing at first, just reached calmly for his sleeve and rolled it down again, his eyes unreadable but still resting on your face. Then, as if the heaviness of the moment had grown too heavy to hold, he exhaled lightly and let the teasing edge back into his voice.

“Anytime, kid. Gotta keep an eye on you, don’t I?”

You gave a half-hearted glare, your lips twitching. “I’m not a kid.”

“Mm,” he said, already rising to his feet. “Whatever you say, rookie.”

You shoved at his shoulder with a bit more force than necessary, your palm catching the curve of his bicep through the fabric of his rolled-down sleeve. It was meant to be playful, and it was, but the heat that rushed to your face — warm and uncontrollable — betrayed something else entirely. He laughed then, full-bodied and open, the kind of laugh that echoed off the sterile concrete walls and made the whole room feel less like a bunker and more like a place you could breathe in. It settled around you like sunlight, effortless and grounding, and you found yourself grinning without restraint, your earlier tension unraveling by degrees.

It was easy to forget the weight you’d been carrying until it started to lift.

Kyle moved toward the door with unhurried ease. But just as he reached the threshold, he paused and half-turned, one hand braced against the frame. The overhead light cut a soft line across his cheek, outlining the strong shape of his jaw, the way his expression had melted into something familiar and fond.

“Mess hall later?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes catching yours. “You shouldn’t hole up in here all the time. Bad for morale, y’know?”

Your heart lifted, just a little. Just enough.

You nodded, quicker than before, no hesitation this time. “Yeah,” you said, smiling up at him. “I’ll be there.”

His grin deepened, a flash of white teeth and mischief, but the softness never left his eyes. “Good,” he said easily, pushing off the doorway. “I’ll save you a seat.”

And then he winked — cheeky and warm — and slipped into the hallway. The whole place felt colder when he was gone.

⟡

The day had already begun its slow descent into dusk by the time the medbay door creaked open again. A slant of gold spilled through the threshold like a benediction, catching on the floor tiles and bleeding warm light into the corners of the otherwise sterile room. It cut through the clinical brightness, softening the hard lines of steel cabinets and white walls, wrapping the space in something almost gentle, almost forgiving. You paused mid-motion, one gloved hand hovering over a tray of sealed syringes, the soft rattle of plastic against metal the only sound for miles.

Then came the sound. Faint at first, but familiar. A slow, uneven cadence of boots down the corridor — one foot heavier than the other, dragging slightly. Limping. You turned before your brain even fully processed it, your body reacting on instinct. You knew that gait. You’d stitched it up more than once.

There he was.

Gaz stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette haloed by the descending light behind him. For a heartbeat, he didn’t seem entirely real, more apparition than man, carved from shadow and sun. His shoulders slouched with the exhaustion of long hours and hard ground, his shirt clinging to his frame in patches where sweat had soaked through. Dirt smeared across his jawline and throat, a mix of soot and sand, the aftermath of whatever hell he’d just crawled out of. And on his right thigh, vivid even in the dimming light, a dark stain had bloomed — blood, thick and drying, stark against the fabric of his fatigues.

Your stomach twisted. That old, sharp cocktail of worry and adrenaline.

He gave you a crooked half-smile, wincing as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Doc,” he greeted, his voice hoarse. “Think I’ve earned myself a proper visit this time.”

Your heart kicked once, hard. You didn’t answer right away. Just moved automatically, like muscle memory. Crossing the room with purpose even as your thoughts tangled in a mess of concern and dread.

“You’re hurt,” you said, reaching for him without thinking, the cool snap of latex gloves already forgotten as your hands ghosted toward the blood-streaked fabric. His arm brushed yours, solid and warm beneath the grime. You tried to stay clinical. Detached. But you saw it now — the subtle grimace he hadn’t let show when he was standing in the light, the tautness in his jaw, the way he favored one leg even as he tried to act like nothing was wrong.

He shrugged, but it came out tighter than usual. “Caught a round. During exfil,” he said, like he was reciting the grocery list. “Just a graze.”

You shot him a look, nudging him toward the cot with a hand on his elbow. “Kyle, that’s not a graze. Your whole damn leg looks like a crime scene.”

He let you guide him, sitting down heavily with a low grunt, like his bones had been waiting for permission to rest. “Didn’t say it was nothing,” he countered, tone light but breathless. “Just not as bad as it looks. Been through worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to ignore it,” you muttered, already scanning the wound, already cataloguing every sign of trauma. You reached for the gloves again, snapping them on with more force than necessary. “Pants off.”

There was a beat. Then a low chuckle.

“Didn’t realize you’d be so forward about it,” he said, looking up at you through dark lashes, mouth curved in a lazy grin that didn’t quite hide the tension in his shoulders. “Let a man catch his breath first, yeah?”

You arched a brow, half-exasperated, half-grateful he could still joke through the pain. “I can knock you out if you prefer. Easier for me.”

“Tempting,” he mused. “But I’d rather stay awake. Hate missin’ your bedside manner.”

You sighed through your nose, shaking your head as you turned your back politely, giving him the illusion of privacy while grabbing your sutures and disinfectant. But you still caught the soft rustle of fabric behind you, the unmistakable sound of a belt unbuckling, the dull thump of boots being kicked aside.

When you turned back to him, he was already perched on the edge of the cot, his trousers in a wrinkled heap around his boots, long legs stretched out in front of him. His boxers clung stubbornly to his hips, riding high enough to border on indecent, though you forced yourself not to stare too long. The wound was worse up close — an ugly, ragged gash where the bullet had kissed the outer thigh and torn its way through flesh, the edges inflamed, glistening, still weeping in sluggish, steady beads. Not life-threatening, no, but deep enough to ache for days. Deep enough to scar.

You approached with steady, practiced steps, though your heartbeat had begun to roar in your ears like wind through a tunnel — that slow, rhythmic thrum that made everything else feel far away. You told yourself it was the adrenaline. The focus. The years of training. But none of that explained the strange ache in your chest, or the sudden awareness of the man in front of you not as a patient, but as something else entirely.

He was warm. Always was. Even in the antiseptic chill of the medbay, his presence radiated heat like sun-warmed stone. The scent of him comforted you — dust and smoke and something faintly metallic, like gunpowder just after discharge. Sweat clung to the hollow of his throat, traced down the hard line of his chest where his shirt met skin. And still, despite the blood, despite the pain, he looked at you with that same maddening calm. Like this was routine. Like he wasn’t bleeding all over your cot.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he said after a beat, his voice low and roughened with exhaustion. His gaze followed you as you took your place beside him, slow and steady. “Everything alright down there?”

You swallowed and cleared your throat, blinking yourself back to the present. “Just focusing,” you murmured, keeping your voice neutral, clinical. “Try not to move.”

Gaz didn’t argue. Didn’t joke. Just nodded once, letting the moment stretch thin as you began your work.

The antiseptic stung sharply as it met the torn skin, but he barely flinched. You pressed gauze to the edges of the wound, trying not to notice the firmness of his thigh beneath your palm, the way the muscle twitched slightly under your fingers. He was all heat and tension — a live wire beneath your touch — and yet he didn’t look away. His gaze was trained on you now, less playful than before. Attentive.

“You’ve done this before,” you noticed, needing to say something, anything, to cut the silence.

“Had to patch myself up a few times,” he replied, voice faintly distant, like the memory lingered somewhere just behind his teeth. “Didn’t have a medic around. Improvised with a bottle of gin and a sewing kit.”

You glanced up, arching a brow. “Effective.”

“Painful,” he corrected with a ghost of a smile. “You are much easier on the eyes.”

The corners of your mouth twitched, but you didn’t meet his gaze. You couldn’t — not with how steady it was. Not with how aware you were of every breath between you. “You should’ve found me earlier.”

His reply came softer, closer, his voice barely above a murmur. “You’re right. I was missing out.”

For a single, unguarded second, your hands stilled.

You could feel it then — the weight in the air between you, thick, suffocating. The kind of charged quiet that only ever bloomed in these in-between moments. Between blood and bandages. Between battle and rest. Between him and you.

You said nothing. Just returned to the task, your hands slower now. Each stitch pulled the skin together with quiet precision, the neat loops a strange kind of intimacy. His thigh tensed once under your palm, a ripple of movement you steadied with a firm touch, your gloved hand flexing instinctively.

Don’t think about the heat. Don’t think about the way his breath caught in his chest. Don’t think about how close he is.

“Keep talking,” you warned, trying to keep your voice dry, “and I’ll stitch your leg to the cot.”

Gaz huffed a laugh, his smile breaking through again — tired, but genuine. “Kinky,” he said, the word slipping out with a little too much ease.

You rolled your eyes, but the flush in your cheeks betrayed you. You stitched the final loop, careful and clean, but part of you was already bracing for what came next — the part where he left. The part where the quiet settled in again, cold and hollow. Because the truth was, as much as you pretended otherwise, you didn’t mind when he came back torn and battered like this. You didn’t mind being the one he came to when the pain caught up. Because it meant he was alive. And it meant, even for a moment, that he was yours to care for.

You rolled your eyes — or tried to, half-heartedly — as your fingers tied off the last neat knot in the suture. The thread pulled the wound closed with a final, decisive tug, and your hands stilled there for a breath too long, gloved fingertips brushing against his skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him even through the barrier — something strangely grounding, painfully human. The moment clung to you like static.

“There,” you said at last, but your voice had dropped without you meaning it to, softened into something almost reluctant. “All done.”

Still, Gaz didn’t move. He just let his head tip back against the wall behind him with a quiet exhale, his shoulders sagging as if the adrenaline had finally drained from his limbs. The line of his throat flexed once as he swallowed, and the breath he let out was deeper than before, a wordless surrender to stillness.

“Appreciate it, doc,” he murmured, the teasing in his tone gentled now, worn down by fatigue. “Always feel better after your magic touch.”

You shook your head, peeling off your gloves with slow, careful movements and tossing them into the nearby bin. “You mean after your reckless disregard for bodily safety?”

He cracked one eye open, a smirk tugging lazily at the corner of his mouth. “Semantics.”

But you didn’t rise to it this time. The golden light filtering through the high windows had begun to fade, giving way to dusk — deeper, quieter, the kind of blue that pooled in corners and clung to edges. It softened the sharp lines of the medbay, washed everything in that strange between-light that made the world feel a little less real. The room felt warmer now. Close. Thick with the lingering scent of antiseptic and sweat, and beneath it — faint, but familiar — the scent of him.

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders tight with something you hadn’t let yourself name. “I don’t like seeing you come back like this,” you said, barely above a whisper. You hadn’t planned to say it. The words just fell out, unguarded, raw, as though they’d been waiting for a moment like this to surface.

That caught his attention. Gaz’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, his posture shifting, just a quiet recalibration. Something in his gaze turned serious, the smirk fading, the mask slipping.

“I’ll always come back,” he said, and this time there was no teasing in his voice.

You looked at him then, really looked. Past the sweat-damp hair and the dust-smudged skin, past the flirtation and bravado. You saw the man beneath it all, the man who never let the mission show on his face, who cracked jokes to hold back the weight of everything he'd carried. You saw the exhaustion and the resolve. The quiet strength of someone who kept showing up anyway. Not just for the job. But for you.

The silence stretched, full of everything you didn’t know how to say.

And then, with perfect timing — like always — Gaz let the mood break before it could press too hard on either of you. “Will you keep me company during dinner later?” he offered, voice light but careful, like he knew the weight of what had just passed between you. “I owe you something sweet.”

You let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “You bribing me now?”

He shrugged one shoulder, still resting against the wall, his expression tipping back toward playfulness. “I’m thanking you. Like a proper gentleman.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to go, but because you knew you did. Because you could already feel the quiet flutter of anticipation blooming in your chest, small and impossible to suppress. You studied him for another beat, then nodded once.

“Alright,” you said, your tone light but your smile real — faint, tired, but real. “But only if you limp dramatically so everyone asks what happened.”

He barked a short laugh and finally began pulling his pants back on with a low hiss of discomfort, his breath catching slightly as the fabric dragged over the fresh stitches. Still, he grinned through it, flashing you that crooked smile that always landed just a little too deep behind your ribs.

“Deal,” he said, buttoning the waistband and standing with a careful stretch. “I’ll tell ‘em that cute medic we got patched me right up.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched as he made his way to the door, slower than usual but still somehow unbothered, his silhouette haloed by the last traces of evening light. He didn’t look back. But the warmth of him — the sound of his voice, the smell of him, the weight of that moment — lingered long after the door clicked shut behind him.

[cod-imagines]

imagine #3

character: Keegan P. Russ words: 11491 cw: 18+, drinking, sexual content, some light smut, bit of angst description: final part of this fic (AU in which Keegan is an F1 pilot). a/n: highly requested so I hope it’s as good as the first part!! I got kind of carried away with the word count lol someone stop me from YAPPING so much :’)

The Mexico City air felt like paper and bone the moment you stepped off the tarmac — brittle, dry, and ancient in a way that Montreal hadn’t been. There, the air had felt soft, wet with river-slicked summer, humid with possibility. Here, everything seemed sharper. Thinner. The altitude tugged at your lungs with invisible fingers, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind you: this city sits in the sky. You could feel it already in your temples, a slight tightness behind the eyes, like you were walking through someone else’s memory — one you hadn’t been invited into. The scent of diesel and dust coiled in the air, underscored by the faint tang of marigolds from some unseen roadside altar. A city layered in colour and noise, already alive with late October rituals.

The SUV’s door shut with a hiss behind you, soft leather creaking as you slid into the seat, the heavy thump of the lock clicking into place before you’d even fastened your belt. The convoy moved almost immediately, fluid and silent, two blacked-out vehicles hugging yours on either side like shadows with engines. You barely noticed the jolt of motion — you were too aware of Keegan sitting beside you.

He looked like he belonged here. Or maybe not here, exactly, but anywhere he chose. One arm slung along the back of the seat, body turned slightly towards the window, fingers ghosting the glass with absent-minded precision. He wasn’t restless, not quite. More like contained energy, compressed and humming just under the surface. He wore black — again — but the fabric tonight had structure to it. His shirt hugged the lines of his body without clinging, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’d done it mid-thought, revealing warm, sun-kissed skin and the sharp glint of his watch each time the streetlights caught it. There was a clean, decisive kind of beauty in him tonight. Not soft, not even particularly inviting — just undeniably Keegan.

Neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t awkward. It never was. But the silence sat between you like a held breath, like the pause between lightning and thunder. You’d gotten used to this — the stillness that lived in the cracks of whatever it was you were doing with each other. The rhythm of non-questions. The comfortable throb of something unnamed. You’d stopped needing to define it weeks ago. What was the point? He texted you when he wanted you there, and you never said no. You shared beds. Shared cities. Sometimes shared secrets — but never anything too sharp, too permanent. It was what it was.

Outside, Mexico City burned past the window in streaks of neon and blurred gold. The streets were chaotic and beautiful, every corner spilling over with life: teenagers on mopeds weaving through traffic, mercados spilling light and heat into the dark, papel picado strung between old balconies like veins, fluttering in the wind like they were trying to whisper something. The scent of fried masa and engine grease mixed with incense and dust. There were murals on every corner, some faded, some defiant in fresh paint — saints with tired eyes, skulls grinning in technicolour. A city preparing for the dead.

“Have you been here before?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be, pulled low by the hush of the car.

Keegan didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the window, narrowed slightly, as if he were trying to parse something from the movement outside. When he did turn to look at you, the city light caught just beneath his jaw — casting a slice of gold along his high cheekbone, framing the dark bruise of his lashes, the slight crease between his brows. He looked a little older tonight. A little more real.

“Couple times,” he said. His voice was scratchy and deep — not tired, exactly, just worn-in. “Raced here last year. Press stuff before that.”

You studied the shape of his mouth as he spoke, the way he always seemed to choose each word with care even when he wasn’t trying. You nodded. “So you know what you’re doing.”

He gave a dry little breath through his nose. “Usually.” Then — a beat, his voice lower, “Doesn’t make it easier.”

You turned your head slightly, watching him. “The race?”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. Faint, sardonic. “The rest of it.”

You didn’t press. Just watched the city pour itself around the SUV like honey in a jar — thick and slow, catching everything. You passed a mural of dancing skeletons tangled in garlands of orange and red, their painted hands stretched towards the sky like they were still reaching for something they’d never catch. Keegan looked out at them with a face like smoke, hard to read, impossible to hold.

You shifted in your seat, tucking one leg underneath you, angling your body slightly towards him without making a show of it. “What’s the schedule tonight?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light. Conversational. Not curious. Not possessive.

He exhaled, a breath through clenched teeth. “Welcome event. Some media stuff. Sponsors want pictures, interviews, handshakes, fake smiles. Same shit, different country.” He said it like it was already boring him. Like it wasn’t even worth being irritated by.

You quirked a brow. “Sounds thrilling.”

He turned his head then, met your gaze fully for the first time since the car started. “You can come,” he said. Flat. Simple. “If you want.”

You hesitated, just long enough for the silence to stretch, then shrugged one shoulder, all ease and deflection. “And be your mysterious unnamed plus-one? Sounds like a PR nightmare waiting to happen.”

The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “They already think I’m fucking someone.” His tone didn’t shift. “Might as well be you.”

The words hit like a pebble in still water, small, but enough to ripple everything. You swallowed against the sudden dryness in your mouth. “Jesus,” you murmured.

Keegan tilted his head, studied you, eyes unblinking. “Too much?”

“No,” you said, after a pause that felt longer than it was.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you. The quiet returned, but it wasn’t soft anymore. It was heavy. It sank between you like a stone. You could feel the warmth of his thigh against yours, the slow tap of his thumb on his knee, a rhythm that didn’t quite match the music of the city outside. He was somewhere else already, you could tell. Not fully in the car. Not fully with you. Already calculating something. Already racing.

You let your eyes trace the curve of his forearm, the way his fingers flexed when he turned his wrist. Hands made for control. For grip. For throttle and pressure and precision. You wondered if he touched everything like that — measured, firm, intentional. You knew how he touched you, of course. But there was something different about seeing him like this, quiet and unreadable, with the city flickering past and something almost mournful in the lines of his mouth.

“Keegan,” you said softly, before you even knew what you meant to say.

He looked at you. Just looked.

You opened your mouth — and closed it. The question you meant to ask shrank under his gaze. So instead, you asked the safer one. The easier one. “You nervous?”

His answer came almost immediately. A low scoff, barely a sound. “Nah.”

You waited.

He glanced at you, eyes glinting. “I’ve won every race since Montreal,” he said. “Pressure’s not the problem.”

You studied him. The angle of his jaw. The way his voice dropped when he was tired of pretending.

“Then what is?” you asked.

And this time, he didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence pool around your question.

The convoy slowed, and ahead of you, the hotel came into view — tall and white and softly lit like a wedding cake in the dark.

But Keegan didn’t look away from you. And for a moment, it almost felt like he might tell you.

But he didn’t.

The SUV eased beneath the hotel’s grand canopy with an effortless glide, its engine humming a low, indulgent purr. Outside, the city clung to itself — warm and breathy and saturated with noise that didn’t belong to any one place. Mexico City at night was a beautiful fever dream: the air thick with dust and diesel, with horns in the distance and the low thrum of bass from a club several blocks away. Even standing still, the world felt like it was vibrating just under your skin.

Keegan’s door opened first — of course it did. He moved like someone who had already memorized the layout of the night, already decided what he would give and what he would keep for himself. You scrambled to follow, your bag catching slightly on the seatbelt as you slid out, the warm air hitting your face like a wall of breath. You barely had time to process the gleam of the stone façade in front of you before you felt it — that ripple. That slow shift in the atmosphere. Like a current catching the hem of your jacket.

The first click came softly. Then another. Then the quick, staccato flutter of phone cameras like moths snapping their wings against glass.

It wasn’t chaos, not this time. His team had arrived early, before the press vans and the clusterfuck of traveling fans who made a sport out of loitering in hotel lobbies. But still, they were there. A handful of girls, maybe four or five, hovering near the edge of the reception area like ghosts waiting for a sign. One wore a Mercedes jacket two sizes too big; another had her phone already up, recording on instinct. The flash bounced off the marble floor, sharp and cold and ephemeral.

You kept your head down, trying to make yourself smaller, letting your hair fall just enough to shield the corners of your face. It never mattered what you wore — right now it was just jeans, a jacket, scuffed sneakers from the terminal walk — you could still feel their eyes. Not cruel. Not even malicious. Just curious. Curious in the way girls are when they’ve memorized every inch of a man from the glow of their phones but know nothing about the woman standing next to him.

You didn’t understand what they whispered in Spanish, but you didn’t need to. It was always the same. Always some variation of Is that her? or God, she doesn’t look like I thought she would.

Keegan didn’t slow down.

His stride didn’t shift, his posture didn’t stiffen. He moved like someone walking through a ghost town, untouched by the noise around him. No glances, no acknowledgements. He never gave them anything — not even a polite nod — and somehow, that only made the staring worse. It wasn’t arrogance. It was detachment, practiced and perfect, like he could turn off parts of himself with just a thought.

You had to speed up just to keep pace, the slap of your shoes against the polished floor reminding you of how out of your depth you always felt in places like this — too loud, too visible, too much like a tourist.

The check-in desk was carved from stone, sleek and lit from beneath, glowing like something sacred. The concierge didn’t even blink when he saw Keegan. Just smiled, sharp and deferential, and handed over the keycards with a kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty or rockstars. You weren’t introduced. You didn’t offer your name. The silence between you and Keegan had already made it clear: this wasn’t the kind of relationship that needed labels.

The elevator was mercifully empty. It closed around you like a glass capsule, rising slow and silent towards the top floor. Your reflection shimmered across the polished chrome walls, fragmented and ghostlike. You caught glimpses of Keegan in the mirror — the rigid set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the way he flexed and relaxed his hand like he needed to feel the tension leave his body but couldn’t figure out how.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

When the doors opened again, the hallway was drowned in soft, buttery light, the carpeting thick enough to mute the sound of your footsteps. Gold fixtures cast long, oil-slick shadows across the walls. The whole place smelled like eucalyptus and wealth — manufactured serenity, bought and bottled. You felt, not for the first time, like you were walking into someone else’s life.

The suite was obscene.

It was the kind of room that looked like it had been designed for royalty but was secretly meant for men like him. Soft, neutral walls wrapped around dark wood and brass accents; wide windows let the city spill in through the glass like molten silver. The terrace doors were slightly ajar, letting in the faint, distant sounds of the street below — the wail of a siren somewhere far off, the cough of a motorcycle engine cutting across traffic.

You stood there for a moment, your bag falling forgotten to the floor, just letting it all wash over you. The scale of it. The stillness. The sense that even your breathing might be too loud here.

Keegan moved behind you — dropped his duffel at the bench with a low thud, slid off his jacket and slung it across the back of an emerald velvet chair like he’d done it a thousand times before. His phone was already in his hand, thumb swiping absently across the screen, his body half-turned away. Like the room meant nothing. Like it was just another stop, another place to rest before the next circuit.

You drifted towards the window, fingertips trailing along the edge of the glossy nightstand, eyes drawn to the city spread below. It pulsed and flickered like a sleeping giant — headlight constellations, rooftop pools glowing blue in the dark, planes blinking red over the mountains. A million lives carried on beneath you, completely unaware of your smallness, your silence, your closeness to him.

And then you turned.

And froze.

Keegan was standing at the minibar. One hand braced casually against the edge, the other holding a small glass bottle. His fingers twisted the cap without thinking, knuckles tight, movements practiced, bringing it to his lips. Tequila.

And it stopped you cold.

It wasn’t that you cared if he drank. It was the fact that he never did. Not during race weeks. Not that first night in Montreal when you’d sat across from him with a pint and he’d only sipped from his water glass, face unreadable, mouth twisting into a grin that never quite reached his eyes. You’d never asked why. You’d just noticed. Memorized it.

But now, here he was. Keegan Russ. Reaching for tequila.

Your heart stuttered once, hard.

“Hey,” you said, gently. Like you didn’t want to scare him off. Like he was something skittish and wild.

He didn’t answer right away. Just turned the bottle over in his hand after emptying it, letting it catch the light. His thumb smoothed over the label. The movement was too slow. Too charged.

You stepped closer. “Everything okay?”

You didn’t mean it as a throwaway question. Not this time. Not after the look on his face in the car. Not after the way he hadn’t answered you, hadn’t finished the thought about what was really bothering him. You thought maybe this was it. The moment. The opening. You thought maybe if you were careful enough — soft enough — he’d give you something.

But then he turned to face you.

And the air changed.

His eyes were ice — glacial and impossibly clear — and the moment they locked on yours, your throat went tight. He looked at you like you were interrupting something. Like you had no idea what you’d just stepped into.

Then, without a word, he closed the distance between you. One firm hand at your shoulder, the other still holding the bottle. He didn’t say a thing. Didn’t ask permission.

He just pushed. You barely had time to catch your breath.

Your knees had just hit the edge of the bed, the mattress sighing beneath your weight, and then Keegan was there, dropping to the floor like gravity had demanded it. Like he belonged there.

The soft thud of his knees against the carpet was too quiet for how loud everything suddenly felt inside your body. He didn’t look up. He didn’t speak. Just reached for the waistband of your jeans with the kind of focus you were more used to seeing behind the wheel — tension in his jaw, brow pulled tight, steel blue eyes shadowed beneath his lashes as if this moment required utmost focus.

You felt his fingers slide beneath the denim and pause for half a second, just long enough for doubt to slip in.

“Keegan—” Your voice cracked as you said it. Low. Unsteady. “I’ve been on a flight all day, I — God, I didn’t expect—”

His hands flexed, pulling your jeans and panties down in one fluid motion. Past your hips, your thighs, your knees — slow enough to make your heart stutter, but fast enough to feel like a decision he’d made long before stepping into this room. Your socks caught at your ankles awkwardly, but he didn’t flinch. He just dragged them off like they were an afterthought and tossed them aside.

The cool air hit your skin, and you burned. Not from the temperature, but from the awareness of everything. Of your own body, imperfect and travel-worn. Of the vulnerability of being half-undressed in front of a man who rarely let you see him stripped down. Of the way his eyes finally lifted and settled on you like you were something wild caught in headlights.

“You’ve got things to do,” you said softly, trying to laugh, trying to tether yourself to something normal. “Remember? The press stuff?”

Keegan’s hands slid up your bare thighs, rough and warm. His thumbs pressed into the tender insides like he was testing where you were most breakable.

“I know,” he said. Just that.

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, and unrelenting. Tongue parting you without preamble, without hesitation, dragging through your folds like he was tasting something he’d been starving for. You gasped — no, choked — on the sound, head tipping back, thighs twitching on either side of his face.

Keegan’s grip on your hips tightened, pulling you closer to the edge, anchoring you down as his mouth worked you open. His tongue moved like he knew every inch of you — where to flick, where to circle, where to slow down just long enough to make you squirm. He moaned softly against your cunt, and the sound vibrated through you like an earthquake.

You tried to keep still. You tried. But it was useless. Your hands found his hair, curling into the short strands at the nape of his neck, tugging without meaning to. Your legs shook. Your stomach coiled. You couldn’t look away from him — his face buried between your thighs, his shoulders broad and tensed, his eyes flicking up just once, pupils blown wide, possessed.

He looked like a man consumed. Like nothing else in the world existed.

You whimpered his name, breath hitching. “Keegan — please—”

Keegan flattened his tongue against you, wide and slow, then sealed his lips around your clit and sucked. Hard. Not cruel, but close. Just enough to make your entire body arch off the bed with a broken cry. He didn’t let up. One of his hands slid lower, fingers slipping inside you in perfect rhythm with the movements of his mouth — curling, pressing, filling you just right.

You shattered.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t quiet. Your orgasm hit hard — sharp, electric, your whole body trembling with the aftershocks. Your legs clamped around his head, your hips stuttering up into his mouth, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were trying to hold onto something, anything, before you flew apart completely.

He didn’t stop right away. Just kept licking, slower now, savouring the last waves of it. Only when your thighs began to twitch from overstimulation did he finally pull back, exhaling against your soaked skin before resting his forehead briefly against your inner thigh.

He looked wrecked.

Not the kind of wrecked you’d seen on track replays or press photos after a hard race. This wasn’t adrenaline or exhaustion. This was rawer. Flushed cheeks, pink and bright and too human. His lips swollen and wet with your slick, parted slightly like he hadn’t remembered how to breathe yet. His dark hair was pushed back in uneven clumps, messy and damp, like you’d run your hands through it without realizing, and maybe you had. Maybe he’d wanted that. Maybe he’d needed it.

He was still kneeling. Still close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin. Still looking up at you like he was trying to memorize something he’d never let himself want before now. His chest rose and fell in slow, shuddering pulls of air, like he’d just been underwater. Like he’d surfaced from something deep.

And it hit you — like a thread snapping in your chest. Not lust. Not need. Not even gratitude for the way he knew your body better than you did.

It felt like falling.

The kind that doesn’t announce itself. It just happens. Quietly. All at once. Something behind your ribs cracked open and you knew, knew, that whatever this thing was between you — it wasn’t safe anymore. It wasn’t casual. It had teeth now. It had weight. And God, when had that happened? Montreal? Silverstone? That night he handed you a paddock pass like it meant nothing? Or was it just now, with your legs still trembling and your heart beating so loudly it hurt?

You didn’t have a name for the feeling, but it lived in you like a bruise. Tender. Spreading.

Keegan stood slowly, and the spell began to break.

He rose like he was putting his armor back on piece by piece. The muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his black jeans as he pushed to his full height, the familiar outline of him settling back into place — broad shoulders, sharp jaw, that faint, unreadable tension around his mouth. The quiet between you stretched again, taut and unfinished. His gaze lingered on you, and something flickered behind his eyes, gone too fast to catch.

You were still on the bed, shirt hiked up around your ribs, your legs bare and still parted, skin cooling in the open air. You felt exposed in a way you hadn’t expected, not from nudity, but from everything else. Your breath was shallow. Your hands trembled faintly where they gripped the sheets. And he just looked at you. Just looked.

Then, casually — too casually — he turned toward the minibar and grabbed one of the napkins stacked neatly beside the glassware. Wiped his mouth slowly. The motion was clean. Practical. Like nothing monumental had just happened. Like he hadn’t just pulled you apart with his mouth and held you through every tremor of your release.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough around the edges, but measured.

“I’ve gotta go.”

You blinked. The words barely registered. “What?”

Keegan was already pulling his jacket from the back of the velvet chair, slinging it over one arm. “I won’t be back until late.”

There was no apology in his tone. No explanation. No wait for me, this meant something. Just logistics.

You pushed yourself upright on your elbows, the room tilting slightly around you. “Are you—”

You didn’t finish the question. You didn’t even know what you were asking. Are you okay? Was that about me or about something else? Are we anything?

Keegan paused at the door. Didn’t turn. Just said, over his shoulder: “Don’t wait up.”

And then he was gone.

You sat in silence.

The room around you felt cavernous now, echoing with what had happened and what hadn’t. Your jeans were still somewhere on the floor. The sheets beneath you smelled like sex and sweat and his cologne. Your skin buzzed in the places he’d touched — lips, tongue, fingers — your body still trying to process the aftershocks, the ache, the impossible tenderness that had curled under it all.

You reached down, pulling the hem of your shirt over your bare thighs, blinking up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. But all it gave you was stillness. Bright lights from the terrace window. The distant hum of a siren from the city outside. A faint ringing in your ears, like your body was still trying to catch up.

⟡

The evening curled in close around you like a blanket still warm from the dryer. You were nestled in the center of the hotel bed, limbs heavy, the sheets cool against your freshly bathed skin. The room was dark except for the flicker of the television — soft, bluish light dancing across the walls and your bare legs, casting long shadows that shifted each time the camera cut to a new angle. The only sound was the low murmur of the race coverage.

The scent of your bath still clung to your skin — floral, foreign, expensive. The kind of soap you’d never buy for yourself but didn’t mind pretending you were used to, just for the night. Your hair, still damp, clung gently to your neck and shoulders. You wore one of Keegan’s shirts, soft with wear and far too big, even for him, swallowing you whole. And you liked that. Liked the idea of being folded inside something that smelled like him.

The room around you was soft with the spoils of the day — shopping bags slouched over the back of the velvet armchair, tissue paper half-spilled like they’d fainted from indulgence. Receipts scattered on the desk like confetti from a small, private celebration. You hadn’t meant to spend that much. But Keegan had pressed his card into your hand before he left that morning, brushing your jaw with his thumb as he told you not to come to the track, not today. “It’s just the qualifiers,” he said. “Go see the city. Go be in it.” Like he wanted to give you something that didn’t involve cameras or clamour or the way people looked at him like he wasn’t quite real.

So you went.

You let yourself wander, not thinking too hard about where you were going. You ducked into little shops with clay-tiled floors and embroidered dresses hanging in the windows. Let strangers help you try things on. Ate fresh mango dusted in chili powder and bought perfume from a woman who promised it would make you unforgettable. And for a little while, it almost felt like a dream you’d stepped into by accident. One you didn’t want to wake up from.

But now—

Now the day was folded up behind you like a storybook closing, and you were alone again. Back in the quiet. Back in his world, but without him in it.

Keegan wasn’t here.

Still wrapped up in whatever came after pole position — interviews, debriefs, media obligations. His name was all over the screen, running in glossy graphics beneath slick footage from the day. There was a clip from the paddock, fans screaming as he walked past in his black race suit, jaw set, focused. The camera caught the precise cut of his profile, the flash of his gloves as he waved without looking. He didn’t smile for them. He never did.

Your eyes stayed on him. You barely registered the other names scrolling past — Verstappen, Hamilton, Norris. Faces you might’ve recognized by now, voices that cut in and out, talking lap times and tire compounds and engine temperatures. But it was Keegan you searched for every time the camera cut. Keegan in the garage. Keegan walking past the cars. Keegan shaking someone’s hand without really listening. You watched him like someone waiting for a message they couldn’t quite translate.

He didn’t know you were watching, of course.

But it still felt like he might look up.

It was stupid, probably. The way your chest tightened every time the camera landed on him. The way your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the pillow when they played back his fastest lap. They showed it in slow motion — his car slicing through a corner like it didn’t care about physics or fear or the laws of anything but hunger. You wondered if that’s how he lived in his own mind. Always pushing. Always on the edge of something just shy of disaster.

And for a moment, watching him on the screen, so calm, so inhumanly composed — it was hard to believe the state he’d been in between your legs two nights before. On his knees. Mouth wrecked. Hands trembling like yours.

You turned down the volume and just watched him. Lips parted. Heart slow and sore.

God, you missed him. And he hadn’t even been gone that long.

And it wasn’t even that you needed him to say anything. You just wanted the sound of his keycard at the door. His body leaning against the frame. That low voice cutting through the quiet, anchoring you to the moment again. Anchoring you to him.

But the room stayed dark.

And the only light was the shape of him on the screen.

Most of the commentary blurred past in Spanish — quick, bright syllables wrapped in a silky cadence that made everything sound softer than it probably was. Like it had been spun through gold leaf and honey before hitting the air. You caught pieces here and there. Piloto… clasificación… primera posición. Enough to gather the essentials, even without translation. Keegan was in the lead again. Of course he was. The world was always ready to make room for him at the front.

You lay still on the bed, limbs sunk deep into the mattress. Outside, the city murmured — a car horn in the distance, laughter echoing from a balcony, the low throb of traffic slipping through the gap in the terrace door. You hadn’t bothered turning on a lamp. The dark suited your mood — made everything feel a little less real. Easier to ignore the tight pull in your chest. Easier to keep pretending this was just another quiet night in a hotel room that wasn’t yours but always felt like it should’ve been. The kind of place you borrowed, like his toothbrush. Like his time.

Then the coverage shifted.

The screen cut to a new angle, someplace bright and loud just outside the media tent. White tarps rippled in the breeze. You could see the edge of the Mercedes logo fluttering behind the backdrop. Reporters swarmed, cameras angled, mics held just a little too close. You didn’t even need to see him to know he was there — his name in bold across the chyron, the camera panning toward a girl stepping forward from the crowd with a mic in one hand and a glint of something sharper in her smile.

She was beautiful. Of course she was. Dark hair pinned back perfectly, lashes curled to perfection, eyes lined with something glittering. And confident — confident in the way women are when they know they’re the most beautiful person in the room. She smiled too brightly and leaned in too close and asked Keegan something rapid-fire in Spanish. Her voice was quick and warm, full of practiced charm and the kind of cadence that made it feel like the two of them were in on something private.

You sat up a little, pulling the sheets around your waist and turning up the volume. You could barely catch more than a word or two — mañana, carrera, ganar — but you watched her mouth move and your stomach curled tight with something you couldn’t name.

And then—

Then Keegan answered.

Not in English.

But in Spanish.

Fluent, fluid, low.

You blinked, straightened up more, eyes locked on the screen. The sound of his voice — his voice — speaking a language you hadn’t even known he knew pulled something clean out of your chest.

He didn’t speak it perfectly. His accent was faintly American — too broad on some syllables, a little sharp on others — but fuck, it was close. Really close. The kind of close that said he hadn’t just memorized a few lines for press. That he’d learned this somewhere deep. That it had been a part of him for a while, and for some reason, he’d never thought to tell you.

In four months, you hadn’t heard even a whisper of this from him. Not a joke. Not a story. Nothing. And yet here he was, his words curling from the screen like smoke, like silk, like a stranger’s voice living in the mouth you knew too well.

Keegan didn’t even look smug about it. Just answered the question with his usual low calm, posture relaxed, the faintest edge of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Like it had never occurred to him that this would be something worth mentioning.

The interviewer giggled. She tilted her chin and leaned in closer, eyes lighting up with genuine surprise and something flirtier beneath. Keegan smiled back — small, easy. He shrugged, said something else that made her laugh again. She looked delighted.

Your fingers gripped the sheets tighter without meaning to.

Eventually the translator caught up. The audio slipped into English for the broadcast, and you could finally understand what was being said — something about strategy, something about tire wear, the usual sound bites. Keegan was still speaking softly, still half smiling, still somehow untouchable.

Then she asked it.

That awful, stupid, throwaway question that always came at the end of these segments. You’d heard it before. You knew the script.

“So,” the interviewer said with a grin, “is there someone special you’re racing for tomorrow?”

You didn’t breathe.

You weren’t expecting anything. You weren’t. Not really. Not some big confession, not a kiss blown to the camera, not even your name. You weren’t his girlfriend. He’d never called you that. You hadn’t even talked about what this was. But maybe — just maybe — he’d glance off the question. Maybe he’d say something soft. Something vague. Maybe there’d be a yes hidden in a smirk. A you’ll never know tucked into the lines around his mouth.

But Keegan didn’t do any of that.

He just looked at the reporter — cool, polite — and said, without pause: “No. Just racing for the win.”

That was it.

No blink. No flicker of hesitation. Just that smooth, press-trained smile and a direct answer. No.

And it hit you like a fucking fist to the stomach.

It wasn’t just the word. It was the way he said it. Final. Effortless. Like the possibility of someone — you — had never even crossed his mind. Like you were invisible. Like you were nothing.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding painfully against your breastbone. The room felt colder all at once, like the air had shifted in temperature, or maybe it was just your own body, burning and freezing at the same time. You swallowed hard, blinking once, twice. You kept waiting for him to do something — say something. A wink. A change in tone. Anything.

But there was nothing.

And fuck — fuck, it wasn’t like you needed a spotlight. You hadn’t asked him to tell the world. You weren’t delusional. You knew what this was. No labels. No promises. Just quiet nights and shared beds and long stretches of silence punctuated by wanting. But still.

Still.

Four months.

Four months of sneaking time between continents. Four months of red-eye flights and layovers just to end up tangled in his sheets, whispering into each other’s skin. Four months of brushing his hair back when he was too tired to do it himself, of memorizing the freckles on his hip, of laughing in restaurant corners with his knee pressed against yours. Four months of him reaching for you in the dark, pulling you in like gravity. Four months of thinking maybe — just maybe — he gave a damn.

You thought you’d left a mark on him. Some small imprint. A fingerprint on the glass of his life.

But he said no.

No hesitation. No weight.

Just no.

And it broke your fucking heart.

When the door opened, it was late — later than you’d expected, later than your body wanted to wait up for. The lock clicked, hinges whispering against the frame, and then the muffled sound of Keegan’s footsteps crossing the threshold. The television had long since gone dark, the room bathed now only in the faint spill of city light from the windows and the sliver of hallway glow from the door he gently shut behind him.

You were already in bed. Curled on your side, your back to the door, still wrapped in his shirt, covers pulled up to your shoulders. The sheets were cold where your body hadn’t touched them, your skin sticky with the sweat of holding yourself still too long. Your cheeks still wore the ghost of dried salt, faint trails of earlier tears etched along the curve of your face like a secret map.

You heard him pause. Heard the soft shuffle of his shoes being toed off, the brush of his palm against the wall as he reached for the light. But he didn’t flip the switch by the door — he crossed the room slowly, carefully, and turned on only the lamp on his side of the bed. The low amber glow bloomed across the nightstand, casting long shadows across the covers and just grazing the line of your shoulder.

“[Name]?” he asked quietly.

Your name, barely more than a breath.

You didn’t move.

You heard him shift again, this time moving toward the chair, and the rustle of bags caught beneath his hand. You’d left them there — unpacked, untouched — your day strewn across that chair in soft tissue paper and folded receipts. He paused when he saw them. You heard the way his breath caught, just slightly, then the sound of something like a laugh — small, fond, warm. Like he was smiling at the thought of you walking through the city with his card in your pocket and the sun in your hair. Like nothing was wrong.

You stayed still.

He didn’t say anything else.

You listened as Keegan walked to the bathroom, the door whispering shut behind him, and then the sound of water running for a few seconds, his usual ritual. The hum of a toothbrush. The clink of his watch or ring on the counter. He was going through all the motions like it was any other night, like your heart hadn’t split open earlier in the dark while he told the world there was no one special.

When he came back out, the lamp was still on. He moved quietly, as always. Slid the drawer open for his charger. Folded his clothes into a neat pile. He didn’t touch your side of the bed.

And then the light flicked off.

The mattress shifted as he climbed in.

You felt the heat of him behind you almost immediately — bare skin and soft breath and the faint scent of soap and hotel lotion, a little citrus clinging to the air. You hated that your body still noticed. That it still recognized him like instinct. That your pulse still stirred when he moved closer, like your nerves didn’t know better yet.

Keegan’s arm slid under your shirt slowly, the backs of his fingers brushing the underside of your breasts before he curled his hand over your stomach, loose and warm and familiar. And then he pulled you back against him, careful not to jostle you too hard, like he thought you were already asleep. Like this was comfort. Like this was love.

Your back met the bare skin of his chest, and your whole body stiffened.

Not enough to give you away, but just enough that you could feel the acid crawling up your throat. How could he do this? How could he hold you like that, tender and intimate, like you were his, after letting that reporter smile at him and ask that question and pretending — choosing — to say no? No, there was no one. No, he wasn’t racing for anyone. Like you didn’t exist.

And now here he was, curled around you like a second skin.

You wanted to scream.

But you didn’t.

You just lay there, body rigid in his arms, swallowing the burn in your chest, biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from shaking. You listened to the soft, slow rhythm of his breathing as it started to level out. One minute. Two. Then three.

Eventually, he fell asleep.

And still, you didn’t move.

You stared into the darkness, eyes wide open, lashes damp, throat aching. The ache behind your ribs sat heavy and full, the kind that couldn’t be sobbed out, couldn’t be named. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t even try. You just lay there in silence, pretending to be what you weren’t.

Loved.

⟡

Morning didn’t arrive so much as seep in through the cracks — in fractured slivers of color, in dull, reluctant streaks of grey that slowly dissolved into a gold too sharp to be gentle. Light bled across the bedspread like a wound opening, unwanted and bright. The silence pressed in, thick as a second blanket, and you lay beneath both with your body caught somewhere between paralysis and ache. You hadn't really slept. Just floated through the dark, half-conscious, half-haunted, your limbs too heavy to shift and your mind too full to quiet. Thought after thought pulsed like static beneath your skin, useless and sharp-edged. The bed had felt wrong all night — too wide when you reached for Keegan and found nothing, too small when you curled in on yourself and felt how completely alone you were. The hours dragged, one by one, until the light finally pushed into the room and made it undeniable: he was gone.

You didn’t know when he’d left. Maybe he'd tried to be gentle. Maybe he thought letting you sleep through the morning was a kindness. Or maybe he hadn’t thought about you at all. Maybe he’d just moved around you the way he did everything else — clinical, composed. Slipped into his suit and walked out the door without a sound, without a single moment spared for goodbye.

Now, hours later, the day moved without you. Relentless, mechanical, oblivious. You stood inside the Mercedes hospitality tent like a paper figure in a world made of steel and speed. Around you, the machinery of race day churned to life. Radios crackled in short bursts, commands flung between crew members in clipped, confident tones. Footsteps echoed across concrete, rubber soles squeaking with urgency. Engineers passed tablets back and forth like they were trading secrets. Someone shouted about tire pressure; someone else swore in German. The smell of fuel and heat and pressure hung in the air — hot metal, motor oil, sweat. It was choreography, not chaos. A living, breathing organism built from motion and timing.

And you stood at the center of it, inert.

Your pass hung limply from your neck. It said you belonged here, but every second proved otherwise. No one looked at you, but they all knew who you were — or at least, who you were here for.

You shifted your weight, arms locked tightly over your chest like you could hold yourself together through sheer compression. You’d swapped out the softness from the night before — no more borrowed shirt, no more brushed cotton and skin — for something harder. Dark denim. A jacket zipped high. Armor you hoped would make your exhaustion unreadable. Your mouth had nothing to say, and your body carried itself like it didn’t need anyone. But every time you looked across the tent, your eyes found him.

Keegan stood a dozen paces away, surrounded by his engineers, one hand braced against a monitor, the other tucked beneath his elbow like he was holding something in. His hair was still damp from the shower, pushed back in that careless, absent way it always was when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. His suit was half-zipped, revealing the fireproof black layer beneath — a second skin that clung to the rise of his chest, the sharp lines of his collarbones. The fabric glinted under the lights, stretched tight over the tension you could see humming in his frame. And still, he looked composed. Or maybe just cold. The kind of calm that only comes from control. The kind that used to make you feel safe, before you learned how many ways silence could cut.

Then his gaze lifted.

And landed on you.

It was fast. A second, maybe two. But everything in him shifted. You saw it — the way his jaw flexed, the slight furrow in his brow, like your presence had interrupted something vital. Like it hurt. He handed off the tablet he’d been holding, muttered something to the guy beside him, and started toward you with purpose.

You wanted to look away. To move. To leave. But your feet were cemented, and your pulse was a staccato warning in your throat. So you stood your ground, spine straight, jaw set, pretending not to feel every muscle in your body brace for impact.

He stopped in front of you, close enough to cast a shadow.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was low, clipped, already frayed. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

You didn’t speak. Just gave the smallest nod and let him lead you out of the tent — away from the thrum of activity, the sharp bark of instructions and the hiss of tire drills. Outside, the sunlight was merciless. It bounced off chrome and asphalt like it wanted to blind you. The air shimmered from the heat rising off the track. You followed him to a stretch of shadow beneath the awning, thin and insufficient, like even the architecture wasn’t willing to shelter this moment.

Keegan turned to face you, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. There was no softness in him. Just pressure.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked, voice tight and sharp enough to leave splinters. “You’ve been weird all morning.”

You blinked, not quite looking at him. “Weird?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. “Weird. Off. You’ve barely looked at me since you got here. Haven’t said two words. Won’t answer your fucking phone. What am I supposed to do with that?”

You tilted your head, squinting into the light. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he said immediately, as if the lie physically offended him. There was a silence then — brittle and drawn thin — and then he said, softer, but with more bite, “You didn’t even come and say good morning.”

The words landed like a cold hand against your chest. Ridiculous. Pointless. So small, but they hollowed you out anyway. You exhaled, slow and shaky, arms curling tighter across your stomach like you were trying to hold the ache in.

“You had things to do,” you murmured.

Keegan stared at you. Stared like he didn’t recognize the person in front of him. Like this was the part that didn’t compute.

“So that’s what this is?” he asked, disbelief curdling into anger. “You’re pissed because I didn’t climb back into bed and whisper sweet nothings before going to work?”

You flinched. Only slightly. But it was enough. Enough for his eyes to widen — enough for you to see the moment the sarcasm collapsed in on itself.

“I’m not—” You started, voice catching. You swallowed. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, sharper now, his frustration barely tethered. “Because I’m standing here before my race, losing my fucking mind, and you’re looking at me like I’ve done something unforgivable — but I don’t even know what it is. And you won’t fucking tell me.”

Your throat tightened, heat creeping behind your eyes. You stared at the ground like the cracks in the pavement might rearrange themselves into an answer.

“Just drop it,” you said, finally. Quiet. Controlled. Like if you didn’t say it gently, it would tear something loose inside you.

For a long second, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The noise of the paddock felt impossibly distant. The crowd. The crew. All of it muffled beneath the pressure of this moment, this silence, this sharp corner you’d turned without a map.

Keegan’s arms dropped to his sides. His hands flexed once, useless, empty.

And for the first time since you met him, he looked shaken. Not furious. Not frustrated. But scared. Like he was standing at the edge of something he hadn’t meant to break.

“[Name]. Tell me,” he said. And it wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t anger.

It was something closer to grief.

Don’t do it, you begged yourself. Don’t.

Not like that. Not here. Not with the sun glaring off the pavement and the noise of the world still swelling somewhere behind you, all engines and static and the relentless, mechanical heartbeat of the race pressing on like none of this mattered. But the words left your mouth like something torn loose from a deeper wound, the kind that had been festering for hours, maybe longer, hiding in the quiet place beneath your ribs where you’d been holding everything in too tightly.

“Just racing for the win.”

It took him a moment to process it. A flicker of confusion ghosted across his face — the barest stutter in the composure he wore like second skin. His brows knit together, not dramatically, but enough to show he hadn’t expected you to draw blood first.

“What?”

You looked at him, really looked — and suddenly the rage behind your sternum had nowhere else to go but forward. You weren’t crying. Not yet. But it felt like your whole chest was splintering around the truth. And you hated that he made you feel this undone. You hated that he didn’t even seem to know.

“Isn’t that what you said last night?” The words came out low, coated in that strange tone you only used when you were trying not to scream. “When the reporter asked if there was someone special? And you said it — so smooth, so effortless — ‘No. Just racing for the win.’” You mimicked his cadence then, and it chilled you how easily you could. The same calm detachment. The media-trained polish. The practiced distance. “Like I was no one. Like I wasn’t even real, Keegan.”

His jaw shifted. Not much. Just a tiny tic, a muscle twitching near the hinge like the first tremor before a fracture. He didn’t speak immediately. His gaze narrowed slightly, and you saw it — the moment the confusion bled out and the wall went up. His silence turned hard. Cold. The kind of stillness he used when he was trying to shut down a problem before it escalated.

“You were so fucking composed,” you added, softer now, though it cut deeper for it. “Really nailed the performance.”

Keegan’s mouth flattened. His eyes turned to steel, cool and sharp and unreadable. It was like watching ice form behind glass. The shift was instant. His body didn’t move, but everything in him locked.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” His voice held a vibration in it, a dangerous restraint, the kind that only made you feel smaller for not keeping quiet.

You folded your arms across your chest, not for warmth but for survival. Your fingers dug into the sleeves of your jacket like you were trying to keep your bones from spilling out of your skin. Every nerve ending hummed. Your heart pounded against your sternum like it was trying to escape you. But you held your ground. Just barely.

“You said it like I didn’t even exist.”

He let out a harsh breath and dragged a hand through his hair, fingers slipping back through damp strands like he needed to feel something solid to stay tethered. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his gaze falling briefly to the pavement as if it might offer him an easier version of this conversation. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Not at you, exactly. But not away from you, either. “You’re mad about the fucking interview?”

His posture stiffened. He shook his head, fast, like he was trying to shake the words off his skin before they stuck too deep. His tone dropped, sharper now, more brittle. “I didn’t think I had to spell it out, [Name]. You said it yourself. We agreed. This wasn’t going to be public. It wasn’t going to be about appearances or cameras or goddamn social media. It was supposed to be private.” His voice cracked on that last word — just enough to sound like he believed in it. Like it had been some kind of promise.

But your laughter came again — this time low, bitter, guttural. Not the kind that hurt his pride, but the kind that revealed yours had already been shattered.

“Private is one thing,” you said. “Invisible is another.”

There it was. The recoil. Small, but unmistakable. The step back. The flinch in his eyes, like he hadn’t thought it through enough to see it from your side. You saw the gears turning, fast and hard behind his gaze — trying to reframe the damage, trying to find the nearest exit from this fight without breaking something else in the process.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, quieter now.

“That’s how it sounded,” you replied. “To everyone. To me.”

And then came the silence.

Thick. Arresting. It swelled between you like a rising tide, the noise of the pit lane distant now — swallowed in the static of your pulse and the wind skimming off the asphalt. The smell of burning rubber and heat pressed around you, suffocating. Somewhere behind you, someone shouted orders, and the Doppler rise of an engine screamed into gear, but all of it felt lightyears away.

Then, Keegan snapped.

“I don’t fucking need this right now,” he hissed, and suddenly the restraint snapped like a frayed cord. His voice was still low, but it was feral now, edged in venom. “I’m about to race. I’m minutes away from getting in the car, and you pick now to start shit with me? Now?”

The words were surgical. Sharp enough to slice clean through you without needing to be shouted. That was the part that stung — not the anger, but the precision. Keegan always knew where to land the blow.

You stepped back instinctively. Not far. Just enough for him to see it — the recoil. Your spine stiffened, your hands curled, and your breath caught somewhere high in your throat like it didn’t want to move anymore.

“You think I picked this?” you said, your voice suddenly smaller, hoarse with disbelief. “You think I want to be standing here, while your team watches from ten feet away, while the race clock is counting down, having this conversation like we’re some fucking cliché?” You shook your head, slow, gutted. “I’ve been holding this in since the moment I watched you pretend I was nothing.”

You reached for the lanyard around your neck — the glossy rectangle of plastic that had let you in, that had opened doors and shaded eyes and made you feel, briefly, like you had a place here. Like you were someone worth clearing a path for. You ripped it off in one motion, the cord biting into your neck before giving way, the badge swinging wildly against your chest before you shoved it into his hands with a force that surprised even you.

“Here,” you said, breath shuddering. “I’m done pretending I belong in your world anyway.”

Keegan’s hands caught the pass, fumbled with it, like he hadn’t expected you to go that far. His eyes flicked up, mouth parting, already trying to form your name like it might be enough to stop you.

“[Name]—”

But you turned before the apology could form, before the damage control could begin, before he could spit out something polished and empty and small enough to fit between now and the lights going green. You didn’t want a resolution. You didn’t want rescue. You just wanted to walk away with whatever was left of your pride intact.

⟡

The commentators were talking, but their voices barely registered. Just muffled syllables folded into the static hum of the television, which cast a flickering white glow across the otherwise dim hotel room. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, suitcase zipped and upright by the door, your palms pressed flat against your thighs, the cotton of your trousers bunched beneath your hands like a wound dressing.

“Disappointing performance from Keegan Russ,” one of them said, voice professional, not unkind, but it still felt like a bruise. “Third place. Nearly lost control on Lap 68. That car snapped like it had something personal against the track.”

Another chimed in. “We’ve seen Russ drive aggressively, sure. But that looked more reckless than calculated. Like his head wasn’t in it at all today.”

You didn’t need to hear any more. You’d seen it happen, the way he nearly spun out coming out of the hairpin. The way the back tires shuddered as he overcorrected, heat shimmer rippling behind him, the camera barely able to keep up. He hadn’t even flinched when it happened, hadn’t shouted into the comms or checked over his shoulder. He’d just forced the car back into the race line like he was punishing it. Or maybe punishing himself.

They cut to footage of the winner — Verstappen stepping onto the podium, his team swarming him in a gleam of black and red and silver. Champagne already uncorked. Broad smiles. Headsets and handshakes and expensive watches catching the light. Keegan was in the background, third step, just barely in the frame, helmet still tucked under one arm like he wasn’t planning to stay long. His face was unreadable. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just empty. The camera lingered. You weren’t sure why. Maybe they were trying to catch some moment of emotion. Some slip in the mask. But there was nothing.

He looked like a man who had finally hit a wall no one could drive through.

Your throat ached. You reached for the remote, switched the TV off with a single, practiced motion. The silence that followed was heavier than the commentary, deeper than the engine noise. It filled the room like smoke.

You didn’t realize how fast your heart was beating until the screen went black.

The suitcase waited by the door, smug and final. Your phone was face-down on the nightstand, the charging cable curled beside it like a snake. You didn’t know what you were waiting for. Maybe nothing. Maybe you’d just walk out and not look back. But the image of his face — that particular brand of ruin stitched into his mouth — had embedded itself behind your eyes like a flare that wouldn’t dim.

And then—

The hotel phone rang.

A shrill, sudden sound. It cut through the quiet with military precision. Not your cell. The room line.

You turned toward it slowly. Not rushed. You already knew. Your chest tightened before you even reached for the receiver.

There was no greeting. Just the sound of him breathing.

“Still there?” he asked.

His voice was rough. Not broken — Keegan didn’t break, not audibly — but there was gravel in it. Like he’d driven through fire with the window down.

You didn’t answer right away. You stared at the wall instead. At the strip of light bleeding in from behind the blackout curtains. It took effort to force the words out.

“I saw the race.”

A pause. A sound, maybe a breath, maybe the shift of his jaw.

“Yeah.”

That was all. Just that. No defense. No denial. Just acknowledgment. It sounded like shame, stripped to bone.

There were so many things you could’ve said. Why did you drive like that? Why did you look like that? Why did you let me leave?

But none of it mattered now. Not over the phone. Not after that morning, not after the way your voice had cracked in front of him and he’d stood still and let you go.

You swallowed, slow and deliberate. “You almost wrecked.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I know.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe some apology. Maybe the vague outline of regret. But all you got was that steady, quiet reply. Measured. Flat. Still Keegan, even now. Still a soldier.

His voice came again. Lower this time. Like he didn’t want anyone else hearing it, even now. “I’m on my way back.”

Your hand tightened on the receiver. You didn’t ask why he was calling. You already knew. It was the same reason your suitcase was still at the door instead of in the backseat of a cab.

“I figured you’d be out of there by now,” he added.

You breathed in, shallow. “I was going to be.”

He didn’t ask what stopped you. Maybe he knew. Maybe it was the same thing that had kept his hands just shy of the wheel today, the thing that had made him reckless enough to scare everyone watching. A silence stretched out over the line, taut and unsure.

Then — the softest shift.

“Wait for me.”

That was it. No explanation. No promise. Just a request, simple and stripped of all the things he couldn’t say out loud.

You closed your eyes, the ache in your chest blooming sharp.

“Okay.”

Neither of you said goodbye.

You just placed the phone back in its cradle. And sat there. Still in the half-light, half-shadow of the hotel room, with the memory of his voice pressed against your skin like the ghost of touch.

Half-an-hour later, you heard the electronic lock disengage first — a soft, precise click. The sound snapped through the silence like a bullet casing hitting the pavement, echoing briefly, sharp enough to make your breath catch. The door swung inward slowly, spilling a thin sliver of harsh hallway light across the darkened room, before closing again with a muffled whisper. You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. The weight of him stepping into the room was unmistakable, his presence changing the air around you, charging it with something raw and unresolved.

Keegan didn’t speak. Didn’t call your name. Didn't flick the lamp on to break the shadows. He moved toward you quietly, each step deliberate but heavy, as though he’d spent the entire walk from the elevator counting the distance, measuring each breath. You stayed seated on the edge of the bed, spine tense and straight, hands curled tight in your lap, heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against your ribs. You didn’t know what to expect — an argument, a whispered apology, or even worse, more silence. But he closed the distance in four steps, and suddenly none of that mattered, because his hand was already gripping your jaw, tilting your head up firmly, decisively, before his mouth captured yours with bruising precision.

The kiss was deep, punishingly so, heavy with everything neither of you had said in the last twenty-four hours. He kissed you like he was fighting a war inside himself, his lips hard, possessive, tasting faintly of smoke and salt. You melted against him instinctively, fingers rising to curl into the collar of his jacket as he leaned down, pressing you back against the bed with a weight that felt like surrender and victory all at once.

When Keegan finally broke away, his breath was ragged, his hand still cradling your face, thumb tracing your jawline slowly. He didn’t pull back far — just enough for you to see the hardness in his expression, the strain lingering around his eyes. He looked like he’d come straight from battle, worn down to the bone, stripped of armor but still wary of every step he took. His hair was disheveled, pushed back roughly from his forehead, his skin shadowed by exhaustion. His eyes, usually cold and unreadable, were suddenly anything but.

“I’m not gonna beg you to stay,” he said finally, voice raw, but steady. “If you wanna leave, I'll call you a cab right now. No questions asked.”

You stared up at him, breathing shallow, throat tight with emotion. He didn’t say it like a threat, didn’t phrase it as an ultimatum. Just a simple, blunt fact, the kind of choice you knew he gave when he didn’t know how to handle something fragile — like his own feelings, or yours. And the way he looked at you now, jaw tight, shoulders squared, told you he’d spent the entire journey back trying to prepare himself for either outcome.

“But if you stay,” he continued slowly, voice lower now, quieter, almost hesitant, “then we gotta talk about it. No more pretending it’s not there.”

You knew exactly what he meant by “it.” The elephant in the room. The tension that had simmered since you arrived in Mexico City, unspoken and sharp-edged, filling every silence between you. You thought suddenly about that first night — about the way he’d sat in the back of the SUV with his face turned toward the window, silent but wired, fingers tapping restlessly on his knee as the city blurred past outside. You wondered if his quiet then had been his way of processing whatever it was that had started to unravel inside him, if the tight-lipped expression and distant gaze had simply been the first symptom of the fracture now cracking wide open between you.

“Is that why you barely said a word that first night?” you asked, voice softer than you intended, eyes still locked onto his, searching. “The way you were in the car… was that you trying to deal with whatever this is?”

Keegan exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound that might’ve been bitter amusement or a flash of irritation at himself. “I didn’t know what the fuck it was. Still don’t.” He glanced away briefly, jaw flexing tight. When he looked back, something in his expression had shifted — slightly softer, but no less guarded. “All I know is I didn’t expect to feel like this. Like the ground's fucking slipping under me every time I look at you.”

Your chest clenched. He wasn’t good at this, never had been. He was all sharp edges and quiet force, trained to keep everything locked down, compartmentalized. But you felt the sincerity there, tangled beneath every awkward word, every frustrated sigh.

“Keegan,” you said quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t wanna leave. But you can’t keep treating me like I’m disposable. You can’t make me feel invisible just because it’s easier.”

He nodded once, tightly, like he’d already run that sentence through his head a hundred times before you'd even said it. His fingers pressed a fraction tighter against your cheek, rough and calloused. A driver’s hands, shaped by control, restraint, discipline — hands that touched carefully, not gently. Yet you leaned into it anyway, instinctively seeking more.

“I fucked up,” he admitted roughly. It wasn’t a grand apology, but coming from Keegan Russ, it felt monumental. His voice grew quiet again, almost too quiet, as if speaking too loudly would betray something deeper. “I didn't wanna let anyone else into this. It’s already complicated enough without cameras and reporters trying to pick it apart. But I should’ve handled it better. Should’ve said something.”

His thumb brushed softly across your lower lip, lingering as if memorizing the shape of your mouth. “I need you to know you’re not fucking invisible to me. Never have been. Even when I can’t say it.”

Your eyes stung with sudden tears — not sadness, exactly, just release. It was the acknowledgment you hadn’t even realized you'd been waiting for.

He took a breath, eyes steady, darkening with resolve as he said firmly, “But this goes both ways. If we’re doing this — really doing this — you gotta understand who I am. You know I don't do half-measures. If you're in, you're fucking in. No more hiding, no more bullshit.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling something settle deep inside you, finally. “Okay.”

He searched your eyes, waiting for hesitation, doubt — anything. When he didn’t find it, his shoulders relaxed slightly, barely perceptible but undeniably real.

He leaned down, forehead briefly touching yours. “Then stay.”

You tilted your chin up slightly, pressing into the rough warmth of his touch. “Of course.”

“Good,” he said, voice low and quiet, no smile on his lips, but something far more valuable in his eyes — certainty. Relief. A trust built on thin ice, maybe, but solid enough to hold for now.

And that was all either of you needed.

Not promises or poetry, not grand declarations. Just this raw honesty, stripped down and real, in a quiet room beneath the cold hum of the air conditioning, your suitcase still by the door, packed but no longer waiting.

[cod-imagines]

imagine #2

character: Phillip Graves words: 6723 cw: 18+, depictions of violence, blood description: in which you’re a bratty CIA agent and Phillip Graves is tasked with ensuring your safety on your next op. (part 2) a/n: can you guys tell Phillip Graves is my favourite character in the entire game series lol

Langley’s operations wing always smelled like something vaguely scorched — ozone, cheap toner, the acidic bite of overworked electronics — layered with the bitter ghost of day-old coffee left to stew in a burner-stained pot. The kind of place that hummed with fluorescent fatigue, every corner buzzing with the relentless rhythm of classified churn. Ceiling lights flickered like they were seconds from giving out. Shadows moved along the walls like they were trying to crawl free.

Your heels clicked down the corridor with too much self-assurance for someone still wet behind the ears. You knew it. You could feel it in the way analysts glanced up from their screens as you passed — a mix of amusement and unease, like they couldn’t decide whether to roll their eyes or salute. And maybe you hadn’t earned that kind of strut yet. Not officially. But swagger came easier than humility, and confidence — real or faked — was half the job.

Your badge bounced against your left breast, the hard plastic flash of it catching the overhead light like a flare. Your name glared back in all caps, black ink on laminate, printed above the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency. A symbol meant to invoke order, control, gravity. But it didn’t feel like any of those things on your skin.

Three months since you’d been field-cleared. Sixty-something days since you’d swapped paperwork and internal memos for burnt-out safehouses and eyes in the back of your skull. Two high-stakes operations, both risky, both successful, both the kind that turned heads. You could still hear what the ops guys murmured when they thought you were out of earshot — “She’s green, but fuck me, she gets results. Dangerous combo.” Someone had called you a prodigy. Someone else had called you a ticking clock.

The director’s door was open by the time you reached it, cracked just wide enough to invite or intimidate — maybe both. You didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

The office was quiet as a confession booth. Dust hung in slats of pale gold where sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the threadbare carpet. Everything inside was brown or brass or beige — like the room had been frozen in time somewhere around the Cold War. The air carried the scent of varnish and aging leather, a hint of cigar smoke clinging to the walls like a memory.

Director Halvorsen didn’t look up. He sat with his shoulders hunched in his chair like the weight of the country lived between his blades, hands folded over a manila file so thick it could’ve doubled as a brick. Red stamps bled across the top corner like a warning.

You opened your mouth, ready with something sharp — a joke, maybe, or just a little needle to pop the tension.

And then you saw him.

Phillip Graves.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even twitch. Just watched you enter with the kind of impassive, razor-flat expression that said he’d made ten separate judgments about you before you’d crossed the threshold — and none of them were good. The aviators tucked into the front of his vest were just icing on the cake. Indoors. No need for them. But of course he had them anyway. It was the kind of cocky, performative shit you recognized instantly — because you’d done it yourself in a dozen different ways. You knew posturing when you saw it.

Phillip Fucking Graves.

Oh, you’d heard of him. Who hadn’t?

Even in the sanitized, windowless bowels of Langley, his name floated through the air like cordite after a blast — sharp, acrid, undeniable. He was the kind of man passed around in stories over too-hot coffee and too-long night shifts, his reputation stitched together by grainy photos, after-action reports, and the grim, knowing looks exchanged between field agents who’d seen the wreckage Shadow Company left behind.

Private military. Privately dangerous.

Graves had a dossier as thick as a Bible and twice as bloody. Ex-Force Recon. Decorated. Discharged. Built an empire of black ops and gray morality, answering to contracts instead of flags. His men were ghosts in the field — brutal, exacting, loyal only to their own, each of them molded in the image of the man who led them: efficient, ruthless, and just clean enough to be useful.

And there he was, in the flesh.

Leaning against Halvorsen’s wall like he owned the place. Like the room had been waiting for him.

He looked like war made flesh — lean and wide-shouldered, all hard edges and military symmetry. Black fatigues hugged his frame like a second skin, sleeves rolled to the elbows to expose scarred forearms, veins like tension wires beneath sun-worn skin. His sidearm — holstered, but unmistakably live — sat heavy at his hip like it belonged there.

The Shadow Company patch on his shoulder was unmistakable: that stark, rook emblem embroidered over black and grey, silent proof that he didn’t answer to any flag you did.

His hair was neat, and his jaw bore the kind of stubble that looked purposeful. His face was handsome in a brutal way — not soft, not inviting, but angular and sharp, with a pouty little mouth made for bad news and worse deals. Eyes blue and unreadable, like crashing waves. Cold. Trained.

And still — all of him wrapped in that unbearable, unmistakable Southern drawl you’d already heard in leaked audio clips, in grainy body cam footage no one was supposed to have.

The kind of voice that could talk a foreign informant into flipping — or folding.

So yeah. You’d heard of him.

You couldn’t decide if you wanted to punch him, impress him, or set him on fire.

Maybe all three.

“You’re late,” Halvorsen said flatly, not lifting his eyes from the file.

“No, sir,” you answered smoothly, smile tucked just behind your teeth as you strode in. “Your clock’s fast.”

It wasn’t a great line, but you delivered it with enough charm to pass. Or maybe not.

Halvorsen sighed like he regretted the entire idea of your existence.

Graves didn’t so much as blink.

His gaze tracked you from the second you entered, dark and steady, like he was trying to determine whether you were a threat, a joke, or just another mess he was going to have to clean up. There was no amusement in it. No flicker of curiosity or recognition.

You let it hang there between you. The tension, the judgment, the heat of being stared at like a gnat on a windshield. Let it hang, because you refused to be the one to break.

Halvorsen didn’t waste time with niceties. His hand made a lazy gesture toward the figure still parked by the far wall like a statue carved out of discipline and disdain. “Commander Phillip Graves,” he said, voice bone-dry. “Shadow Company. He’ll be handling security for your operation in Tbilisi.”

You turned toward Graves with exaggerated slowness, letting the silence stretch just long enough to register as attitude. Your gaze slid over him from head to toe, all five-something feet of regulation-grade menace wrapped in matte black and dark tactical gear. Your smile curled like honey left out in the sun — golden, sweet, and just starting to rot at the edges.

“Overseeing me, huh?” you said, sugar in your voice like it cost nothing. “Lucky you.”

There was a twitch. Just a flicker in his brow, the kind of minute response that said you’d gotten under his skin — barely, but enough. It almost made you grin.

But his reply was sharp, exact. Like a knife drawn clean across a whetstone.

“Not you,” he said, voice low and clipped, like he’d rehearsed this kind of correction a hundred times. “The op. Let’s get something straight, sweetheart — I don’t babysit.”

The word hit like a slap. You blinked. Once. Then let out a laugh — not loud, but sharp and incredulous. You turned your head toward Halvorsen like you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“Sweetheart?” you echoed, tone cutting now, edges gleaming. “You serious? This is the guy?”

Your tone walked the line between insult and entertainment, but Graves was already moving. He stepped off the wall with the slow, purposeful motion of a man who knew he didn’t have to rush to make a point. Heavy. Grounded. The kind that rearranged the atmosphere in a room just by standing in it.

“This guy,” he drawled, steel beneath the Southern lilt, “has been cleaning up shitshows like yours since you were still figuring out how to spell ‘covert.’ And I don’t have time to waste on mouthy little analysts with something to prove.”

Your smile vanished, gone like a switch flipped.

You took a step toward him, the air between you sharpening like glass dust in your throat. “I’m not an analyst,” you said, voice flint-hard. “I pulled intel from three wet sources in fourteen days. Two of them walked in wearing vests — I still got what we needed. The third one? Your people didn’t even know he existed until I bled it out of him. So yeah, I earned this op. And I’m not interested in measuring dicks in a briefing room.”

Graves’s eyes tracked you slowly. A scan. Not the kind that undressed — no, this was colder. More precise. He was calculating threat level, liability, maybe wondering what it would take to shut you up — permanently or otherwise.

“I’m interested in keeping you alive,” he said, so quiet it almost didn’t register at first. “Even if you make that real goddamn difficult.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even a warning. It was a fact, stated like mission protocol. Your heart kicked once — not out of fear, but adrenaline. You were used to control. You weren’t used to men like him trying to snatch it from you mid-stride.

You were already reaching for a comeback — something sharp, barbed, tipped with just enough venom to leave a mark — when Halvorsen finally cut through the tension with a groan like he had a migraine blooming behind both eyes.

“Enough,” he said, flattening a palm against the thick manila file on his desk. “Both of you.”

The room quieted, but the heat lingered.

“We don’t have the luxury of backup on this,” Halvorsen went on. “It’s the two of you, a few Shadows, a stripped-down convoy unit, and one goddamn window of contact. The source was crystal clear — he talks to her, or he doesn’t talk at all. That makes her the priority. Graves, I want her breathing until we get what we need.”

He paused, eyes like twin pins behind his glasses.

“Preferably longer.”

Graves exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. Bone-dry. Almost bored.

Halvorsen turned his attention to you next, and the shift in his gaze was like a sudden drop in temperature. “And you,” he said slowly, the warning in his voice thick as smoke. “If you want to keep playing with the big boys, you’d better learn when to shut the hell up.”

You gave a little salute, two fingers pressed to your temple in mocking compliance.

“Sir, yes sir.”

Graves muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the exact words, but the tone said it all — disdain, mostly. A touch of disbelief. But it was the look he gave you that really spoke. Like you were some pampered show dog barking in the middle of a warzone — and he was already planning how to muzzle you.

You’d seen that look before. Usually on hardened operators who thought degrees and dialects didn’t mean a damn thing if you’d never dragged a buddy out of a burning alley. Men who believed intelligence was something that came in brass casings and hard kills, not whispered confessions and coded drop points. Men who didn’t think your kind bled the same.

And yet, you didn’t flinch. Not even a breath.

You met his eyes. Let the tension settle between you like a loaded chamber.

“Don’t worry, Commander,” you said, voice all silk and static, just enough mockery to turn the knife. “I can play nice.”

Halvorsen rubbed a hand over his face.

“God help me,” he muttered. “You two are gonna get along just fine.”

⟡

The safehouse was falling apart in the way old things do when time forgets them. A skeleton of gray concrete perched on the city’s bleeding edge, its cracked foundation veined with creeping moss and spiderweb fractures that snaked across the walls like old scars. Rebar jutted from broken corners like rusted ribs, skeletal fingers clawing at the air. The windows — or what was left of them — were jagged holes lined with splinters and dust, long since abandoned by glass, left open to the stink of the city and the press of the night.

Inside, the air was thick. Close. It smelled of old sweat and diesel fumes, the tang of coppery blood hanging heavy near the far wall, and something deeper — something fungal and sour blooming in the rotting plaster. It clung to your skin, wormed its way into your hair and your throat, made every breath feel like it carried grit. This wasn’t shelter. It was a last resort. The kind of place you hoped didn’t collapse before your exfil came through.

Outside, the city simmered. Tbilisi after dark was a different creature altogether — jagged and sharp, purpled by twilight and bruised with smoke. Stray dogs barked in alleyways like they were mourning something lost. Somewhere far off, a car backfired — or maybe it didn’t — and the pop-pop echoed between the buildings like an old wound reopening. This wasn’t just a city with teeth.

It was already chewing on you.

Inside, the stillness wasn’t peace. It was pressure. Like the air itself had crouched low, waiting for the next burst of violence.

Graves sat in the far corner, hunched slightly in a rust-bitten folding chair beneath the single hanging bulb that swung like a pendulum in the stagnant air. The light cast him in harsh slices — bright across his jaw, then swallowed in shadow again, like he was only half real. His right arm was stripped bare to the shoulder, the shredded sleeve of his fatigues lying in a bloodied heap on the floor beside him. The wound was a raw, ugly stripe across the meat of his bicep, black-red and crusted with dust. A graze, but deep enough to throb. Deep enough to scar.

You were still standing.

Back to the far wall, arms crossed, shoulders tight and burning. The adrenaline was still alive in you, coiled beneath your ribs like a nest of hornets, buzzing and twitching with every shallow breath. You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t relax. Not with the memory still clawing behind your eyes — vivid and brutal.

The meet.

The contact’s body snapping back like a marionette with its strings cut.

The way his head had cracked open against the pavement, blood running in fast little rivers between the cobblestones. The staccato of gunfire. The whine of ricochet.

The flash of Graves in your periphery, barreling into you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs before your brain could even catch up. You’d hit the ground hard. You could still feel the bite of concrete in your spine. Still hear the grit in Graves’s voice barking orders through the chaos, the sheer velocity of him moving on top of you — louder than instinct, faster than fear.

And now here you both were. Bloody. Breathing. Fucked.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he looked up.

His eyes met yours beneath the low light. Pale and sharp, the kind of look that cut through skin and muscle and pride alike. His mouth twitched — almost a smirk, but it didn’t quite make it. Too tired. Too raw.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, drawl rough and edged with gravel, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re worried.”

You blinked once. Your jaw tightened.

“I’m trying to decide if you’re a complete idiot.”

He huffed through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching again. This time it hurt — he winced, his shoulder shifting as he rolled it, and the pain must’ve crested because his body went still for a beat. One of his Shadows — Corporal Ives, maybe — stood near the window, scanning the dark street below, rifle held loose but ready. The other three cleaned their weapons around the small wooden table in the corner with methodical precision, calm like men who’d spent half their lives waiting to be shot at.

Graves reached for the half-empty bottle of antiseptic on the crate beside him. He uncapped it one-handed, poured it straight onto the wound. His hiss at the contact filled the silence, sharp and sudden, before he leaned back against the wall and let the burn ride out.

“You looked like a deer in the damn headlights,” he muttered, shaking a few drops of disinfectant from his fingers. “Wasn’t gonna let you get your pretty little head turned into confetti.”

The words lit a fire under your skin.

“Don’t patronize me.” You stepped forward without thinking, boots scuffing the cracked tile with a hard scrape. “You didn’t have to take the fucking hit.”

Graves didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“Didn’t plan on it, sweetheart,” he said, finally glancing at the bloody rag on the floor, already brown with drying red. “But hell, you weren’t movin’. Just standin’ there like you forgot what the fuck kind of job this is.”

The words landed. Hard.

Your throat clenched around the reply that tried to crawl out, but you swallowed it down, jaw aching from the force of it. He was right. That’s what made it sting worse. You had frozen. Just for a second — but in this work, in that moment, a second was long enough to die.

And instead of you, it had been him.

A bullet that could’ve ended your career, your life, had skimmed the side of his arm instead. The graze wasn’t going to kill him. But the guilt? That was going to go deep.

The silence between you turned heavy, the kind that buzzed in your bones and filled your lungs until it suffocated you. Outside, a dog barked once. Then another. The city groaned. Somewhere close, a car door slammed.

You barely noticed.

“You should’ve let me get shot,” you said, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “Would’ve been easier for everyone.”

Graves gave a low scoff — a sound with no real humor in it, just disbelief. “Yeah? Well lucky for you, I don’t make it a habit to let my assets eat lead.”

“I’m not your asset,” you snapped, the words out before you could think them through. “And I didn’t ask for your damn heroics.”

His brows lifted, slow and unimpressed, like he was watching a toddler throw a tantrum in the cereal aisle.

“No, you didn’t,” he said, tone edging toward dryness. “You just froze like a fuckin’ rookie and damn near got your head blown off. I stepped in because I had two choices: pull you out of the line of fire, or scrape you off the street with a damn shovel. Don’t act like you earned that bullet.”

Your stomach twisted. You clenched your jaw so tight you thought something might crack. You hated that you had choked. Hated more that he’d seen it. But what you hated most — deep down, in the center of your chest where all the worst truths lived — was that he was right.

Still, you couldn’t let him have the last word.

“God,” you said, pacing two steps away, hands curled into fists at your sides. “You’re such a fucking martyr.”

Graves let out a low breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, injured arm loose and bleeding again where he’d moved too fast. His voice followed you, calm and cutting.

“I’m not a martyr. I’m a professional. Something you oughta work on bein’ if you wanna stay alive long enough to graduate past being a paper-pusher with attitude.”

You whirled back toward him. “I’ve done two field ops without a hitch—”

“Yeah, and this one went sideways the second boots hit pavement,” he cut in, standing now. The chair scraped back across the floor with a rusty shriek. “Contact dead. Intel lost. And you — damn near getting yourself killed over not payin’ attention.”

He was too close now, not touching but there, his voice dropping low as he stared you down. “You think those suits back at Langley are gonna give a shit about how cute your mission reports read if your body’s rotting in some side street?”

Your pride flared again, too loud and too fast.

“I didn’t ask you to step in!” you snapped, the guilt twisting into heat, into something mean and bratty and breathless. “You wanna chew someone out? Chew out your little Shadows for not spotting the tail earlier. Maybe if your guys were half as good as you think they are, we wouldn’t be holed up in this moldy fucking tomb waiting for a ride home with blood in our fucking shoes.”

You regretted it the moment it left your mouth.

The silence hit like a fist. Even the men in the corner paused. Glowered.

Graves didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“You don’t get to talk about my men,” he said, voice cold and razor-clean. “They followed protocol. They did their jobs. And I’d bleed for any one of ‘em without thinkin’ twice.”

He took another step toward you, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

“Which is exactly what I did for you.”

You stared up at him, heart hammering, throat dry.

His wound was still bleeding.

Your fingers itched to move, to help, to do something — but you stayed where you were, arms still crossed like they could shield you from the sheer weight of what he'd done.

“You don’t get to pull that card,” you said, quieter now, but still sharp around the edges. “You don’t get to act like I owe you something because you jumped in like a good little soldier.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t owe me a damn thing. But you’re actin’ like I shoulda let you take the round.”

“I’m saying it would’ve made this easier.” Your voice cracked on that last word — just barely. You hated how raw it felt.

Graves looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing straight through the bravado. Like he recognized the fear curling underneath it, the shame hiding in your teeth. His voice softened — not gentle, but steady.

“Would it really?” he asked.

You swallowed.

“I don’t like being in anyone’s debt,” you muttered. “Especially not yours.”

He smiled then. Just a little. Tired and amused and vaguely triumphant.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s the brat.”

You bristled. “Fuck off.”

He chuckled low in his chest, rolling his shoulder again with a wince. “You sure talk a big game for someone who damn near got ventilated.”

“Yeah, and you’re still bleeding, so maybe don’t puff your chest too hard, cowboy.”

He grinned wider now, a glint of something almost feral in his eyes.

“I’m startin’ to think you like the way I bleed for you.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Your brain stalled, caught between indignation and something much, much worse.

You turned away fast, trying to hide the heat crawling up your throat. “You’re delirious.”

“Mm,” he drawled, settling back into the chair like he’d just won something. “Maybe.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and looked up at the swaying bulb above, light pooling over the sweat on his neck, the curve of his throat, the way the shadows cut across his scarred cheek.

“We’ll be outta here by morning,” he said. “Then you can go back to pretendin’ I didn’t take a bullet for you.”

You stood in the doorway to the next room, trying not to think too hard about what he’d said. Or how your heart was still racing. Or how, in the quiet hours that followed, you found yourself listening for his breathing.

Just to make sure it hadn’t stopped.

⟡

The interior of the Shadow Company transport was utilitarian and loud — all gunmetal paneling, exposed rivets, and the low, constant drone of the engines humming through the floor and into your bones. No real seats. Just a long row of harnessed webbing along each wall and a narrow aisle down the middle. Everything smelled like sweat, old oil, and the rubber tang of combat boots that hadn’t seen rest in weeks.

No windows. No fucking peace and quiet.

You sat with your back to the hull, strapped in by rough military-grade harnesses you’d only half-fastened, legs spread just enough to keep your balance, fingers gripping the underside of your seat. Every jostle of turbulence vibrated straight up your spine.

Across from you: Graves.

Arms crossed. Vest still on. Legs wide. The gauze at his bicep was freshly changed but already spotted through with blood, the dark stain creeping like ivy beneath the white. His Shadows were scattered nearby — silent, checking gear, dozing, pretending they weren’t listening to you two snap at each other for the third time since wheels up.

You hadn’t spoken for the first hour of the flight. Tension thick as tar between you. Until you made the mistake of sighing too loud when he shifted in his seat.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “could you not bleed so dramatically?”

Graves looked up slowly, like you’d interrupted his nap. “You want me to drip quieter? My bad.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t have to come back with us. I’m sure there’s a hospital bed in Bucharest with your name on it.”

“I came back because I have work to do,” he said, dry. “Unlike some people, I don’t get to write one disaster report and vanish into Langley’s glass tower to lick my wounds.”

“Disaster?” you scoffed. “I’m sorry, did you walk out of there with your source still breathing? Oh, wait—”

“You want a medal for failure, sweetheart?” His tone was a quiet growl now. “’Cause you’re sure fuckin’ itching for one.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“I swear to God—”

He leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees, voice dipping low. “You know what your problem is? You’re a cocky little bitch. Always been the smartest in the room, right? Bet you killed it in training. Bet you had instructors wrapped around your finger.”

You stiffened. “And what, you’re mad you weren’t one of them?”

He grinned — sharp and wolfish. “I don’t fall for attitude wrapped in a tight little suit, sugar. You’re not special.”

“You took a bullet for me.”

“That was tactical,” he snapped, too fast. “I’d take one for my dog if he were in the blast zone.”

You made a face. “You comparing me to your dog now?”

“No,” he said, voice settling into something more clipped, more serious. “My dog listens.”

You barked a laugh. “Do you rehearse these in the mirror, or is the drawl part of the charm you think you have?”

One of the Shadows two seats down muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch it. Graves did. His jaw flexed.

“Keep runnin’ that mouth,” he said, leaning back again. “Eventually you’re gonna say something that costs you.”

You stared at him. “And you’ll be right there, waiting to charge interest, huh?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Damn straight.”

Another patch of silence fell, stretched taut between the roar of the engines and the tension in your chest.

You shifted in your seat, stared at the metal floor between your boots. “You think I don’t care that the contact’s dead?”

Graves didn’t answer at first. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you.

“Sure, I think you care,” he said. “But only how it reflects on you.”

That landed harder than it should have.

You looked away. Let the silence settle again. Let it say everything you couldn’t.

He didn’t press. But he didn’t look away, either.

When the light overhead blinked amber — two hours from landing — you pulled the strap tighter across your chest, throat raw, hands aching from how hard you were clenching them.

Graves adjusted his own harness without a word.

⟡

Hell was waiting for you when you got back to Langley.

Word had traveled fast. Of course it had. By the time your boots hit the floor, you knew the story was already being rewritten — not as a near-miss, not as a compromised op, but as your failure. The golden girl with the smart mouth and the shiny clearance, chewed up and spit out after one bad run.

No one said it to your face. They didn’t have to. It was in the eyes. In the silence. In the way no one asked if you were okay.

You hadn’t even made it to your locker before Halvorsen dragged you in for your first debrief. Then the next. Then another. By the third retelling, your voice had gone scratchy. By the fifth, you were sick of hearing yourself talk. The same story, again and again — your contact dead mid-sentence, blood on the pavement, bullets carving up concrete while Graves dragged you to cover and barked orders that still echoed in your skull. You replayed it all until it felt like fiction. Until you weren’t sure if you were remembering or just rehearsing from a script.

The shame hit slow. Clogged up your chest and sat behind your ribs like wet cement. You knew you’d been thrown in the deep end — everyone had warned you — but it didn’t stop the guilt from crawling under your skin and settling there. Didn’t stop you from wondering, every goddamn second, what you should have done. Who you should have been in that moment.

You hadn’t seen Graves since the plane touched down. Figured he’d written up his report and ghosted the way contractors do — clean hands, clean conscience. He did his job. He kept you breathing. You were the one who was supposed to bring something back.

And you hadn’t.

When they finally gave you a bathroom break, it felt like parole. You walked slow. Mechanical. Hands heavy at your sides. The mirror above the sink was too clean and too honest. You didn’t look at it. Just ran the water cold and let it sting the fatigue out of your face. Tried to scrub the shame off your hands even though you knew it was under the skin by now. Permanent. Yours.

You weren’t going to cry. Not in this building. Not in front of them. You swallowed it all — the embarrassment, the exhaustion, the anger — until your throat ached and your stomach burned and the only thing you had left was spite keeping you upright.

You pulled yourself together. Just enough. Straightened your shirt. Flattened the line of your mouth.

Then you went back.

And stopped cold in the doorway.

Graves was in Halvorsen’s office.

Just — there. Like this was casual. Like he hadn’t disappeared for a full day and let you twist in the wind while every analyst and overseer picked apart your actions like a carcass. He stood near the desk, arms folded, shoulders loose, mouth set in that neutral, unreadable line that somehow still managed to say I know something you don’t.

Halvorsen was talking. You couldn’t hear what. You didn’t care.

Your spine locked up. The heat behind your eyes came back fast and hard — not tears, but fury. Pure and clean. You opened your mouth, ready to let something sharp fly. Something that would make him blink, make him feel any part of what he left you to carry—

But Graves turned his head. Met your eyes.

And smiled.

Oh, you were going to kill him.

Halvorsen, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair like this was just another Thursday. One hand rubbing absently at his temple, the other already halfway through the motion of gesturing to you.

“You’re one lucky rookie,” he said, voice bone-dry. “Graves here just saved your fucking ass.”

You blinked. The words didn’t land at first — didn’t make sense.

“What?” you said, the word slipping out too flat, too quiet.

Halvorsen didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. He reached to the side of his desk and plucked something small off a manila folder — a flash of red between his fingers — then held it up between thumb and forefinger.

A thumb drive.

Small. Unassuming.

You stared at it, pulse ticking louder in your ears.

“Grabbed it off your source’s body,” he said, like he was explaining the weather. “Figured it was what he’d meant to hand off to you before he got his brains redecorated all over the street.” He let the drive fall gently to the desk with a muted tap. “Figured right.”

Your mouth opened slightly — not for a word, but just to breathe. Your skin prickled. Something inside your chest twisted.

“You—” You looked at Graves then, sharp and sudden. “You had that this whole time?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shift his weight. “Didn’t feel like announcing it until it was safe,” he said, voice level. “Didn’t know what was on it. Could’ve been bait. Could’ve been worthless.”

“Could’ve told me,” you snapped, heat rising before you could check it. “You let me think the mission was a complete failure!”

His jaw moved — a slight clench, a flicker of something behind his eyes that might’ve been smug or just tired.

“That’s ‘cause it fuckin’ was.”

Your breath caught — just a second, just enough to rattle you. Halvorsen didn’t speak. His chair creaked faintly as he shifted, watching both of you.

Graves’s expression didn’t change. Calm. Irritatingly calm.

“You think I needed to be humbled?” Your voice dropped, low and taut. “That what this was?”

“I think you’ve been told you’re hot shit your entire life,” he replied, “and maybe you are. But being smart doesn’t stop bullets. It doesn’t keep assets alive. And it doesn’t mean a damn thing when you choke on your fucking mission, kid.”

The words hit like gravel in your throat.

You said nothing.

For a long, long second, the office felt too quiet. The air too still.

Then Halvorsen exhaled, long and slow, and picked up the thumb drive again.

“We’ll get our analysts to run it. If it’s legit, we may have just salvaged something from this mess. Could be a lead on the Sokolov pipeline. Could be garbage. We’ll know by tonight.” He set the drive down again, almost reverently. “But if it’s real, Graves just bought you another shot at doing this job.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry, still staring at the flash drive like it might sprout legs and walk away. That shame you’d been carrying all day — the weight of it shifted. Not lighter. Just different now. More complicated.

Graves pushed off from the desk, brushing past you with the quiet presence of a man who didn’t need to linger.

But you turned.

And followed.

Graves was already halfway down the hall, boots solid against the linoleum, shoulders squared beneath the weight of that cocky indifference he wore like a bulletproof vest. You watched him for a second, jaw clenched, spine bristling. He moved like someone who didn’t know what it meant to doubt himself. Or worse — someone who did, and just didn’t give a damn.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

Then you stepped after him, fast and sharp.

“Hey!” you called, voice slicing through the corridor. “Asshole!”

He didn’t stop walking.

You picked up your pace, boots echoing like gunfire across the tile until you caught up to him and planted yourself square in his path. His mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite annoyance. Just the faintest ripple of amusement that made your blood run hotter.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” you snapped, chin tilted high. “Letting me think I’d walked us into a dead op. That the contact got himself killed for nothing.”

His gaze swept over you, slow as a match strike. That stormy, unbothered blue — the kind of look that had no business settling in the pit of your stomach the way it did.

“You’re welcome,” he said simply.

“Fuck off,” you muttered, jabbing your finger squarely into his chest, accusatorily. “Don’t pretend this was some noble sacrifice. You didn’t do this for me. You did it to save your own ass.”

That earned you the full weight of his attention. He stepped in closer — not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air between you. His voice dropped.

“Darlin’, if I was worried about saving my ass, I wouldn’t have taken a round for yours.”

The words hit low. Smug and warm and smug again.

You hated how fast your breath caught. Hated the flush that crept up your neck like a traitor. You’d come here to yell at him — to drag him for the humiliation, the arrogance, the casual way he toyed with you like this was all some game. And yet—

God, he smelled like worn leather and gun oil and something sharp beneath it, something hot that curled under your skin and made your legs feel too aware of themselves. He still had blood on the cuff of his rolled sleeve. A pink halo dried into the edge of the gauze. He didn’t flinch when he moved.

You swallowed thickly. Glared harder.

“You’re an asshole.”

He smiled then — small, crooked, and too pleased with himself. “Yeah. You’ve mentioned.”

“And you think you’re so fucking clever.”

“Not clever,” he said. “Just right.”

You stared at him. At that maddening confidence. At the crease of laughter lines near his eyes, the faint scar on his cheek that disappeared into his stubble. Every inch of him was carved from war stories and bad habits, and he looked at you like you were next on his list.

It should’ve made you want to slap him.

The way he stood there, full of smug Southern stillness — like he’d just laid down a royal flush and didn’t even need to look. That little crook in his mouth, the one that always seemed one breath away from something cruel or charming, and you were never sure which one would land. You should’ve wanted to wipe that look right off his face.

You didn’t.

Instead, your voice dipped lower. Tighter. Something heat-slick and mean curling just under your ribs.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said, stepping into his shadow. “Aren’t you?”

There was a beat.

Then—

“Yeah,” he said, voice deep and slow. “I really am.”

God.

It hit you like the slide of silk over bare skin — unexpected, intimate, infuriating. Your breath caught, a single hitch that gave you away before you could reel it back in. Just enough for him to notice. Just enough for his eyes to narrow slightly, for the air between you to shift like something had cracked open.

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt thick. Like honey poured too slow. Like breath held too long. You became acutely aware of how close you were standing, how the scent of him — sweat and leather and heat — coiled in your lungs like smoke.

Fluorescents buzzed weakly overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. Neither of you moved.

You should’ve walked away. Should’ve said nothing. But then he leaned in — just a fraction, just enough — and let it drop, soft and warm and awful.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” he said, “you’ll thank me properly.”

Your spine lit up.

In your mind, for a brief second, you saw the flash of his hand braced against a wall, his mouth too close to yours. You saw what “proper” might look like, and the thought slid somewhere behind your navel and burned.

You stepped back — not far, just enough. Just enough to breathe again, just enough to make sure he didn’t see how your pulse jumped beneath your skin.

“You wish,” you said, and your voice wasn’t steady. It was silk pulled taut, sharp at the edges.

Graves gave a quiet laugh — low and knowing and entirely too pleased with himself. Not loud enough to echo. Just enough to linger.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

He turned, boots heavy against the tile, and walked away like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at your feet.