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filthyjoelslvr · 24 days ago

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How to Disappear

part 2

Content: seattle!tommy x reader

Synop: Tommy will probably never be the same after being forced to watch Joel's gruesome murder. Or at least he won't until he gets to kill the bitch that took his brother himself.

Of course you were never going to let him go alone. Of course you were going to follow.

Warnings: no ellie, no dina, mean!tommy/angry/grieving, lots of arguing lol, angry sex, chocking, ass slapping, unprotected pinv, oral fem!receiving, guns and weapons, probably more but i'm bad at writing warnings lol (lmk if i missed anything major)

Word Count: 10k

dividers by ( @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics )

a/n: IF YOU ALREADY READ THIS PLEASE READ: i rewrote this chapter because i literally was not feeling the first one emotionally and it was throwing me off when trying to write the second part, so i rewrote it this week and i feel so much better about it! you do not have to reread (the storyline is still the same just some changes in the tone and more arguing) and ofc i rewrote the smut so skip down to the end if you wanna read that part hehehehe. anyway im so sorry but i hope yall enjoy this one instead!!

The snow still hadn’t melted.

It clung to the world like grief clung to Tommy, quiet, bitter, impossible to shake. Outside Jackson, the sky had dulled to a flat, iron grey, heavy with the kind of silence that feels like it knows too much. Like it, too, had seen what Tommy had seen. What you hadn’t.

You only heard about it in murmurs passed between patrol shifts, whispered half-words trailing off when you came near. What Joel had gone through. How Tommy had been there, forced to watch, to listen.

You heard from someone that it started with the swing of a golf club. Then came the sound of something breaking, something soft and human. Then silence. Not peaceful, not calm. Just wrong. Loud in the way only death can give. They said he was on his knees. That Tommy was beaten and held down, forced to watch, eyes wide and helpless. That the smell of blood was so thick in the air he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t forget it even if he tried.

But no one talks about that part out loud anymore. They’re just all rumors anyway. Or, at least you pray they are.

But you see the way Tommy stares off sometimes, like he’s still there, like it’s happening again. Over and over.

You don’t ask him what he saw and he doesn’t tell you.

Tommy used to reach for you in his sleep. Mumbled your name, curled his body around yours like you were something steady in a world that never was. Now his back is always turned. If he sleeps at all, it’s shallow and restless. He twitches and grits his teeth, breath catching like he’s drowning in another nightmare.

There’s no warmth in the space between your bodies anymore. Just a hollow ache, wide as grief, cold as February.

And you try, you try, to understand. You try not to take it personal. But his silence is a knife you keep swallowing.

He doesn’t kiss your shoulder in the mornings. Doesn’t hum old country songs while frying eggs. Doesn’t run his fingers through your hair or rest his chin on your shoulder just to feel close.

He doesn’t call you darlin’.

It’s like loving a ghost. And still… you stay.

Because you remember the way he used to be. How he’d look at you like you were the only reason he kept going. How his hand would rest on your knee while sitting on the porch. How his voice would soften when he said your name.

But that man, the man you loved, never made it back from that day.

Joel’s death took more than a brother. It took Tommy too, even though he’s still breathing, still alive.

Now he walks the halls of your home like they don’t belong to him. Doesn’t touch the mug you always set out in the morning. Doesn’t eat the meals you make. Just sharp nods. Short sentences. A look now and then that almost says “I’m sorry” but never quite makes it there.

One day you caught him sitting on the porch, rifle in hand, staring off distantly into the woods. He hadn’t heard you come out. And for a second, just a second, his face cracked. You saw it, all of it. The rage. The guilt. The helpless, broken need to rewrite time.

But then it passed, and his face closed back up like a door slamming shut. Any sign of emotion gone as quickly at it came.

You still wait for him, though. In every breath. In every silence. You wait like the air waits for spring during these cold, frigid days.

You try to act normal. Not because anything feels normal, but because pretending helps, sometimes. It makes the quiet in the house feel less like a funeral.

You make the bed each morning even though Tommy barely sleeps in it. You fold his laundry, though he doesn’t wear much anymore beyond the same flannel and jeans. You cook, you clean, you wait. You pretend.

Because pretending feels easier than saying it out loud. He’s not really here anymore.

You ask him if he wants to take a walk with you, he says no. You mention Jesse stopped by to say hi, he nods without looking up. You leave your hand on his shoulder a second too long when you pass behind him in the hallway, he pulls away like your touch is a memory he can’t afford to feel.

He doesn’t look you in the eye anymore.

And it hurts. Because you remember when he used to, when he’d stare at you with this quiet, patient love like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world. Now he looks everywhere but at you. Like holding your gaze might crack him in half.

Sometimes, you fill the silence with small talk. A funny patrol story. A light memory. Something normal.

Sometimes, you almost say Joel’s name. You’ve learned not to.

You only made that mistake once.

Once, a few days after the funeral, you found Tommy sitting on the edge of the porch, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The sky was turning violet. You thought maybe the quiet felt a little gentler that night.

So you sat beside him and whispered, “Remember that time Joel found that old guitar in Salt Lake? The one with the crack in it? He played that stupid Johnny Cash song for hours…”

Tommy didn’t respond.

You turned to look at him, smiling at the memory. “He kept going and going while you were trying to nap. Drove you nuts.”

He didn’t even blink. He just stood up, tossing his cigarette in the grass and walked inside without looking back.

After that, his rules became clear, unspoken but sharp. No mentions, no memories, no Joel.

Even the house has changed. His pictures turned face-down. His name vanished from conversations. His guitar, once a quiet soundtrack to your evenings when he was over, now sits untouched in the attic, strings gathering dust.

Sometimes, you wonder if Tommy thinks saying it out loud will make it more real. As if keeping it buried means it didn’t happen. But it did. It happened. Joel’s dead.

And every day you lose a little more of the man who survived it.

He twitches in his sleep, whispers things you don’t understand — names, apologies. You don’t know who they’re for.

Once, you found him standing in the kitchen at 3 a.m., staring down at a knife in the sink like he couldn’t remember putting it there. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, like something inside him was tearing loose.

You didn’t say anything, just gently took his hand and walked him to the room.

That night, you sat awake beside him, listening to the wind outside rattle against the window. You held onto the moment. Held onto him, even if he wasn’t really there.

The night was quiet, like most nights are now.

The fire had burned low in the hearth, soft orange flickers licking the stone. Shadows danced lazily across the walls, stretching long and tired. The scent of venison stew hung in the air, Tommy’s favorite. You’d spent hours on it, dicing potatoes, peeling carrots from the greenhouse, simmering it low and slow. You poured your care into the cooking, as if enough warmth in a bowl could bring him back.

Tommy sat at the table, hands in his lap, eyes somewhere far away. The steam from the bowl in front of him rose into the cold air, unnoticed. Unwanted.

You stood across from him, wooden spoon still in hand, stomach twisted into anxious knots. You watched him. The way his shoulders curved forward like gravity had grown heavier just for him. The way his flannel hung looser now, like it belonged to someone else.

He looked smaller. His frame had thinned, his cheeks sunken with weeks of skipped meals. He looked like he was fading, not just physically. And god, it hurt so much to see him like this.

You walked to him slowly, the way you’d approach a wild animal — careful, open palms, soft words.

“Tommy,” you said gently, kneeling beside him. “You need to eat.”

No response.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand. He flinched as though your touch burned. As if love was the sharpest weapon he knew now. He pulled his hand away without a word. Another rejection.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you said, your voice starting to fray. “I know you’re hurting. I know it’s hell. I miss him too, Tommy. But this—” You glanced toward the untouched bowl. “This isn’t what Joel would’ve wanted.”

At the mention of Joel’s name, Tommy stiffened.

“Stop.”

It was the first word he’d spoken in hours. A command. But you pressed on, too full of pain to stop now.

“You think he’d want you to waste away? To push everyone who loves you out of your life?” Your voice rose, tight and trembling. “You think this is what he’d want for you?”

“I said stop.”

You walked to the sink, washing you own half eaten bowl.

“Tommy…”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!”

You flinched, the words hitting like a slap in the face. But you couldn’t stop now, even with the way you saw the anger rising to his cheeks. Even with the way his fists clenched around his bowl.

“I want you back,” you whispered, broken. “I want the man who used to smile. Who used to hold me like I was something good. Who used to laugh when he cooked and—”

You shouldn’t have said it. But you did.

Joel.

Everything stopped and the silence shattered

In one sudden motion, Tommy’s arm flew across the table. The bowl flew, full and steamy, striking the cabinet beside you with a violent crack. Porcelain shattered, stew spattering across the wood. You gasped, stumbling back as the sound tore through the room. For a breathless second, your body recoiled, heart pounding and your brain screamed run as if he was aiming for you.

Tommy stood up too fast. Chair legs scraped the floor. His chest rose and fell, hands flexing at his sides.

Then he saw you. Your face pale and your eyes shining with fear, fear of him. Your arms crossed over your chest, trying to hold yourself together.

“No— no, baby—” He stepped forward, panic lighting his face. “I wasn’t aiming at you, I swear. I didn’t mean to— shit, I just—”

You flinched when he reached for you, and he stopped cold.

“I’d never hurt you.” His voice cracked. “I swear to God, I didn’t mean—” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He sank down onto his knees, slowly, hands trembling as he began to pick up the broken pieces from the floor. One by one. Like if he could just fix the mess, maybe everything else would fall back into place too.

You stood there, arms hugging your body, watching him fall apart in silence.

And then, as if in self-punishment, Tommy served himself another bowl. Sat back down at the table, and ate.

Every bite looked like it hurt him. But he ate it. All of it.

You didn’t sit beside him. You just watched. And for the first time in weeks, Tommy Miller looked like he was still trying to be human.

The fire had died out long ago. The house lay still, save for the wind tapping at the windows and the faint creak of old wood settling in the cold.

You lay on your side, back to the door, blanket pulled to your chin. Awake. Your eyes traced patterns in the shadows, heart heavy but quiet now, like the calm after a storm.

Then, sometime after midnight, the mattress dipped beside you. Your breath caught, but you didn’t move.

Slowly, tentatively, Tommy reached out. Rough fingertips brushed your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear just like he used to. His hand lingered for a second longer than it had any right to.

You turned to face him. His eyes found yours in the dark. They looked tired. Older somehow. Worn down to the bone. But they looked at you, really looked, and that was something.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and cracked. “For how I’ve been. For… pushin’ you away.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper. And you mean it, even if it isn’t. Because it has to be.

He looked away then, jaw clenched. “I ain’t been right. Not since…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

There was a long pause. You let the silence hold him for a while, let him feel safe in it. But eventually, he spoke again.

“I know who did it.”

You blinked slowly.

His voice had changed, harder now, sharp around the edges. “I’ve been waitin’. But I can’t anymore. I’m gonna ask Maria to send me and a group out to Seattle.”

Your body went still. “You’re serious.”

He nodded. “I know where she is, the girl who killed Joel. I know the names of the people who helped.”

The weight of it landed fast. Heavy and inevitable.

“You think she’ll say yes?” you asked gently.

“She has to.”

You hesitated. “She doesn’t have to do anything, Tommy.”

His head turned slowly. His brows drew down. “What’d you just say?”

“I’m not trying to fight with you,” you said quickly. “I just think—”

“No,” he interrupted, sitting up, voice rising. “Say it again.”

You sat up, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “I just think Maria’s not gonna sign off on something that’ll get you and maybe others killed.”

He scoffed. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“I think you’re hurting,” you said carefully. “And you think this is justice, but all I see is a death wish.”

His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. “That what you think of me?”

“I think…” You exhaled. “I think you’re trying to put a bullet in someone and pretend that’s gonna fix what’s broken.”

Tommy stood up so fast the bed rocked. He paced to the edge of the room, hands on his hips, head bowed. He looked like he wanted to scream.

Instead, he turned on you.

“Are you on my side or hers?”

“…What?”

“Are you on my side,” he repeated, louder now, “or hers?”

You stared at him, stunned. “Tommy, how can you even ask me that?”

“‘Cause it sure as hell don’t feel like you’re on mine.”

Your voice cracked. “I’ve been right here. Every day. Through everything.”

“Then act like it!” he shouted. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m broken, like I need protectin’ or savin’ or hand-holdin’. Fuckin’ support me.”

You stood now too, voice shaking but firm. “I do support with you, Tommy. I love you. But supporting you doesn’t mean saying yes to something that might kill you.”

He looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like your face had changed.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “You never really did.”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling at your sides. “You think this is easy for me? Watching you rot from the inside out while I try to keep us together? I am trying, Tommy. I am doing everything I know how to do.”

He shook his head. “If you were really with me, you wouldn’t be asking me to let her live.”

“I’m not asking you to let her live. I’m asking you to think about what happens to you if you go down this road.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling, eyes blazing.

Then his voice dropped. Quiet. Final.

“Maybe you should stop waitin’ for me.”

The room went silent as he turned and left. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, leaving you in the dark, shaking.

You sat back down on the edge of the bed, your hands gripping the sheets so tight your knuckles ached. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t from fear.

It was from grief. But not for Joel, for Tommy.

It was hours later when you heard his muffeled broken cried coming from the living room. It wasn’t loud or theatrical, just quiet as desperate sounds escaped from someone who couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You could tell he was trying to be quiet for you, he never wanted you to see him cry. Always wanted you to look at him as this strong, held together man. And when you think about it, you never really saw him cry after Joel died. You knew he did, noticed his blood-shot eyes when he walked into a room, but he made sure you never had to see it.

You didn’t move to comfort him, you knew he wouldn’t want it. Especially with the way he felt like you were betraying him. Then the front door creaked softly and closed behind him.

The silence swallowed you whole.

The morning air is sharp and cold against your skin, even through your coat.

You didn’t sleep much, not after the door closed behind him. But Tommy came back before dawn, silent as the wind. You heard the floor creak in the hallway, the soft groan of the front door closing behind him. You didn’t get up. You just listened to him move through the house like he was haunting it.

Now you’re sitting beside him in Jackson’s meeting room. Just the three of you — Tommy, Maria, and you — gathered in a space that feels too small for the things being said.

Tommy’s knuckles are white around the edge of the table. He’s leaned forward, eyes locked on Maria like she's the gatekeeper to everything that matters.

“I know who killed Joel.”

Maria doesn’t flinch. She waits.

“Her name’s Abby,” Tommy continues. “She’s part of some group outta Seattle. WLF. I don’t know what that means but I know who they are. I’ve been piecing it together for weeks.”

You tense beside him. It’s the first time you’ve heard the name. Abby.

Something cold roots itself in your stomach.

Maria folds her hands, lets out a breath through her nose. Her mouth is tight, unreadable. You can tell she’s trying to look thoughtful. But her decision’s already written all over her face.

“Tommy,” she starts gently, “I understand why you want this. I do. Joel was—” her voice breaks slightly before she catches it. “He was family. To all of us.”

Tommy nods once, eyes never leaving her. “Then let me go.”

Maria shakes her head slowly. “You’re asking me to send people out west. Across the country. Into unknown territory. For what?”

“For justice,” he says sharply. “For him.”

She meets his fire with calm. “For revenge, Tommy.”

He starts to speak again, but she holds up her hand.

“You’ve been hurting. And I get it”

Tommy’s chest rises and falls hard.

“But this won’t bring him back,” Maria says softly.

You glance at Tommy. He’s shaking his head slowly. You can feel the anger rolling off of him like steam.

“Please,” he whispers. “I’m beggin' you.”

Maria’s voice is gentle but firm. “My answer is no. And it’s final.”

He stands so fast his chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

“Fine,” he mutters, not looking at either of you. “Hope the whole goddamn town knows they’ve got a pussy of a leader.”

Then he turns and storms out, boots echoing down the hallway.

You’re left in the sudden silence. Maria gives you a look — soft, apologetic, full of sympathy that feels too heavy right now.

You stand slowly. Say nothing, just nod once and follow him out.

You catch up to him near the main gate, his long stride slowed only slightly by his frustration. The fire in his eyes hasn’t faded — it’s glowing hotter now, ready to burn down whatever stands in his way.

“Tommy,” you call gently. He doesn’t stop. “I can skip patrol if you want,” you say, trying to meet his pace. “I’ll stay with you. If you don’t want to be alone.”

He stops walking. The air between you stills.

You see his body tense like he’s about to turn and fight. To yell. His shoulders twitch like he’s trying to hold it in.

But when he turns, there’s pain in his eyes. He lifts his hand slowly and touches your cheek with rough fingers. His thumb traces the corner of your jaw. You lean into it instinctively, even though the touch feels almost foreign now.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low. “But just… please. I need to be alone today.”

You nod. It’s all you can do. His hand lingers just a second longer. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Be safe,” he whispers. Then he turns and walks off toward the house, shoulders tight, jaw set.

You watch until he disappears through the crowd.

You got back from patrol early. There was nothing out there tonight — no tracks, no infected, not even the sound of deer moving in the brush. Just cold wind and the ache in your knees from riding too long.

You slid off your horse outside the stable and gave Jesse a quiet nod before heading home, muscles tired and skin wind-chapped. The streets of Jackson were quiet. A few lanterns flickered near the main gates, but the sky was dimming fast. You pulled your coat tighter around you, boots crunching over frostbitten grass.

You expected the house to be dark, like it always was. That dead hush of a place forgotten by the people who lived in it. You used to hate coming back to that silence. Still did. The only sound had been the click of the lock. The sigh of the floorboards under your feet.

But tonight, something’s different. From halfway down the block, you saw the house lit. The front windows glowed with amber warmth. A faint shadow moving behind the curtains. The porch lamp was on too.

Your pace slowed. Your heart did too. It was the first time in weeks you’d come home to light.

You walked quietly up the steps, not wanting to interrupt whatever he was doing. Maybe, maybe, he was finally trying. Reading, cooking, sitting by the fire.

You reached for the door, breath caught in your throat, and stepped inside. But you froze at what you saw.

The table was covered in supplies. Ammo, food, bandages. A folded map. A half-packed duffel bag sat open and heavy, the zipper’s metal teeth catching the light. Boots by the door. Rifle leaning against the wall.

Tommy stood with his back to you, placing more items in the bag.

Your heart sank like a stone thrown in deep water.

“…Tommy.”

He jolted, turning fast, eyes wide with guilt, like a kid caught stealing. He didn’t even know you were there.

His face hardened almost instantly. You stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind you with a quiet click.

“What are you doing?” you asked, voice trembling.

“I have to.” He went back to packing, not meeting your eyes.

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You can’t. It’s too dangerous, Tommy.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. Just kept folding gear, stuffing it in tighter, as if the motion kept him from unraveling.

You started to panic. “You can’t do this, Tommy. You don’t even know what’s out there. You don’t even—”

“I know enough!” he snapped, finally turning to you. His eyes were blazing.

“No, you don’t! You don’t know what’s waiting for you, and you don’t care. You’re just gonna walk into that fucking city and die because you can’t stand to be in this world without him!”

He turned away again, jaw clenched, grabbing a case of bullets. You reached out and grabbed his hand before he could touch it.

He froze.

“Don’t,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please. I can’t lose you to this. I can’t.”

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at your hand gripping his in tight desperation.

“I can’t live without you, Tommy.”

And then, without even looking at you, he said the one thing that cracked something inside you wide open.

“Now you know how it feels.”

You staggered back like he’d struck you. A soft, breathless sound left your throat — half sob, half laugh. You looked at him, chest heaving.

“That’s not fair,” you said, barely above a whisper.

The tears came hard and fast.

“That's not fucking fair. You think you’re the only one who lost someone?”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. You stepped closer.

“You’re all I have, Tommy. I can’t be alone. I’d be nothing without you.”

The words left your mouth and hung in the air, thick and undeniable.

He turned to you slowly, eyes glassy. His chest rising and falling like he’d been running. He looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks.

You weren’t sure what he was going to do. Yell. Throw something. Walk out again.

But he just stood there.

Then, finally, he spoke, voice hoarse and broken.

“…I don’t wanna be someone you lose, too.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, but it wasn’t cold anymore.

He dropped the bullets, then he reached over and pulled the duffel bag shut, slow and final. His hand stayed on it for a second before he stepped away.

You let out a shaky breath. Wiped at your eyes.

He didn’t say anything else. He walked over to you and took your face in his hands like it was something sacred. His thumb brushed away the tears. Then he rested his forehead against yours.

His hands stayed on your face like he’s holding something too fragile to grip any tighter. His thumbs still move in slow circles, trying to catch the last of your tears before they fall, but it’s too late. You’re unraveling right in front of him and he’s trying to catch the pieces.

“Please,” you whisper, voice barely holding itself together. “Don’t go.”

His breath stumbles and for a second, just one aching second, it looks like he’s going to say it. That he’s going to tell you the truth. That he has to. That it’s already too late. That the wheels are already turning in his mind, and there’s no unmaking what’s been set in motion.

“I won’t,” he says, softly instead. A lie in velvet.

Your hands fall to your sides. Something inside you sinks, heavy and cold.

It’s not enough. It can’t be.

You tilt your face up, locking eyes with him in the dim golden light of the room. The shadows on his face flicker, but you see every line. Every war still being waged behind his tired eyes.

“Promise me,” you say, your voice thick, trembling.

He doesn’t answer.

His mouth opens like he might say something, then closes again. His throat bobs as he swallows, gaze breaking from yours like it’s too much to bear.

You feel something hot crawl up the back of your throat. Your heart pounding so hard it feels like grief itself.

“Fucking promise me, Tommy,” you say again, louder this time. Angrier, desperate. Your voice cracks in the middle, betraying the softest, most broken part of you.

He lifts his head slowly and leans in, planting a soft kiss on your lips.

Not sudden, not explosive, but aching and slow. The kind of kiss that feels like a confession. His lips brush yours once, then again, firmer this time. As though trying to press every unspoken word into the shape of your mouth. As though kissing you is the only language he has left.

You feel yourself melt into it, breath catching in your throat. His hands slide down, one settling along your jaw, the other curling around the back of your neck, guiding you into him like you’re something precious.

You slide your arms around his waist, holding him with every ounce of fear, love, and desperation inside you. Your cheek brushes the worn fabric of his shirt sleeve. He smells like cold air and pine, like old gun oil and fading warmth. Like home.

Your lips part slightly, and his follow. The kiss deepens, slow and lingering. It tastes like regret. It tastes like memory. It tastes like a promise that was never going to last.

When he finally pulls away, it’s not because he wants to.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, his breath shallow against your skin. You stay still in his arms, afraid to move, afraid to shatter whatever this is.

“I promise,” he whispers, and it almost sounds real.

But you know him too well. You feel it in his hands, too tense. In his kiss, too final. In his voice, too quiet.

The promise doesn’t sit right. It floats in the air between you like dust. Light enough to lift, but never meant to stay.

He’s lying.

Maybe not out of cruelty. Maybe not even fully aware of it himself. But in the deepest part of him, Tommy Miller has already left this house.

So you say nothing You don’t fight it anymore. You just press your face into his shoulder and hold him tighter, like maybe if you don’t let go, he’ll forget where he’s trying to go. You let your fingers splay across his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, fast and uneven.

He holds you back like he means it. Like this is all he’ll let himself feel. The room stills around you. His arms hold you like he’s scared he might fall apart if he lets go. His breath brushes your temple in short, uneven exhales. For a long time, neither of you speak. The promise he made still lingers between you — soft, almost sacred, but already fading at the edges.

Tommy pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes search your face with something different now. Not guilt. Not anger. Something gentler. Older.

“…Come with me,” he whispers.

You nod, wordless.

He takes your hand. His calloused fingers wrap around yours, warm and rough in the best way. Familiar. You follow him through the dim hallway, lit only by the flicker of the fire behind you. The bedroom is colder than you remember, but his hand never leaves yours — not as he pulls back the covers, not as he helps you into bed like you're something fragile he's afraid to break.

He lies beside you, close, closer than he’s dared to in so long. His hands find your waist beneath the blanket, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. His touch is hesitant at first, like he doesn’t trust himself. Like he’s afraid you’ll tell him to stop.

But you don’t. You won’t. Because this is the Tommy you haven’t seen in what feels like forever. The one who loved you with a kind of quiet reverence. The one who made you feel like his whole world was contained in the curve of your smile. You let him touch you because you miss this. You miss him.

He cups your face again, gentle thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. You tilt into his touch without thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. His voice cracks like old wood. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been. For everything I put on you.”

You shake your head, but he kisses your temple before you can speak.

“I’ve been lost,” he whispers. “But I never stopped lovin' you. Not for a damn second.”

His lips trail from your temple down to the soft spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate. He breathes you in like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your skin.

You feel his hands roam with care, not with hunger, not with desperation, but something far more intimate. He touches you like he’s relearning your body. The way his fingers slide under your shirt, spreading warmth over your ribs, the softness of your sides, the curve of your waist — he’s worshiping, not wanting.

You shiver beneath him, but it’s not from the cold.

He kisses you again, slow and deep. His mouth opens against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. You kiss him back just as slowly, savoring it, like maybe time will pause here, just for the two of you.

When he pulls away, he’s whispering again, barely audible. Words meant for no one but you.

“I love you. I love you so much. I don’t know who I am without you.”

You trace his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the rough edge of stubble, the line of his throat. He catches your wrist and presses a kiss into your palm, like he’s sealing some kind of vow there.

The covers shift as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling under the weight of the blankets. He wraps an arm around you, his palm spread wide against your back. The other threads through your hair, combing slow and steady. His lips find your neck again, leaving soft, lingering kisses in a line down to your collarbone.

“I love you,” he murmurs again. “I love your body.”

You press your forehead to his. “Stay,” you whisper. “Just… stay.”

He nods, once, hard, like the promise costs him something.

And for a while, it’s quiet. The world narrows to the sound of your shared breath, the warmth of his skin against yours, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your spine. His touch never stops, reassuring, grounding, tender.

Minutes pass. Then his breathing starts to shift to a slower, deeper pace.

But it’s not sleep. You know that rhythm. This one’s too controlled.

You lie perfectly still in his arms, your own breath syncing with his like a ritual. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you moves.

And in the stillness, you know he’s pretending. Faking the rise and fall of rest like it might trick you. Like it might soften the blow of whatever comes next.

You pretend too. You match him breath for breath. You let your body go soft. You let your hand stay on his chest, over his heart, even though it aches.

Because if this is all you’ll get — this moment, this warmth, this Tommy — you’ll take it.

Even if it’s borrowed. Even if it’s already slipping through your fingers.

You don’t know how long you’ve been lying like that — wrapped in his arms, body warm against his, hearts beating together in a slow, shared rhythm. But eventually, you feel it.

Subtle at first. The way his chest rises with a breath he’s holding too long. The faint stiffness in his limbs like he’s preparing to move.

He starts to untangle from you. Carefully, afraid to wake you.

You keep still. You let your arm fall limp when he slides out from beneath it. Let your breathing stay even when the blanket lifts and the cold slips in. You don’t flinch when the mattress shifts under the loss of his weight.

You hear his bare feet on the floorboards. Hear the soft creak of the closet door. The muted jingle of gear. Metal brushing against fabric. Velcro. Zippers.

He’s moving quietly, methodically. Not rushed, but focused. Like someone who’s had this plan burned into his brain for weeks.

You stay motionless, the blanket clutched tight around you, eyes forced closed in the dark.

Your breath catches when you hear him pad down the hallway. The soft click of the living room light. The rustle of paper. Maybe a map.

Then… silence. For a minute you think, maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he’s coming back to bed.

And he does return. Soft footsteps. The creak of the door. You feel him beside you again, but he doesn’t climb back under the covers. Doesn’t lie down. Just kneels at the edge of the bed, one hand brushing your hair gently off your forehead.

You can feel the tremble in his fingers as he leans down, presses a kiss to your temple so soft it barely exists. His breath is warm against your skin. It stings.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

You want to scream. You want to reach up and grab him, tell him don’t you dare leave me. But you stay frozen.

You hear him stand. Hear the front door open, a long, slow creak that groans like it knows what he’s doing. Hear the wind slip in, then the latch clicks shut behind him.

And just like that, he’s gone.

You stay in bed for a long time. Long enough for the sun to start bleeding faint gold through the curtains. Long enough for the warmth in the sheets to fade completely.

You cry in silence as pain creeps in like rot. Like the kind that doesn’t kill you right away, but stays deep in your soul like it lives in your bones.

You cry because he’s really gone. You cry because you thought maybe, just maybe, you were enough to make him stay.

But he needs his revenge more than he needs you and no amount of love was ever going to stop him.

When you finally get up, your body feels heavier than it should. Like gravity's stronger today. You move through the house slowly, the cold biting at your skin now that the blankets are gone. The bedroom is a mess of discarded warmth, blankets half off the bed, your shirt crumpled near the footboard, his scent still lingering in the air.

You throw on what you can find. The jeans from yesterday. A hoodie from the floor. Socks that don’t match.

You pull food from the cupboards, what little is left. A few cans. A half-empty bag of jerky. Two energy bars. You fill an old thermos with water from the tap, praying the pipes won’t freeze while you’re gone.

You head to the closet. His gun is gone but the backup is still there. You take it, load it, grab the hunting knife you always keep hidden under the dresser. No holster. No pack. Just a shoulder bag and what you can carry.

It’s not enough. But you don’t care. You’re going.

As you cross the hallway to the front door, your boots in hand, you pause at the edge of the living room and see a piece of paper lying gently on the coffee table with your name scribbled on it. Your heart plummets.

You walk over slowly and unfold it with fingers that won’t stop shaking.

His handwriting is messy. Rushed.

I’m sorry.

Please don’t come try to find me. I can’t let you get hurt because of me. This is something I have to do.

I love you more than anything and that's why I'm going without you. I need to do this alone.

Please forgive me.

- Tommy

You stare at the words until they blur, then you crumble the note in your hand, tight enough to cramp your fingers, and throw it across the room.

It hits the far wall and drops to the floor like it never mattered.

You sit on the edge of the couch, pull your boots on with jerky, ungraceful movements. Lace them tight. Tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to remind yourself you’re still here.

You’re going and that stupid note was never going to stop you.

Fourteen frozen, fucking brutal days of chasing his ghost through the corpse of the world. Sleet was replaced by rain that felt like ice as the winter trailed into spring. Stolen food, bruised knuckles, shivering under collapsed roofs with your knife gripped tight and your breath clouding the air like smoke somehow kept you alive.

You’d hoped two hours would be enough — enough time, enough space to let him fade from your skin. But he’s still there. In every splintered tree, every cold fire pit, every sleeve of his torn coat you swore you saw snagged high on a barbed wire fence.

And now, now you’re here.

Yakama.

The town is dead, drowned in nature. A graveyard of buildings and stories that no longer matter. Your horse snorts beneath you, hooves crunching through mud as you tug the reins and scan the half-collapsed police station across the street. And there — just outside, tied to a crooked railing — a horse. It has to be Tommy's.

You dismount without thinking, heart crawling up your throat. You tie your horse to a rusted stop sign, its pole bent like it had been struck by something years ago. Let the reins go slack. Let your fingers hover at your belt, brushing the hilt of your knife. Just in case.

The building groans around you as you step inside; walls tilting, ceiling open to the sky, ivy clawing its way through busted windows like it’s trying to reclaim what time abandoned. You move carefully. Knife drawn. Breath shallow.

You hear nothing but silence, but it's what's hidden in that silence that worries you. A runner, a stalker.

As you turn a corner, there’s a light weak and flickering from the back of the station like a dying fire. You creep forward and there he is, Tommy.

Bent over a map, back tense, hair greasy and falling into his eyes. He looks like hell. Dried blood at his collar. Sweat-stiff clothes clinging to sharp edges that weren’t there before. His arm is bandaged, the white long since soaked through with maroon.

You stop breathing. Just stare. For a second you almost forget how much you hate him right now.

Then, as you try walking slowly toward him, you step on a piece glass under your boot. The crack of it snaps the silence clean in half.

Tommy whirls, gun drawn before you can blink. The muzzle points straight between your eyes.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, hands fly up, knife dropping, breath hitching. “It’s me!” you gasp. “Tommy, it’s me!”

He doesn’t shoot. Doesn’t lower the gun either.

Lantern light slices across your face and he freezes, recognition hitting him like a punch. His grip trembles. His eyes burn. His mouth twists, like he’s trying to swallow words that won’t come out.

You lower your arms slowly. Step into the light.

His voice finally cracks out of him, sharp and ragged. “...What the fuck—?”

“Tommy, please.” Your voice is barely there. You want to go to him. You want to hit him. You want to fall into him and scream.

He drops the gun. Lets it clatter uselessly to the floor. Doesn’t look at you. Just turns, shoulders hunched, hands planted on the desk like they’re the only things keeping him standing.

“You fuckin’ followed me?” he rasps.

You nod. Your throat’s too tight to speak.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes, slow and pained, like every inhale is a fight. The bandage on his arm pulses with each beat of his heart. He looks like he’s unraveling in front of you, like if you touch him he’ll turn to ash.

“You’re outta your goddamn mind,” he mutters.

“I needed to know you were alive,” you say. Your voice comes out too soft, too human for this place.

He doesn’t lift his head.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t let you do this alone.”

The air thickens. Cold and sharp.

“You’re goin’ back.”

Your chest cracks. You step forward and he flinches like you’ve struck him.

Your fingers graze the edge of his bandage. It’s cold and stiff. There’s no heat under it.

The station around you hums with silence. Old radio static, mildew covered reports, rotted equipment.

Tommy’s breath drags. You can hear it. Hear the weight behind it. Like he’s holding the whole goddamn world on his back and you just added more.

He finally turns, his eyes full of anger and fury like you just fueled a fire.

“You’re not doin’ this,” he growls, low and rough. “I will drag your ass back to Jackson if I have to.”

You hold your ground. You travelled fourteen awful days to find him, there was no way in hell you were going back now.

“You don’t have enough time,” you say. “Two weeks there, two weeks back. Abby could leave in that time. If she’s even still here.”

His jaw clenches, muscle ticking like he’s chewing stone. He steps forward but you don’t back down.

“You think this is a fuckin’ game?” he spits. “Chasin’ after me like this is some goddamn love story?”

You flinch like that one cut deep.

“I didn’t follow you for some fairytale,” you snap, voice shaking with rage. “I came because I love you. Because you were gonna die out here. And I wasn’t gonna let that happen.”

“I told you not to come!” he roars. His voice echoes, huge and furious, bouncing off broken tile and rotted wood. “I was ready to die. I was ready to do what I fuckin’ had to. Now I gotta keep your ass alive.”

“Is that what you want?” you scream back. “To die for this? For some fucked-up version of revenge?”

He laughs, low, bitter, ugly. “Revenge? You think this is about revenge?” He steps in close, chest heaving. “I watched what they did to Joel. I buried my goddamn brother. You think I sleep at night, knowin’ she’s still breathin’?”

“And I don’t sleep, thinking about you out here with a target above your head.”

He’s in your face now. Close enough you can feel the heat radiating off him, even through the cold.

“You think this is safe?” he snarls. “You came through infected territory with a small ass knife? You call that smart? Sounds pretty fuckin' dumb to me.”

“I had no choice.”

“You had every choice! You chose this!” His voice is venom. “I tried to keep you out. You wanted to suffer.”

“You don’t get to decide what I can survive!” you scream, stepping in until your chest brushes his. “You don’t get to carry all the grief and pretend I didn’t lose anything!”

“I told you to stay in Jackson.”

“And let you die alone?” Your voice cracks, but you push through it. “Let you disappear without a word, like I’d survive that?”

He steps back, pacing like a caged animal. He grabs at his hair like it hurts to even think. Then he turns again and the pain on his face floors you.

“Yes,” he snaps. “Yes, goddamnit! Because if I lose you out here, if I fail to protect you, I won’t survive it.”

You stare at him. Breathing hard.

He looks like a man broken in half.

“I wish you didn’t love me,” he says. Quiet and gutted. “Wish you didn’t care. I don’t fuckin’ want you here.”

“Stop lying,” you whisper. “You’re not pushing me away. You’re just scared.”

"You're fuckin' stupid."

"Fuck you, Tommy."

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. Torn open.

And then his hands slam into your face, cupping your jaw rough, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and he kisses you.

No softness. No pause. It’s violent. Brutal. Starving.

His mouth devours yours with two weeks of agony and silence behind it. The taste of blood, of salt, of dirt and desperation. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he’s trying to burn the memory of you into his bones.

You moan, helpless against it. Your fingers dig into the back of his neck, gripping hard, needing something to hold. Something to hurt.

He groans — deep, low, possessive — and presses you back against the edge of the desk. The metal bites into your spine. You don’t care.

You don’t stop.

His hands roam your ribs, your waist, your hips. Rough fingers gripping like he needs to memorize every inch before he pushes you away again.

“I told you not to fuckin’ come,” he pants into your mouth, voice shaking. His lips drag along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“I had to,” you breathe, mouth swollen, heart split wide.

His mouth was still on yours, but the kiss had shifted. What started as fury — breathless, sharp, almost punishing — now smoldered with something darker, deeper. Not gentler. Not even close. But needy. Desperate. Like he didn’t believe you were real, like his lips had to memorize you before the world took you too.

You gasped against his mouth, and he chased the sound, swallowing it like oxygen. His hands were gripping your hips hard, too hard, like he was holding you down. Possessive. Controlled, but barely.

Your fingers climbed into the collar of his shirt, then slipped underneath, greedy and unthinkable. His skin was hot under your palms. Sweat-damp. Rigid with tension. Like every muscle in his body was coiled, barely restrained. Like he was keeping a war inside him, and you were the only one close enough to feel it shaking through him.

You slid your palms across the grooves of his stomach — tight and unforgiving — right as he growled, low and sharp in your ear, “You’re fuckin’ shakin’”

“You do this to me,” you whispered.

He leaned in, his breath hot and ragged against your throat. His hands slid beneath your thighs — gripping them with bruising force — and lifted you onto the cold edge of the metal desk without a word. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist for balance.

“I need you so bad, Tommy,” you murmured, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t kiss you back this time. Not yet.

Instead, his eyes burned into you, scanning every inch of your face. His fingers clenched at your thighs again.

Then his voice dropped, hoarse and lethal. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re askin’”

You did, though. And you gave him your answer the only way he’d accept, by reaching between your bodies and curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt. You lifted it slowly, deliberately. He let you. Just watching. But his breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling like he was trying not to combust.

Once his shirt hit the floor, you laid your hands on his bare skin again, mapping bruises, scars, the old jagged line across his ribs that still looked fresh in this light. You traced it with your fingers, soft at first.

You leaned into his skin, lips brushing against his jaw, trailing down the rough stubble to the pulse pounding in his neck. Your hands slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, fingers finding the heat beneath and stroking slow, deliberate lines that made his breath hitch.

He caught your wrist, holding it against him tightly.

“You think I’ve been fine out here?” He said, voice rough with something beyond anger. “You think I’ve been sleepin’? You think I wanted to see you show up outta nowhere, just to remind me what it feels like to lose everything again?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you leaned in, kissing the corner if his jaw, dragging your lips across his stubble until they hovered over his mouth. “No,” you whispered. “But I’m right here with you.”

His restraint cracked.

With a strangled sound, he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into another kiss, this one more brutal, messy. Teeth and heat and no space to breath. His other hand planted firmly against your lower back, keeping you flush against him, hips pinned, your breath caught beneath his.

Then he pulled back just an inch. “Take your clothes off.”

You obey. Not slowly or shyly. You peeled your shirt over your head, tossed it aside. You unclasped your bra with practiced fingers and let it fall to the ground, bare under the flickering light. Your jeans came next, shaking hands pushing them past your hips.

His eyes never left you.

But when you were down to your panties, he didn’t reach for you. Not yet, at least. His hands flexed at his sides like he was waiting for some sort of silent permission — or fighting the urge to lose control.

“Those too,” he said, nodding toward the white lace covering your most intimate area. His voice dropped again, barely above a growl. “Take ‘em off.”

You slide them slowly down your thighs, your slick webbing between you and the lace as they fell. Tommy watched every aching second of it, looking like he was about to drool at the sight alone.

You stood there in front of him, naked, exposed to the cold and to him. But you didn’t flinch. You let him admire. Let him see what he was trying so hard to push away.

He stepped forward, brushing his fingers down your arm. The he gripped your wrist and lifted it above your head. His other hand found your second wrist and pinned both to the wall behind you.

“You’re not movin’,” he warned. “You hear me?”

You nodded, breath caught in your chest.

“Say it.”

“Yes, Tommy.”

He leaned in until his lips grazed your ear. “Good girl.”

The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. He didn’t sound soft or sweet, just heavy with ownership.

Then his hand trailed down your chest — knuckles brushing over you tender nipples, slow and punishingly light — until you were arching toward him, craving more. He didn’t give in. His hand moved lower, palm flattening against your stomach, then gripping your thigh and hoisting it around his hip. His breath was everywhere. On your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone.

You were panting now, the need crawling across your skin like fire.

His mouth pressed to your throat, tongue flicking the pulse there. Then he bit down, hard. Not breaking skin, but enough to make you cry out.

“Mine,” he said into your bruised wound.

Your knees buckled, but he held you up, one hand flat to your spine. The other still pinning your wrists above your head. He stepped closer, his jeans rough against your bare clit, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I fuckin’ hate you for followin’ me,” he rasped. “Think I need to punish my pretty girl? Fuck you till you understand? Till you start behavin’?”

“Yea— yes, yes,” is all you can manage, need crawling through your blood, making your head light.

He grunted and let go of your wrists. Then spun you around fast and shoved you face first onto the desk again. With a sort of violence, a sort of relentless urgency you’d seen in his eyes since the second you stepped into the station.

Your palms hit the cold surface beneath you as he stepped between your legs. One hand landed around your throat tight, making breathing hard. His thumb pressed under your jaw, tilting your chin up until your eyes looked forward.

“Does my girl need it rough? Will that teach ya right?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough.

“Say it.”

“I want it rough. I’ll— I’ll learn.”

That was all he needed.

He pushed you flat to the desk, one arm pushing your head down till your cheek was squished against the cold metal, the other gripping your hip and kneading into the soft skin. He lowered to his knees, hand sliding down from your head to your ass as his mouth descended — hot, greedy, claiming. He licked one long stripe between your slick folds and swirled his tongue around your clit causing your thighs to shake. He took the swollen nub between his teeth, biting gently — but harsh enough to remind you that you were still in trouble — a scream escaping your lips at the shock.

“Tastes so good,” he groaned against you, kissing your wet cunt with a frenzy that bordered on savage. He was still angry, still raw. But underneath all that fury was hunger so sharp it made you ache.

When he pulled away, mouth slick, eyes burning, he grabbed you by the hips and yanked you backward until you were practically sliding off the desk into him.

He held you there, ass pressed against his rough jeans, mouth lowered by your ear, your shared breath shallow and ragged.

“I should be fuckin’ furious,” he murmured.

“You are.”

He gave a rough, bitter laugh. Then his mouth found yours again — crushing, claiming — and this time, the kiss held no restraint. It was like he was trying to swallow every piece of you whole, to make sure you couldn’t slip away, couldn’t disappear. His teeth grazed your lower lip, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and you clung to his wrists tight, needing the fire he brought with him.

Tommy’s hands were relentless, roaming over your back with rough, possessive strokes, fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises in their wake. He gripped your hips so hard you could feel the ache blooming beneath his touch, a delicious kind of pain that made you want to press closer, to disappear into him.

You pressed yourself against the tent in his denim, grinding against him, needing him. You arched you back so that your clit was positioned perfectly against his shaft, wriggling against it in search of some sort of relief. He started meeting your movement with his own, pressing himself deeper into you. He needed this just as bad as you.

“Shouldn’t have fuckin’ followed me,” he growled, voice low and rough, filled with a fierce, jagged edge. His hands reaped between the two of you, unclasping his belt and wiggling out of his jeans as if he couldn’t get them off quick enough. His boxers followed quickly and he lined himself up with your entrance, teasing you as he rubbed his head slowly around your soaked entrance. You could feel the way you were already dripping on him, could hear his low chuckles at the sight.

You arched into him without hesitation, begging for him to finally relieve you, but instead he slapped your ass with a loud smack, sharp stings replacing where his fingers once were.

He leaned down to you ear again when you whimpered from the slap. “You gonna take me like a good fuckin’ girl? Hmm?”

You nodded, feeling like you were about to cry if he didn’t rail you right here, right now.

Instead, Tommy grabbed you cheeks, forcing you to turn you face and meet his gaze. “Use your words, babygirl, or you gettin’ nothin’.”

“Tommy please. Please I— I need you so bad. Fuck me hard. Plea—”

Your breath catched as his hips slammed into yours with rough, punishing thrusts. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the tight space, punctured by his ragged groans and your own moans. Every movement was fierce, angry, desperate — a tangled storm of rage and need. You were so wet and needy, he slid past your walls with ease.

His hands wrapped around your hair, tugging your head back enough to expose your throat, teeth scraping there in a harsh, bruising kiss that made your pulse thunder in your ears. You wanted to feel every edge of him , the fury, the hunger, the aching need.

“I missed you,” he hissed, voice breaking with something raw and vulnerable beneath the anger. “Missed this… the way you tighten ‘round me. Fuck, you feel so goddamn good, baby.”

You wrapped you fingers around his — the ones that were holding your hips down on the desk — needing him to feel your touch too. You started matching the ferocity of his rhythm with your own, meeting every hard thrust with his. Your bodies moved like they were made for this, made for each other.

His hands moved down your thighs again, gripping hard as he lifted you higher, pressing you tighter against him. You felt every strained muscle in his back, every sharp breath that tore from his lungs as he pushed himself deeper inside of you. He was outraged — at the world, at himself, at the past — but right now, with you most of all. Yet you were the only one keeping him grounded, reminding him that he was still human.

He felt the way you fluttered around him. Felt the way you clenched every time he pulled himself out. But he always came back, faster and harder than the thrust before.

Your chest heaved, your skin slick with sweat, your heart pounding in time with his frantic, powerful movements. The ache between your legs built, sharp and sweet, until you were trembling — a breathless, shaking mess of need and want and pure, raw emotion. He knew you were close.

“Fuck… so fuckin’ hot,” he growled low in his throat, fingers tightening in your hair, pulling you up into another fierce kiss as his body tensed, dick twitching between your pulsing walls.

“Cum now, babygirl. Shit— cum with me.” He pushed you back into the desk, shoving your cheeks in the cold metal once again. His thrusts became faulty, losing all sense of rhythm as he unfolded deep within you. And then with a cry caught deep in his throat — he came, hard and fast, hips jerking, breath ragged against your skin. You clung to him as your own release crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your body arching into his, every nerve ending tight.

Sticky, white release pooled between the base of his cock and where he was still buried inside of you. He groaned somewhere deep in his throat as he watched the way his release slowly dripped out of your fucked pussy and left hot strands trailing down your legs.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the second of ragged breathing and the feel of his cock still buried inside you, thick and pulsing.

Finally, his lips brushed against your neck, warm and soft in stark contrast to the rough fire of everything that had just passed.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, voice raw and broken, trembling with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He pulled out and you turned around to hold him, knowing this wave of emotion was becoming too much after he came down from his high.

You carded your fingers through his damp hair, pulling him closer, holding him like you needed him just as much.

“I know,” you whispered back, your voice steady and sure. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

He buried his face in the curve of your shoulder, breath shaking, body still trembling from the storm of emotions and desire.

In the quiet moment, the anger didn’t vanish; it simmered just beneath the surface, but it was softer now. Tempered by the connection that neither of you could deny.

taglist: @xodilfluvr @keseqna

#tommy miller fanfic

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filthyjoelslvr · 24 days ago

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i love joel but… I LOVE TOMMY MORE! 😩 JUST LOOK AT HIM

he’s so…. UGH! 🫠 just look at his curls, they’re so cute 🥺

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filthyjoelslvr · 25 days ago