#Tile Flooring New Orleans | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oceandolores · 3 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 13

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"Beautiful people, beautiful problems."

summary: both of you and joel still feel the shadows from your past and...a mysterious man...

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 13

masterlist!

previous | chapter 12

next | chapter 14

The warm, sultry air of Louisiana clung to your skin as Joel eased the truck into the grand driveway of the hotel. The fading sunlight bathed the building in a soft, golden hue, casting long shadows over the narrow streets of New Orleans. The hotel stood like a relic of a bygone era—elegant, stately, and dripping in the charm of the 1920s. Wrought-iron balconies curled around its façade, their intricate designs reminiscent of a time when craftsmanship was an art form. Tall, arched windows, framed by deep green shutters, gave the place an air of mystery, while the soft glow of gas lanterns flickered against the approaching twilight, welcoming you into a world where time seemed to slow down.

Joel parked and turned to you with a knowing smile, catching the awe in your eyes as you took in the opulence. “What do you think?” His voice was warm and easy, like the honeyed notes of a Southern drawl.

You exhaled, still mesmerized by the hotel’s vintage charm. “It’s beautiful, Joel. Feels like stepping into another time.”

He chuckled softly, the sound deep and comforting. “Only the best for you, darlin’.”

You stepped out of the truck, the cool tiles beneath your shoes a stark contrast to the heat lingering in the air. Together, you began unloading the bags, your hands brushing his as you reached for the same suitcase. His touch, steady and reassuring, anchored you in this unfamiliar, yet intoxicatingly beautiful place. The hotel, with its antique grandeur and whispers of a decadent past, made you feel both lost and found all at once.

As Joel handed the last bag to the bellhop, you let your gaze wander. The lobby was a perfect blend of sophistication and old-world elegance. Polished marble floors gleamed under the soft light of crystal chandeliers, their glow casting a golden shimmer across the room. The furniture—plush velvet armchairs in deep, jewel tones—was arranged in intimate clusters, as if inviting whispered conversations and stolen moments. A baby grand piano, aged and stately, sat silently in one corner, as if waiting for the night to bring music and life to its keys. The quiet hum of voices, paired with the soft clink of glasses from the bar, added to the atmosphere of quiet luxury.

Joel, noticing your awe, smiled wider. “Go on, have a seat. I’ll grab the keys,” he said, nodding towards the seating area. “I’ve already made the reservation online.”

You settled into a velvet armchair near a set of towering windows that looked out onto a lush courtyard. The ironwork from the balconies extended here, wrapping around the garden where ferns and jasmine climbed the walls, filling the air with their sweet scent. The atmosphere was a mix of tranquility and hidden stories, as if each corner held secrets from a hundred years ago.

While Joel checked in, you let your eyes drift across the room—the shimmering marble, the vintage chandeliers casting a soft, romantic light, and the fresh flowers that added pops of color to the rich, muted tones of the décor.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted someone—an older man, perhaps in his 50s, with a salt-and-pepper beard and wearing a black leather jacket. He was standing near the entrance, leaning casually against the wall. There was something familiar about him, though you couldn’t quite place it. His eyes were on you, and when your gazes met, he smiled—a small, almost knowing smile—and nodded in your direction.

You glanced behind you, thinking that maybe he was acknowledging someone else, but there was no one there. Your heart skipped a beat, an uneasy feeling settling in your chest. Despite the oddness of it, you smiled back, trying to be polite. But there was something in his eyes, something that sent a chill down your spine, though you couldn’t figure out why.

He looked like he wanted to say something, his lips parting as if he was trying to speak to you from afar. But before you could make sense of it, you heard Joel’s voice, warm and reassuring, pulling your attention back to him.

“Got the key,” Joel said, walking towards you with a satisfied smile on his face. You turned back to where the man had been standing, but he was gone. The spot where he had been was empty, as if he had never been there at all.

You blinked, your mind racing. Had you imagined it? Or was it just a trick of the light? But the unease lingered, a faint shadow in the back of your mind. You wanted to mention it to Joel, but something held you back, the moment passing as quickly as it had come.

“Everything alright?” Joel asked, noticing the slight frown on your face as he handed you the room key.

You forced a smile, pushing the strange encounter to the back of your mind. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

He reached out, his hand brushing against your arm, his touch gentle and reassuring. “Good,” he said, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he led the way toward the elevator. “Let’s get settled in, and then we can figure out what to do for dinner.”

You felt the weight of the day beginning to lift, but there was still that sense of stickiness clinging to your skin, the remnants of the journey. “I need a shower,” you said, almost sheepishly.

Joel nodded, a teasing glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, pretending to take a deep whiff. He scrunched up his nose in mock disgust. “Yeah, you sure do, darlin’,” he said, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Smellin’ like a long road trip in the middle of summer.”

You smacked his arm lightly, unable to suppress a laugh. “You’re so mean.”

His laughter joined yours, rich and comforting, echoing in the grand hallway of the hotel. The bellboy appeared to help with your bags, his polite demeanor contrasting with Joel’s playful teasing. As the three of you stepped into the elevator, the smooth hum of it moving upward felt like the beginning of something new—a journey you had only just embarked on, with so many more miles to go.

Joel turned to you as the elevator doors closed, his expression softening. “So, what do you wanna do while we’re here in New Orleans?"

You shook your head, smiling shyly. "I follow you, Joel. It’s my first time out of… well, you know. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

He gave you a look filled with warmth, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Then we’ll make sure your first time’s unforgettable. Music and the foods, You’re gonna love it.”

***

After shower, You changed quickly, and soon enough, the two of you were out on the streets, hand in hand, the world around you pulsing with energy. The French Quarter was alive—vibrant colors, wrought-iron balconies covered in creeping ivy, the smell of spicy Cajun food mingling with the sweet, smoky air.

Street performers played jazz, the music dancing through the air like something you could reach out and touch. It felt surreal, like you were stepping into a movie, every moment dripping with possibility.

Joel led the way, his grip firm but gentle on your hand. “You ever hear music like this before?” he asked, glancing at you with a soft smile.

“No,” you replied, wide-eyed, trying to soak it all in. “It’s beautiful. It’s like… it fills the air, like it’s a part of the city itself.”

He nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd, ever protective, but he kept his tone light. “Yeah, Feels alive, doesn’t it?”

You smiled, but that same uneasy feeling crept up again. It was subtle, like a whisper in the back of your mind. The crowd, the noise, the rush of the city—it all felt too much for a moment. You glanced around, your eyes scanning the faces of strangers passing by, and there it was again. That feeling.

You tried to shake it off, but something about it gnawed at you. The man from the hotel lobby flashed in your mind—the way he looked at you, too familiar, too knowing. You felt a shiver crawl up your spine as if he could be watching you even now.

Joel must have sensed your discomfort because he squeezed your hand a little tighter, pulling you closer. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low, concerned.

“Yeah, I just... It’s nothing," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Joel studied you for a moment longer, his brow furrowing in concern, his gaze soft but questioning.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice gentle, the warmth in his eyes wrapping around you like a soft blanket. "Babe?"

You nodded quickly, pushing away the thoughts swirling in your head. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, feeling the words stick in your throat like sand. "Maybe just tired. I don’t know. It’s been a long day."

Joel’s eyes lingered on you, searching for the truth beneath your words. “Maybe we should head back to the hotel,” he suggested, concern lacing his voice. “You could use some rest, and we can grab a bite there.”

You shook your head, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting to burden him with your worries. He was already carrying so much, and the last thing you wanted was to add more weight to his shoulders.

"No, no," you said, forcing a small laugh. "I'm fine, really. I want to explore this town with you. Just the two of us. Let's keep going."

Joel hesitated, his protective instincts kicking in, but he eventually relented, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright. But if you start feelin’ tired, you tell me, okay?”

You nodded again, trying to push away the lingering unease that clung to you like a shadow. The feeling of being watched, of someone’s eyes burning into the back of your neck, wouldn’t go away, but you didn’t want to tell Joel.

You didn’t want to add more to his already heavy heart, didn’t want to give life to the quiet fear that still lurked inside you—the fear that one day, your father might come and tear Joel away from you. That he’d come and steal this happiness, this safety, this love you’d found with Joel.

Sometimes, that fear still gripped you, like a hand squeezing your throat, making it hard to breathe.

It haunted your quiet moments, that dark corner in your mind where your father’s voice still echoed, telling you that you weren’t enough, that you didn’t deserve love.

But with Joel, you felt whole, like you finally had something that was yours.

You glanced at Joel, his strong presence beside you anchoring you to this moment. Maybe you were just imagining things--the man-- just like your father’s lingering shadow.

The man in the hotel lobby, the feeling of being watched... it was probably all in your head. You were just on edge, your mind playing tricks on you.

But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling. You were sure you had seen him before, though you couldn’t remember where. But, you didn’t want to dwell on it. Not now. Not when you were here with Joel, trying to enjoy this fleeting moment of peace together.

Joel’s voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. “You really okay, though?"

You smiled softly, shaking your head. “I’m fine, Joel. Really."

He smiled, a slow, easy smile that made your heart feel lighter. “Okay."

As you walked side by side through the vibrant streets of New Orleans, the city seemed to come alive around you.

You took a deep breath, trying to let the warmth of the night soothe you, trying to focus on Joel’s steady presence beside you. His hand slipped into yours again, his fingers lacing through yours like they belonged there, and for a moment, the world felt right again. You held onto that feeling, clinging to it like a lifeline, pushing away the shadows and the fear.

As the two of you strolled down the lively streets, you glanced up at Joel and said, “I’m getting kinda hungry.”

Joel smirked and gave your hand a playful squeeze. “Well, lucky for you, we’re in the land of good food. How ‘bout we stop at the next place that catches our eye?”

You smiled, feeling the tension ease a little. Just being with him made you feel safer, like everything was going to be okay. “Sounds good to me.”

A few blocks later, you spotted a cozy-looking restaurant tucked between two colorful buildings. The windows were lined with flickering candles, and the smell of rich, spicy food wafted out every time the door opened. Joel nodded towards it. “What do you think? Cajun food might hit the spot.”

You grinned, already imagining the warmth of gumbo or jambalaya. “Let’s do it.”

Once inside, the restaurant felt intimate, filled with the low hum of chatter, the clink of silverware, and the occasional burst of laughter. Joel guided you to a table near the back, and as you sat down, he gave the menu a quick glance before turning his attention to you.

The two of you bantered back and forth, finally Joel ordered for both of you, suggesting dishes you couldn’t even pronounce. You watched him, his hands gesturing as he spoke, his voice soft and easy. There was something calming about how natural everything felt with him.

As you both waited for the food, the warmth of Joel’s hand covered yours on the table. His thumb lazily traced circles against your skin, a gesture so small but filled with tenderness.

You looked at him and asked softly, “After this, where do we go next?”

Joel leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing slightly as he thought. "Hmm," he mused, glancing around the bustling restaurant as if searching for an answer in the air.

“Well, darlin', where do ya wanna go? We could just keep drivin'. Maybe head to Alabama, or...” His voice trailed off, and he gave you a smile that softened all the edges of his rugged face. “Maybe even stop somewhere near the Gulf. Find ourselves a beach, relax for a bit.”

Your eyes lit up at the thought. “That sounds perfect.”

Joel chuckled, the sound deep and low. “We’ll just take it one town at a time. Motel to motel, ‘cross the states, just you and me.” He squeezed your hand gently, his voice turning more thoughtful. “Eventually, we’ll make our way to California. Like our plan."

The thought of it made your heart race. Just you and Joel, together, no one to come between you. “I’d like that,” you whispered, smiling softly.

You were about to say something more when the question bubbled up inside you, almost catching you by surprise. You hesitated for a moment before asking,

“Joel... do you miss Ellie?”

His grip on your hand faltered for a second, just long enough for you to notice. Joel's eyes darkened, and for a moment, he looked away, his jaw tight, the memories of Ellie lingering in the corners of his mind. He stayed silent for what felt like minutes but was only a few seconds, before nodding slowly.

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice thick. “I do. Very much."

You could feel the weight in his words, the ache that he tried so hard to bury. Ellie was a part of him, in the same way you were becoming. And even though he tried to keep her at arm's length to protect himself, that love—Joel’s fierce, unyielding love—was something that couldn’t be silenced.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you said quietly, guilt bubbling up inside you. “I didn’t mean to take you away from her.”

Joel squeezed your hand again, this time more firmly. His eyes softened as he looked at you, all traces of tension melting away. “Stop that,” he murmured, shaking his head. “This ain’t your fault. None of this is.”

You bit your lip, but the words tumbled out anyway. “But—”

“No,” he interrupted gently but firmly. “You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’d go through hell to keep you safe, babygirl. And I’d do it all over again if I had to.”

His words hit you like a prayer—like an old psalm sung at dusk, filled with the weight of promise and sacrifice. Joel had become your protector, your keeper, like an Old Testament shepherd guarding his flock. And though you were not without your own strength, you knew that in his arms, you had found your refuge.

Without thinking, you leaned forward and kissed him, your lips pressing softly against his in a way that felt both new and familiar. Joel kissed you back with a quiet intensity, his hand resting on your cheek, the world around you fading into the background.

For the first time, you weren’t afraid of being caught. The street, the noise, the people—it all disappeared in that moment.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Joel smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Beautiful girl, my beautiful girl."

But before you could answer, something on the TV in the corner of the restaurant caught your eye. It was a news report, the kind you usually ignored, but this time it made your stomach twist.

Pastor Ben and Jamie Lee.

Both missing. Their faces flashed on the screen as the anchor discussed their sudden disappearance and the ongoing search.

"Oh my god."

You stared at the screen, feeling the air shift around you. Jamie Lee—his name alone was enough to bring back memories you had tried so hard to bury.

You hated him for what he had done, for the pain and humiliation he’d caused. But despite everything, a part of you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy.

After all, forgiveness was what you’d been taught all your life. Turn the other cheek. Forgive those who trespass against you.

Still, it was hard to reconcile that Christian kindness with the anger that bubbled inside you. Jamie had sinned, deeply. If anyone deserved to be lost, it was him.

Joel noticed your sudden stillness and followed your gaze to the TV. His expression darkened, but he said nothing, just watched. You couldn’t see the storm brewing behind his eyes, the fear and guilt clawing at his chest.

He had done what he thought was right—what he had to do. But now, with their faces plastered on the screen, the weight of his actions pressed heavily on him.

You whispered, almost to yourself, “I hated him. But... no one deserves to just disappear like that. Not even him.”

Joel stayed silent, his grip tightening around your hand, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin like a distant drumbeat. He wanted to tell you, to let you know that he had done this for you—for your safety, for your peace. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Not yet.

Joel’s heart ached with a weight that was impossible to shake, even as your words hung in the air between you like a fragile thread. I hated him. But... no one deserves to just disappear like that. Not even him. He swallowed hard, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon beyond the courtyard.

You didn’t know. You couldn’t know.

Joel’s mind churned beneath the surface, a storm no one could see. The truth of what he’d done was buried deep—buried like Jamie and Pastor Ben, like the bodies he’d laid to rest in the dark soil, far away from your innocence, your gentle heart. He’d done it for you, every twisted, violent act a means of protecting you from men who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.

Joel’s pulse beat heavy beneath his skin, the thrum of it like a drum, steady and relentless, as memories played behind his eyes. The sharp edge of the shovel digging into earth. The crack of bone. The blood, The silence afterward, so thick it felt like drowning. He had been methodical, precise. He’d done worse in his life—he’d done what he had to do, and this was no different.

"Joel?" You ask him, because he seems like he lost in his own thought, "Are you okay?" you ask again.

Joel blinked, dragged back to the present by the sound of your voice, soft and concerned. He turned to you, his jaw tightening before he loosened it, forcing the tension out of his muscles. He hadn’t realized how far he’d slipped—back into those dark corners of his mind where the past bled into the present, where every sound and every silence reminded him of what he’d done, of the graves he’d dug.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

But you weren’t convinced. You tilted your head, your eyes searching his face, looking for something he didn’t want you to find. “Are you tired? We can take the food back to our hotel," you said.

Joel shook his head, offering you a quick, reassuring smile. "No, no, it's fine," he said, his voice steady. “We’ll eat here.”

Moments later, the food arrived, and you both shared a quiet, peaceful meal together. The evening was warm, the hum of jazz floating through the air as the city bustled around you. After dinner, you strolled hand-in-hand through the streets of New Orleans, the city alive with music and energy. The twinkling lights, the sound of laughter, and the scent of spices in the air made it feel like a dream. You had fun, really let go, and it felt like Joel did too—his laughter mixing with yours, his eyes softening when they met yours.

But when you returned to the hotel, the warmth faded as you began to unwind. You changed into comfortable clothes, wiped away your makeup, and kept chatting with Joel from the bathroom, the door cracked open so he could hear you. You told him about the jazz show, about the new friends you’d made with him by your side. The night felt alive in your words, full of joy, but after a while, you noticed the silence from the other side of the room.

“Joel?” you called, your voice carrying a little more concern. You stepped out of the bathroom and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring off into space. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, his broad shoulders tense, his whole body still, like a statue weighed down by invisible chains.

“Joel, what’s wrong?” you asked, walking over to him, kneeling in front of him so you could see his face. “Did I do something wrong?”

His eyes flicked back to you, as if pulling himself from some dark place in his mind. His brow furrowed, and he quickly shook his head, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “No, no, baby,” he murmured, his voice strained but soft. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You held his gaze, feeling the unease creeping into your chest. “Then what is it?” you pressed gently. “Are you sick?”

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. How could he explain the storm raging inside him? The news he’d seen earlier—reports of missing people, whispers of investigations—it sent a chill down his spine.

He couldn’t shake the thought that maybe it wouldn’t be long before the police found where he had buried Jamie and Pastor Ben. Maybe it wouldn’t be long before they came for him, before they tore him from you, or worse—before they dragged you back to your father, back to the hell he had tried so hard to save you from.

Inside his mind, the thoughts churned like a rising tide, each one more suffocating than the last. He saw it all—the flash of blue lights, the handcuffs tightening around his wrists, your face crumbling as they led him away.

He imagined you back in that house, imagined the way you’d be stripped of the freedom and love he’d tried to give you.

He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.

But he couldn’t tell you any of this.

The truth was like a sickness in him, spreading through his veins, poisoning everything it touched. Every moment with you was a borrowed one. The walls felt like they were closing in, and no matter how much he wanted to pull you close and keep you safe, the fear of what could come next gnawed at him relentlessly.

“Joel?” your voice brought him back again, your hand resting on his knee, warm and gentle. “Please, talk to me. I know something’s wrong.”

He let out a long, shaky breath, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. “I just… got a lot on my mind, sweetheart,” he said quietly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothin’ for you to worry about.”

But you could see it—the heaviness in his expression, the way his body tensed like he was carrying a weight too heavy for one man alone.

“You sure?” you asked again, your voice a whisper now, full of concern. “I can help. I’m here.”

"Joel. It's both of us now against the world. Just you and me. I will be with you no matter what, Joel."

Joel’s heart clenched at your words. The truth in your voice, the unwavering loyalty, wrapped around him like a lifeline. He wanted to believe it—to hold onto the idea that with you, he could face anything.

But the weight of what he had done, the fear of what might come, pressed down like a crushing force. He couldn’t risk destroying this fragile happiness, this fleeting freedom that both of you had fought so hard to claim.

You looked up at him, your eyes searching his, so full of love, of trust. Joel wanted to give you everything—his heart, his soul, his truth. But not yet.

His love for you was too deep, too raw, and the fear of losing you, of losing this, gnawed at him in ways he couldn’t put into words.

Instead of speaking, Joel cupped your face, his rough hands trembling slightly as they held you. The silence between you grew thick, but his lips found yours—softly at first, as if he were testing the waters, afraid of losing himself in you completely.

But the kiss deepened, and something inside him snapped. It wasn’t just desire, it was a desperate need—an overwhelming, aching need to feel alive, to drown out the darkness clawing at him from every corner.

He kissed you like a man starved, pouring every unspoken fear, every unexpressed emotion into that moment. His lips moved with a fierce, breathless intensity, his hands tracing the curves of your body, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

"Joel..." You moan as his touch was urgent, seeking comfort, seeking release from the turmoil spinning in his head.

Joel’s breath hitched at the sound of your voice, his name tumbling from your lips in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. His hands slid up your body, fingers tracing the soft lines of your waist, your hips, the curve of your thighs. His touch was rough, desperate, like he couldn’t get enough of you, like he needed you to drown out everything else.

"Say it again," he growled against your neck, his lips brushing your skin as he pressed his body against yours. His breath was hot, his voice low and gravelly. "Say my name again, baby."

"Joel..." you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him even closer, your heart racing as the heat between you grew. His mouth found yours again, and this time, the kiss was hungrier, deeper—like he was claiming you, like he needed this, needed you to ground him, to remind him that this was real.

His hands roamed, exploring every inch of you, each touch more possessive than the last. "You feel so good," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire. "I need you... right now, baby."

You arched into him, your body responding to his every touch, his every word. “Joel… I need you too.”

He groaned softly, his mouth trailing down your neck, his hands slipping under the fabric of your shirt, lifting it higher until it was tossed aside. He kissed you again, harder, more intense, his body pressing you into the mattress, every movement filled with the weight of his need.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice rough and ragged, full of a quiet possessiveness as he kissed your collarbone, then lower, his hands gripping your hips, steadying you beneath him. "You understand? Mine."

"Yes," you whispered back, your voice trembling with want, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer. "Yours, yours only, daddy."

You realize when you said that, your eyes widened, face red. The word slipped out before you could stop it—daddy—and as soon as it did, your eyes widened, your breath catching in your throat.

Heat rushed to your face, your cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. You hadn’t meant to say it, not like that, but the way Joel had been touching you, the way he made you feel so safe and wanted, it just… came out.

For a moment, there was a stunned silence, Joel’s lips hovering just above your skin. Then, his eyes darkened, and a low, gravelly chuckle escaped his throat. He tilted his head up, looking down at you with an intensity that sent a shiver through your whole body.

“Oh, baby…” His voice was deeper now, rough with desire. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips grazed your ear. “What did you just call me?”

You swallowed, heart pounding in your chest. “I–I didn’t mean—”

But Joel cut you off, his mouth crashing against yours in a bruising kiss, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t get enough of you. When he finally pulled back, his gaze burned into yours. “Say it again,” he demanded softly, his voice laced with something dark, possessive.

"Say it for daddy."

Your pulse raced, your body tingling under his touch. “Daddy…” you whispered, breathless, the word trembling from your lips.

Joel groaned, his hands roaming over your body with renewed hunger, the heat between you intensifying. “That’s my good girl,” he growled against your skin, his lips trailing down your neck, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

“You like calling me that, huh? Feels right, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, a soft moan escaping your throat as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. “Yes… daddy.”

He growled again, his teeth grazing your shoulder as his hands wandered lower, claiming every inch of you like he was staking his claim.

“You’re mine, baby. All mine,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he kissed his way down your body, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. “I’m gonna take care of you, make you feel so good.”

Joel’s breath was ragged as he leaned back, his eyes dark with hunger as he reached for the condom, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. His gaze never left yours, the intensity in his eyes making your heart race even faster.

You watched, your body trembling with anticipation as he rolled it on, his jaw clenched with restraint. He was trying to hold back, but you could see how much he needed this—how much he needed you.

He hovered over you, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I’m not gonna be gentle tonight, baby. I need you too much.” His voice was low, rough, full of a barely contained edge that sent a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, your breath catching as his hand slid between your thighs, teasing you, making you gasp. "I can take it," you whispered, your voice breathless with want. "I want you, Joel... I need you."

With a growl, Joel positioned himself, his grip tightening on your hips. He entered you slowly, but even then, the sheer force of it made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body adjusted to him. The pressure was overwhelming, the stretch sending shockwaves of pleasure through you as he filled you completely.

“Goddamn, you feel so good,” Joel grunted, his teeth grazing your neck as he moved deeper, setting a rough, desperate pace. He couldn’t hold back, his need too great, the weight of everything pressing down on him pouring into every thrust. “So tight, baby… so perfect.”

You moaned his name, your body arching beneath him, each movement sending pleasure spiraling through you. His hands gripped your waist, holding you steady as he moved harder, faster, his body pressing you into the mattress.

Every thrust was deep, forceful, as if he was trying to chase away the demons that haunted him, burying his fear and paranoia in the way he claimed you.

“My beautiful girl, such a good girl you are.” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss, swallowing your moans. “No one else gets you like this. Only me. You’re mine, baby.”

You could only nod, lost in the sensation, your body responding to every rough touch, every demanding kiss. “Yes… Joel… only you…” you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure as he took you over the edge, his rhythm relentless, his grip possessive.

He groaned deeply as his pace quickened, the tension in his body coiling tighter with each thrust. “I’m never letting you go,” he rasped, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged.

“Never.”

Your body tightened around him, the intensity of his movements pushing you closer to your breaking point. You moaned his name again, the sound filling the room as you clung to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

Joel's grip tightened on your hips, and the bed creaked beneath the force of his movements, each thrust rougher than the last. The headboard knocked against the wall in rhythm, and your moans filled the room, mingling with the sound of his ragged breathing.

The pressure of his body against yours was overwhelming, and yet, even in the roughness, there was a tenderness, a care in the way his lips found yours between every deep, hard thrust.

“Joel...” you gasped, your voice shaking as your fingers dug into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself against the intensity. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, the roughness somehow exactly what you needed.

Every time he moved, it sent you closer to the edge, your body tightening around him, the friction almost unbearable.

“You’re so perfect,” Joel growled against your lips, his mouth claiming yours in a fierce kiss. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin, a stark contrast to the way his body pounded into you. “So damn perfect, baby... Can’t get enough of you.”

The bedframe rattled against the wall as he thrust harder, the sound only heightening the heat building between you. Your back arched, your head tipping back as you moaned his name again, your body trembling beneath him. “Joel... oh God...”

He kissed you deeply, swallowing your moans, his lips rough but full of passion as he gripped you tighter. “I’ve got you,” he rasped between kisses, his breath hot against your mouth. “You’re safe with me, baby. Always.”

Even though his movements were rough, almost desperate, he made sure you were okay—his lips constantly finding yours, his hands steadying your body, his murmured reassurances grounding you in the midst of the intensity.

You felt the pressure building inside you, your whole body tightening as you clung to him, every nerve ending on fire as he pushed you closer to him.

The pressure inside you coiled tighter, your body trembling as the pleasure built, inching you closer to the edge with each of Joel’s rough, relentless thrusts. Your eyes fluttered shut, lost in the overwhelming sensation, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Joel... I’m so close...” you moaned, your voice barely a whisper, your body arching beneath him.

But Joel’s hand moved to your chin, tilting your face toward him, his dark eyes filled with intensity as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “Look at me,” he growled softly, his voice rough with desire. “Open your eyes, baby. I want you to look at me when you cum.”

His words sent a jolt of heat through you, making your heart race even faster. You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze, the connection between you sparking like electricity. His eyes were dark, hungry, filled with so much need that it made your whole body tremble.

“That's it,” Joel murmured, his pace quickening, thrusting deeper, harder. The bedframe rattled against the wall as his hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you closer to him, pushing you right to the brink. “Stay with me, darlin’. I wanna see you fall apart for me.”

Your breath hitched, your body tightening even more as the intensity of his movements pushed you to the edge. His eyes never left yours, and the way he was looking at you—like you were everything he needed—made you feel like you were unraveling beneath him.

“Joel... oh my God...” you moaned, your voice shaking as the wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your entire body shuddered, your nails digging into his back as you came, your eyes locked with his the whole time, just like he asked.

Joel let out a low, guttural groan as he felt you tighten around him, his own control slipping. “That’s my girl,” he rasped, his lips brushing against yours, his voice thick with desire. “So beautiful...”

He thrust into you harder, chasing his own release, and with a deep, broken moan, he followed you over the edge, his body shaking as he came, holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let go.

"Fuck!"

Joel cursed under his breath, his chest heaving as both of you struggled to catch your breath. His body trembled as he pulled out of you, quickly disposing of the condom and tossing it aside. When you started to shift, thinking it was over, his strong hand gripped your thigh, keeping your legs open.

“Who said I’m done?” he growled, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes widened in surprise, your heart pounding all over again as you watched him, your body still sensitive from the intensity of before.

Joel leaned down, kissing a trail across your stomach, his lips dangerously close to the heat between your thighs. His breath was hot against your skin, and your pulse raced as he moved lower, his hands spreading your legs wider.

“Joel...oh my God,” you whispered, your voice breathless, but he didn’t respond with words. Instead, his mouth found the soft skin just above your core, kissing and teasing until you were trembling beneath him again, your hands gripping the sheets.

He looked up at you through hooded eyes, his hands firmly holding your hips in place as his lips hovered over your most sensitive spot. “I wanna hear you moan my name again,” he murmured, his voice rough with lust.

“Louder this time.”

And then, without warning, his mouth was on you, his tongue teasing you with slow, deliberate strokes, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your body. You gasped, your back arching as you moaned his name, your fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured you like he couldn’t get enough.

“Oh God, Joel,” you cried, your body trembling, overwhelmed by the sudden surge of sensation. He was relentless, his mouth moving with expert precision, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from you as you writhed beneath him, completely at his mercy.

Joel groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and you moaned even louder, your body tightening again as the pleasure built all over. He looked up, eyes dark with need, watching every reaction, every moan as he drove you closer to the edge once more.

Joel’s fingers joined in, sliding inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your whole body jolt. His mouth stayed on you, his tongue moving in sync with the rhythm of his fingers, fast and relentless. The sensation was overwhelming, his touch sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you.

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, the intensity almost too much to handle. "Oh God, Joel!" you cried out, your voice shaking as your body arched off the bed, your hands clutching at the sheets as if you were holding on for dear life. His fingers were fast, his tongue even faster, and it felt like you were on the verge of falling apart all over again.

“That's it, baby,” Joel rasped against your skin, his voice thick with desire. “Let go for me.”

Your eyes rolled back, the heat coiling tight in your belly, spreading through your limbs like fire. You couldn’t stop the moans spilling from your lips, couldn’t stop the way your hips moved desperately against his hand, chasing that release you craved.

“Joel... I— I can’t...” you gasped, your voice trembling as you felt yourself nearing the edge, your body overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch.

“You can, darlin’,” he growled, his eyes never leaving your face as he pressed deeper, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that perfect spot. “Cum for me.”

His words were the final push you needed. With a cry of his name, you shattered beneath him, your entire body shaking as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you lost yourself in the sensation, the world spinning around you.

Joel didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you until you were completely spent, your body trembling, utterly at his mercy.

Finally, Joel pulled back, his lips lingering on your inner thigh before he released a satisfied breath. Just as you thought he was done, he spit softly on your sensitive core, making your body jolt with surprise.

Without hesitation, his mouth was back on you, licking slowly, savoring every reaction he pulled from you. The sensation was too much, your overstimulated body trembling as his tongue tasted you again.

He worked his way up, his lips trailing kisses over your stomach, then your breasts, before finally reaching your mouth. He kissed you deeply, and you could taste yourself on his lips, the intimate mix of your desire on his tongue.

It was raw, electric, and it made your heart race all over again.

As his mouth moved against yours, you felt the weight of his body pressing into you, his hands holding you steady, his fingers trailing over your skin like he owned every part of you. “You taste so good,” he whispered against your lips, his voice husky with lust.

You gasped softly, your hands clutching his shoulders as you kissed him back, feeling the intoxicating mixture of you on his mouth. "Joel..." you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, still dazed from everything he’d just done to you.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing. His lips ghosted over your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"Tell me, baby, you like tasting yourself on my lips?"

You chuckles at his tease and nodded, your cheeks flushing, unable to form coherent words as his mouth claimed yours again in a fierce, demanding kiss.

His tongue teased yours, making you feel every inch of the connection between you. His hands roamed your body possessively, grounding you in the moment, and as he kissed you deeper, he left no doubt in your mind that you were his.

“Let’s go to sleep, baby,” Joel murmured against your lips, his voice soothing, still laced with the remnants of the heated moment you’d just shared.

He pulled away slightly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his eyes softening as he looked down at you.

You nodded, still feeling the warmth radiating from your body, but a sense of comfort washed over you at the thought of resting beside him. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice still thick with emotion.

As he settled beside you, you turned onto your side, facing him. The room was dim, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over his features.

You could see the tiredness etched on his face, the weight of everything that had happened still lingering in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You wanted to make sure he was alright, even after everything. “You seemed a little lost there for a moment.”

He paused, the moment stretching between you as he considered his response. “I'm fine, doll.” He brushed his thumb over your cheek, grounding you both in the intimacy of the moment. “Being here with you is more anough for me,”

You felt a smile tug at your lips, a warmth blooming in your chest at his words. “I want to be here for you, Joel. You don’t have to go through everything alone.”

He nodded, his expression turning serious. “I know, and I appreciate that more than you know, baby.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Just promise me you’ll stay close. I don’t want to lose you.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his words, but you pushed the fear away, focusing on the warmth of his body next to yours. “I promise,” you said, your voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

With that, he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close against him. The world outside faded away, and for that moment, all that mattered was the comfort of each other’s presence.

As you settled into his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat began to lull you into a sense of security, a cocoon of safety that you had longed for.

“Goodnight, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you drifted off to sleep, your dreams filled with warmth and the unshakeable bond between you and Joel.

"Night, Joel."

***

and im back, wazzup people! ENJOY SOME SMUT CUS WHY NOT! strongly suggest listen to heaven by julia michaels and cherry by lana del rey

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 2: You Drew Stars, Around My Scars.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty. Masterlist.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

Wednesdays were the bane of your existence. There was something about the middle of the week that left you feeling trapped in a perpetual loop, too far from the last weekend to feel rested and too far from the next one to feel hopeful. Wednesdays weren’t special like Fridays, nor productive like Mondays. They just existed, heavy and unremarkable, the forgotten middle child of the week.

You woke up that morning with a groan, already feeling the ache in your bones from the long shift you pulled the night before. Your head was pounding with a dull throb that pulsed behind your eyes, and your stomach felt like it was filled with lead. It was a tiredness that went beyond lack of sleep—a fatigue that seemed to settle into your very soul, making every movement feel like wading through thick mud. Your fingers absently touched the white bandage that was tightly wrapped around the palm of your hand, underneath holding a gauze which had spent the night soaking up the blood from wound the sharp piece of glass had made.

The memory of last night’s shift played on a loop in your mind, each moment replaying with a sour tinge. It had been one of those nights where everything felt off-kilter, like you were a half-step behind in everything you did. The bar had been busier than usual, packed with patrons whose voices blended into an indistinct roar, each shout for another round grating on your already frayed nerves. And then there was the moment when everything went from bad to worse.

You had been balancing a tray of glasses, trying to navigate through the crowd, when someone bumped into you, sending the entire tray crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass was deafening, instantly silencing the bar as every head turned to stare. You felt your face flush with heat, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration tightening your throat. James had rushed over to help, shooting you a sympathetic look, but the damage was done. You could feel the eyes on you, whispers buzzing just under the din of the bar’s usual noise.

“You good?” James had asked, his voice low as he picked up shards of glass with you. You’d nodded, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. But inside, you were screaming. It was just another Tuesday, another night that felt like a chore you couldn’t escape from, and now this—another thing to add to the pile of reasons you loathed the middle of the week.

Today, it seemed, was no different. You dragged yourself out of bed, every movement feeling like an uphill battle. The heaviness from the night before lingered in your bones, a stubborn ache that refused to ease up, and your head pounded with a dull, relentless throb that pulsed behind your eyes. Your stomach churned as if you’d swallowed a stone, a sickly reminder of the stress that had wrapped itself around you like a vice. But the clock was ticking, and there was no time to wallow in the discomfort. You had a shift waiting for you, another long day at the bar that wouldn’t let you off the hook just because you weren’t feeling your best.

With a sigh, you trudged into the bathroom, the tiles cool under your bare feet. You peeled off your clothes, tossing them aside without a second glance, and stepped into the shower. The water burst from the showerhead in a warm cascade, and you let it wash over you, the heat slowly easing the tension knotted in your muscles. The steam rose around you, clouding the glass and softening the harsh light of the bathroom. It was a brief moment of solitude, a small reprieve from the world outside, but your mind was far from quiet.

As the water pounded against your skin, your thoughts drifted back to Remy and the envelope of money he’d left you. You could still feel the weight of it in your hands, the crisp bills neatly bundled, a small fortune that had been casually handed over like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing—not to you. You couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in your chest since you’d opened it, the nagging question of why he’d done it, and what, if anything, he expected in return.

The money was supposed to make things easier, wasn’t it? A generous gesture that could take the edge off your worries, at least for a while. And yet, it had the opposite effect. Instead of relief, all you felt was anxiety—a prickling discomfort that gnawed at you every time you thought about it. Remy’s note replayed in your head, his messy handwriting scrawled across the scrap of paper: “Now you won’t need the hours for a while.” What did he mean by that? Did he think you needed saving? Did he see you as some kind of charity case, or worse, someone he could manipulate with a wad of cash?

You leaned your forehead against the cool tiles, the water streaming down your back as you tried to make sense of it all. Remy was a mystery, wrapped up in charm and danger, a man who moved through life with a confidence that was as magnetic as it was unsettling. He didn’t follow the same rules as everyone else—hell, he seemed to make up his own as he went along. And now, you were caught in his orbit, pulled in by the gravity of his unexpected generosity.

But generosity from someone like Remy didn’t come without strings. You knew that much. He was a man who played by his own rules, and those rules were as unpredictable as he was. What if this was just the start of something bigger? A debt you hadn’t asked for but now found yourself owing? The thought sent a shiver down your spine, the warmth of the shower doing little to chase away the chill of uncertainty.

You tried to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the simple task of washing your hair, the familiar routine a welcome distraction. But even as you lathered up, your mind kept drifting back to him—the way his eyes had lingered on you with that knowing smirk, the way he’d effortlessly made the room bend to his will. He was charming, sure, but there was always an edge to it, a hint of something sharper hidden beneath the surface.

You couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about you, too. Was this all just a game to him? Another move in whatever strategy he was playing? The water cascaded over your face, blurring your vision as you scrubbed at your skin a little harder, as if you could wash away the confusion that clung to you like the steam in the bathroom.

What did he see when he looked at you? A barmaid trying to make ends meet? A girl with a chip on her shoulder and too much pride to accept help, even when it was handed to her in crisp hundreds? Or maybe he saw something else entirely, something that even you couldn’t see.

You stood there, letting the water run over you until it started to cool, the heat fading into a lukewarm drizzle that did little to soothe the restless thoughts circling in your head. The sound of the shower became a distant hum, the white noise failing to drown out the questions that had no easy answers. You knew you couldn’t avoid him forever—Remy wasn’t the type to let things go, especially not when he’d taken an interest. And with the promise of lunch today, it seemed that whatever game he was playing was far from over.

With a heavy sigh, you turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel as the cool air hit your skin. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, your reflection slightly blurred by the lingering steam. You looked tired, your eyes shadowed with the weight of a sleepless night and the worries that refused to be rinsed away.

You dried off slowly, each motion feeling deliberate and almost meditative, as if you could ground yourself in the routine. But even as you dressed, pulling on your work clothes and tying your hair back, the questions lingered. You couldn’t help but feel like you were standing on the edge of something, a line that once crossed, there’d be no going back.

You grabbed your bag and keys, giving yourself one last look in the mirror—a silent pep talk before stepping back into the world. The bar awaited, another shift that would blend into the rest, but now, with Remy’s shadow looming over your thoughts, even the familiar felt uncertain. You squared your shoulders, taking a deep breath as you left the apartment, ready to face whatever the day—and Remy—might throw your way. But deep down, you knew that today wasn’t just another Wednesday. It was the start of something you couldn’t yet define, but you felt it in your gut, the unsettling sense that everything was about to change. <><><><><><><> Jean Grey walked through Remy LeBeau's expansive penthouse, her fiery red hair catching the sunlight that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The space was as impressive as it was impersonal—clean, modern lines, dark leather furniture, and artwork that hinted at wealth, but not at the man who lived there. Jean moved with purpose, her eyes scanning each room with a quick, practiced sweep, searching for the man she’d known almost her entire life. Despite the warmth in her expression, the kindness that softened her features, Jean was no stranger to the dangerous world Remy occupied. She had been by his side through all of it—the good, the bad, the bloody. There was no one either of them would ever trust more than the other.

"Where the hell are you, LeBeau?" she muttered under her breath, finally making her way to his bedroom.

The room was a study in understated luxury. The king-sized bed, draped in crisp white linens, sat against a dark, slate-grey accent wall. Matching nightstands flanked the bed, each holding minimalistic lamps that cast a soft, ambient glow across the room. The hardwood floors gleamed beneath her feet, polished to perfection, and on the far side of the room, a large window overlooked the city skyline, offering a breathtaking view of New Orleans.

To the left was an open doorway leading into a walk-in closet that could rival a high-end boutique. The light inside was on, casting a warm glow across rows of carefully arranged designer suits, shoes, and accessories. Jean grinned as she caught sight of him inside.

"Ah, we’re going to need intercoms in this place if this keeps happening," she joked, leaning against the doorframe. There he was, standing in front of a full-length mirror, dressed in nothing but a white dress shirt and a pair of impeccably tailored black suit pants, his usually confident demeanor tinged with uncharacteristic hesitation.

Remy glanced over his shoulder at her, his grin reflecting in the mirror. "’fraid I migh’ be too far away to hear y’ nagging, chère?"

Jean’s smirk widened as she watched Remy toss yet another shirt onto the growing pile on the nearby chair. His movements were quick, graceful, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a subtle rigidity that she didn’t miss. He was thinking—overthinking, really—and that wasn’t like him. Normally, Remy LeBeau was all instinct and smooth confidence, especially when it came to matters of appearance. But today?

Today, he was deliberate.

"Dark blue, far right," Jean said, her voice cutting through the silence with amusement.

Remy glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a fleeting look of gratitude passing over his face before he grabbed the suggested shirt. As he buttoned it with practiced ease, Jean leaned more comfortably against the doorframe, studying him like she always did when something was off. She knew him too damn well. And this? This wasn’t just business as usual.

"So," she began, keeping her tone light but probing, "why are you getting so dressed up? It’s just Olivia. You’ve had lunch with her a thousand times. It’s business."

Remy didn’t answer, his hands moving to loop a belt through his suit pants. His face remained impassive, but Jean caught the subtle shift in his posture—the way his jaw clenched just slightly, the way his eyes flickered toward the floor for a brief moment before he focused back on his task.

Jean’s smirk deepened. She knew this game. Remy was trying to play it cool, but Jean had seen him handle real threats—life-or-death situations—without a fraction of the tension he was carrying now. Which meant this wasn’t about Olivia. This was about something, or rather, someone, else.

"Unless…" she started, letting the word hang in the air, "you’re mixing business with pleasure?"

She watched as he fastened his cufflinks, his movements precise, almost too controlled. He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch, but Jean knew better. She was getting close. Normally, Remy would have shot back some flirtatious quip by now, something playful and teasing to throw her off course. But today? He was silent.

Jean shook her head, dismissing her own theory with a wave of her hand. "No, she’s not your type. So it’s something to do with the bar, because you haven’t changed your regular spot in years. And suddenly, you have with zero issues involved."

Remy’s face remained neutral, but Jean saw the telltale sign of discomfort—the way his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, a habit he’d had since they were kids. He was trying to mask it, but Jean knew him too well. She was onto something.

"It’s not the owner," she continued, her eyes narrowing as she pieced the puzzle together. "She’s not your type either. So it’s either a regular… or someone who works there."

Remy moved to grab his suit jacket, slipping it on with his usual grace. But Jean didn’t miss the flash of hesitation in his eyes, the way his hands fumbled just slightly as he adjusted the lapels. It was subtle—so subtle—but Jean had been watching Remy for most of her life. She knew every little crack in his armor, every tiny tell that gave him away when he was trying to hide something.

"Not a regular," she mused aloud, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "You don’t like alcoholics, but you do like a challenge. So it’s someone who works there, someone who can handle themselves… someone who caught your attention."

Remy’s silence spoke volumes. He reached for his watch, slipping it onto his wrist with a precision that felt too forced, too deliberate. Jean’s smile grew. She was right, and they both knew it.

"Friday night," she said, her voice softening as the pieces started falling into place. "That’s when you started going to that bar, right? So whoever it is, they were working Friday... which narrows it down."

Remy didn’t meet her gaze, his attention focused on adjusting the watch, but Jean could feel the tension radiating off him. She was close—so close.

"It’s not a male," she concluded, her tone almost triumphant now. "You don’t fuss over your appearance this much unless it’s for a woman. And I’m guessing it’s the one you left the money for—am I right?"

And there it was—the smallest, briefest pause. Remy’s hand hovered over his dresser, his fingers stilling for just a fraction of a second. It was so quick, so subtle, that anyone else might have missed it. But Jean didn’t. She knew she’d hit her mark.

This was why they were friends. She could read him when no one else could.

She watched him carefully, her smile turning softer, more knowing. "I haven’t seen you act like this since—"

"Don’t say it," Remy cut her off, his voice low, a warning laced beneath the words.

Jean raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. She didn’t need to. She had already seen enough. Whoever it was—whoever had gotten under his skin—was stirring something in him. Not in the physical sense, but in a way that Remy wasn’t prepared for.

Remy LeBeau had spent most of his life building walls. He was charming, flirtatious, always ready with a smooth line or a quick smile. But beneath that exterior, beneath the easy confidence, there was something else. Something raw. Something he kept locked away. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was grief, maybe it was just the weight of all the things he’d done in his life. But whatever it was, it had made him keep people at arm’s length.

Until now.

Jean could see it in the way he moved today, in the way he was fussing over his appearance. He cared about this, about her. And that scared him—really scared him. Remy didn’t like to let people in. It was too much of a risk. Too much of a reminder of what he’d lost. But whoever this woman was, she had him rattled.

"Is she working today?" Jean asked, her voice gentler now, less teasing.

Remy shrugged, trying to play it off. "No idea," he muttered, but it was clear he was lying. Of course he knew. He wouldn’t be putting this much effort into his appearance if he didn’t know.

Jean pushed herself off the doorframe, stepping closer to him, her expression softening. "Might come say hello to Olivia today," she teased lightly, though her eyes remained sharp, searching for any reaction.

Remy sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching for his shoes. He slid them on with a practiced motion, his fingers moving quickly as he tied the laces. But Jean noticed the way his shoulders tensed at her words, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. He didn’t want Jean anywhere near the bar today, and that told her everything she needed to know.

"Jean," he said, his voice low but firm, "don’t."

She smiled, her eyes soft as she looked at him. "You’re allowed to feel things, Remy. It’s okay."

He stayed silent, his hands stilling for a moment as he straightened his jacket. Jean could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he was fighting against whatever it was he was feeling. She knew he hated this—hated being vulnerable, hated letting people see beneath the mask he wore so well. But this was different. This was someone different.

"You don’t always need to shut the world out," Jean continued gently. "As you found out on Friday."

Remy stood, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket with quick, practiced movements. He didn’t say anything, but Jean didn’t need him to. She could see the truth in the way he moved, in the way he was preparing himself for whatever came next. He was trying to act like it didn’t matter, like this woman didn’t matter—but Jean knew better.

For the first time in a long time, Remy LeBeau cared about someone. And that terrified him.

As he made his way to the door, Jean didn’t stop him. She just watched, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Good luck," she called after him, her voice soft but knowing.

He didn’t respond, didn’t even spare her a glance over his shoulder as he crossed the threshold into the hallway, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. The door clicked softly behind him, the sound almost too final in the stillness that followed. Jean stood there for a moment longer, her eyes lingering on the empty space where he had just been, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She didn’t need to see his face to know what was going on inside his head. She could feel it, like a hum in the air, a tension that had been building for months.

This—whatever this was—was only the beginning.

Remy LeBeau could be as guarded as Fort Knox when he wanted to be. He’d spent years perfecting the persona of the smooth-talking charmer, the careless flirt who never let anyone too close, always keeping the world at arm’s length. It was his defense mechanism, his way of controlling the chaos in his life. But Jean had known him too long, seen too much of the real man beneath the mask to be fooled. She had watched him build those walls, brick by brick, after every loss, every betrayal.

And now, for the first time in a long time, she could see the cracks.

Whoever this woman was, she had done something in one night that no one else had in years—she had gotten under his skin. Jean could see it in everything Remy had done today, in the way he had fussed over his appearance like a man preparing for battle. It wasn’t just about looking good or making an impression. It was about vulnerability, about stepping into a situation where Remy no longer had complete control. He cared—and for someone like him, that was as dangerous as walking into a room full of enemies with no way out.

Jean’s smile softened as she thought about it. She had seen Remy flirt his way through countless encounters, his easy charm always deflecting any real emotional investment. But this? This was different. This wasn’t the calculated charm of a man who knew exactly what to say and do to keep things light and easy. This was Remy uncertain, Remy hesitant, Remy affected—and that was a side of him she hadn’t seen in years.

The truth was, Jean had a feeling that Remy wasn’t going to be able to keep this woman out, no matter how hard he tried. She had already slipped through the cracks, already found her way past the carefully constructed walls he kept around his heart. And once someone got that close, once they were inside, the game changed. Remy could try all he wanted to keep her at a distance, but it was too late.

Jean knew him well enough to know that Remy wasn’t the type to fall easily, but when he did, he fell hard. And this woman—whoever she was—had already managed to make him care. That was the dangerous part. Once Remy started caring, the stakes became higher, the risks more personal.

Jean sighed softly, pushing herself away from the doorframe and walking further into the room. She glanced at the discarded shirts still piled on the chair, at the cologne bottle sitting uncapped on the dresser. She could picture him standing there, staring at his reflection, second-guessing every detail, every choice. It wasn’t like him. Remy was usually the picture of confidence, the man who walked into a room and owned it without even trying. But this woman had him second-guessing, had him thinking—and that was the clearest sign of all.

This wasn’t just some passing interest. She wasn’t just another name on a list of fleeting romances. This woman had gotten to him in a way that no one else had in a long, long time.

And Jean had a feeling that Remy wouldn’t be able to shut her out, even if he wanted to.

What started as curiosity, maybe even a little temptation, had already turned into something more. Jean could see it in the way he had tried to deflect her questions, the way he had avoided her gaze when she mentioned the bar. He was protecting something, guarding it fiercely—but not because he didn’t want it. Because he did. Because it mattered. And that, more than anything, was what made this different.

Jean knew that Remy was walking into something he hadn’t prepared for, something he couldn’t control with charm or wit or the usual tricks up his sleeve. For the first time in a long time, Remy LeBeau was stepping into the unknown.

And whoever this woman was, she had the power to change everything.

Jean could only hope that Remy would let her. <><><><><><><><><><><> The bar felt warmer than usual today, the faint hum of the air conditioning not quite cutting through the lingering humidity from outside. It was one of those sticky New Orleans mornings where the air clung to your skin, and everything seemed to move just a little slower. The low murmur of conversation from the few early patrons mixed with the faint clink of glassware, creating a quiet, almost lazy backdrop that contrasted sharply with the undercurrent of tension building inside you.

The soft clink of glassware echoed through the bar, a familiar sound that usually brought you a sense of calm. James stood behind the counter, working methodically as he dried a glass, his movements slow and deliberate. The lunch rush hadn’t hit yet, and for a short, fleeting moment, the place felt almost peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that was rare in a bar like this, where the noise of clattering dishes, raised voices, and the chaos of service usually filled the air. But now, in this lull, you could hear the hum of the ice machine, the faint murmur of conversations from the few early patrons, and the occasional shuffle of feet on the worn floorboards.

You stood at the counter, absently slicing lemons, the knife gliding through the fruit with practiced ease. The citrus scent filled the air, sharp and fresh, mingling with the lingering smell of alcohol and old wood. It should have been comforting, this routine, this simple task that you had done a thousand times before. And in a way, it was. The rhythm of it, the repetition, kept your hands busy. But your mind? Your mind was far from settled.

You could feel the tension in your chest, a tight knot of anxiety that had been coiling tighter since Friday night. The memory of it played over and over in your head—the dim lights, the low hum of conversation, and him. Remy. The way he had looked at you, the way his voice had curled around your name like something tangible, something heavy with meaning.

“Ya listening, or are you off in your own little world?” James broke the silence, pulling you out of your thoughts with a teasing grin, his voice light but observant.

You blinked, realizing you had slowed your pace with the lemons, the knife hovering over the next slice. You shook your head, offering him a small smile, though it felt more like a reflex than anything genuine. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

James chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes softened with understanding. “I was saying I’m thinking of taking Nat to that new restaurant on the high street. You know, the one with the ghost tours? Thought it might be fun.”

You watched him as he spoke, his face lighting up at the thought of Nat. There was something so...simple about it. Something so easy and real. The way he talked about her, the way he planned little surprises like this—it made your heart ache in a way you didn’t like to think about too often.

“It’s sweet watching you two, I mean it makes me want to vomit of course but the sentiment is still there,” you said, your voice softer now, the knife moving again as you focused on the lemons. “So, is she meeting you here after your shift?”

James nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I told her it’s a surprise, but hell, I’ve got nothing planned yet.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head affectionately. “A picnic. Simple, easy. You can pick up everything on your lunch break. Maybe get Vis to help you out if you’re desperate.”

James snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, and risk Abigail finding out? No thanks. I’m not risking my life for a picnic.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand, watching him as he finished drying the glass. The bar was still quiet, the lunch rush only a looming threat for now, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. “I want to be taken out,” you muttered, almost to yourself, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

James looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Who by? Your last date was a fucking trainwreck.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off with a half-hearted smile. “By a bullet or a date, either one would work at this point.”

James laughed, the sound loud in the quiet of the bar, but warm, familiar. “It can’t be that bad. I thought you were done with the men of New Orleans?”

You paused, your hands stilling over the lemons, your eyes drifting out toward the empty tables. “Yeah, I am,” you said quietly, the truth of it settling in your chest like a weight. “But hearing you talk about Nat... it’s nice. I want someone to talk about me like that, you know? Without adding ‘She’s also slightly psychotic’ at the end.”

There it was again—that ache. That quiet, painful longing for something more than late nights at the bar and casual conversations that never went deeper than surface level. You wanted what James and Nat had. Something real. Something that wasn’t complicated. Someone who would look at you and see you, not just the bartender slicing lemons in the corner.

James reached out, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze. “You’ll get it. You just need the right guy. Someone who can match your energy, someone who understands you.”

You smiled at him, but the words felt hollow. Because even if that someone existed, they weren’t in your life right now.

Just then, the sound of footsteps interrupted your thoughts, and Kate slid up to the bar, her black bangs falling into her eyes, a smirk already pulling at her lips. “I personally don’t know how you don’t have men throwing themselves at your feet after last night,” she teased, her tone light but knowing. “Smooth.”

You rolled your eyes, straightening up from your position at the bar as you glanced toward Kate, her black bangs falling into her eyes in that casual, effortless way that always seemed to work for her. A grin crossed her face, playful and full of mischief, as she brought up last night’s tray incident.

Trying to deflect, you held up your hand, showing the red, angry mark on your palm where you removed the bandage this morning. “Think I could get put on light duties for this?” you asked with a smirk, though the sting from the cut still pulsed faintly beneath your skin.

Kate raised an eyebrow, but before she could respond, James chimed in, not even looking up from the glass he was polishing. “Oh please, you could lose a leg and Abigail would still ask why you weren’t stocking the shelves.”

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up more from exhaustion than amusement. The three of you grinned at each other, and in unison, you chorused the infamous line Abigail always threw at you whenever you dared rest for more than a moment: “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.”

It was a shared joke, but the weight behind it wasn’t lost on any of you. Abigail ran this place with an iron fist, and no one, not even James with his easy charm, was immune to her scrutiny. The moment of shared humor gave a brief reprieve to the tension you hadn’t realized had been steadily building since you walked in this morning. But it was only a brief reprieve.

Kate’s eyes glinted as she leaned in closer, her brown eyes gleaming with amusement. “Okay, Katniss Everdeen,” you shot back at her, trying to divert the conversation, “aren’t you working VIP today?”

She nodded, her grin widening like a cat who had just caught a mouse. “Yeah, but it’s pretty quiet up there, Clint has it covered for now, until 12:30 when your new best friend and his ‘friend’ are supposed to show up.”

The mention of him—Remy—made your heart skip a beat. You knew exactly who she meant, and the knot of anxiety that had been simmering in your stomach suddenly tightened. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but you could feel the heat rising in your chest, an uncomfortable mix of nerves and something else you weren’t ready to name yet. James, ever the keen observer, didn’t miss a beat. He turned to you, his grin widening as he leaned against the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. “Bet you’re regretting not working VIP today, huh?”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a laugh that felt too light, too forced. “Not in the least,” you said, though your voice wavered just enough to betray you. “I’ll take drunk tourists over mob bosses any day.”

But even as you said it, you couldn’t ignore the way your heart was racing, the way your palms felt just a little too clammy. The truth was, the thought of seeing Remy again was already gnawing at you, the memory of last Friday still fresh in your mind. The way he had moved through the bar with a quiet confidence, the way his eyes had lingered on you just a moment too long, like he was seeing something more than just the bartender serving him. The air had felt heavier when he was near, charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.

He was the kind of man you had always told yourself to stay far away from—dangerous, unpredictable, a walking storm wrapped in charm and mystery. And yet... there was something about him. Something magnetic. Something that made it hard to breathe when he was near. The chemistry between you had been undeniable, electric, and now, the thought of facing him again left you both terrified and... intrigued.

Kate, ever perceptive, shot you a knowing glance, her smirk widening. “Sure, you’re not curious,” she teased, her voice lilting with amusement. “But just so you know, the VIP section is wide open if you want to take a peek later. I go on my break at 2, so I’ll come get you to take over.”

You shook your head, trying to shake off the flutter of nerves in your chest. “Yeah, I’m good,” you muttered, turning back to the lemons, though your hands felt heavier now, the knife moving slower. “Let’s just get through the lunch rush without any drama.”

But even as you spoke the words, you knew they were hollow. Kate’s smirk lingered in the corner of your vision, James’s knowing grin hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge. They both knew you better than you wanted to admit. They knew you weren’t as indifferent as you were trying to pretend. Not when it came to him.

You busied yourself with the task at hand, slicing the lemons with mechanical precision, but your mind was already elsewhere. You couldn’t shake the feeling that today was going to be anything but ordinary. Remy was coming back, and no matter how much you tried to push the thought away, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t care, the truth was you did.

Because the truth was, you were already in deeper than you wanted to admit. You could deny it all you wanted, but the anticipation was there, simmering just beneath the surface. The anxiety. The curiosity. The pull. “Look, I’ll have a chat with Abigail when she comes up okay?” Kate smiled as she grabbed a large box of mineral water to take back with her. You shook your head, “Don’t you dare,” You warned. Kate’s grin widened as she turned on her heel and walked back the way she came from. The bar was starting to get busier as the lunch crowd trickled in, the low hum of conversation growing louder by the minute. You and James exchanged a glance, the kind of shared look that only came from working long shifts together, from knowing what the other was thinking without a word being said.

“Do you ever get the feeling that she knows more than she lets on?” you asked, your voice low, but laced with curiosity as your eyes followed Kate’s retreating figure. She had a way of knowing things—of reading people—that always left you feeling just a little exposed, like she could see right through the front you tried to put on.

James nodded, handing you a cloth and the bottle of disinfectant before turning back to the bar. “Oh, absolutely. Never misses a thing, that one,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the room as if expecting Kate to pop back up with another knowing smirk.

You were about to respond when the sharp clatter of a glass hitting wood echoed down the bar. You turned just in time to see a patron spill his drink, the amber liquid pooling across the top of the bar and dripping down to the floor. A small, involuntary wince crossed your face as you grabbed the cloth and headed down to clean it up.

As you reached the end of the bar, the man—a middle-aged guy with kind eyes and a slightly embarrassed smile—was already apologizing profusely, his words tumbling over each other in a rush. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—please, let me clean it up for you.”

You offered him a smile, though it felt tight around the edges, the automatic response of someone who had dealt with too many spills, too many apologies. “Oh no, it’s fine, honestly,” you lied, your voice warm with the practiced ease of someone used to dealing with messes—both literal and metaphorical. “These things happen. Not an issue.”

Inside, though, you couldn’t help the irritation that prickled at the edges of your patience. The man was polite enough, but cleaning up after someone else’s carelessness always had a way of wearing you down. You wiped down the bar, your movements quick and efficient, while he continued to apologize, asking if you could pour him another drink once you were done.

For a moment, you hesitated, the urge to deny him service flaring up inside you. After all, he’d just made a mess, hadn’t he? Why should you rush to refill his glass when you were the one stuck cleaning up after him? But then, as always, the part of you that knew better—the part that understood the unspoken rules of service work—forced a brighter smile onto your face. “I’ll get right on that,” you said, your voice chipper, though the words felt hollow.

As you finished cleaning the spill, you couldn’t help but glance up just in time to see Abigail making her way across the bar. There was something about her presence that always made the room shift—like the air itself tightened in her wake. She walked with an air of authority, her shoulders squared, her head held high. Even the regulars sat up a little straighter when she passed by, their conversations quieting as they instinctively tried to look more sober, more responsible.

You and James exchanged another look, one that spoke volumes without saying a word. It was the same every time Abigail walked in. Even when she wasn’t watching, it felt like she was always watching.

But then, just as Abigail disappeared into the back office, the front door swung open, and he walked in.

Remy.

Your heart skipped a beat before you could stop it, an involuntary reaction that sent a jolt of warmth—no, frustration—through your chest. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but there was no ignoring the way your stomach twisted when you saw him. He looked as effortlessly charming as ever, his grin wide and easy, his eyes sweeping across the room like he owned the place. And there, tucked neatly under his arm, was a woman—a brunette with long, perfectly curled hair and a body that seemed to mold perfectly against his side.

The sight of her—of them—sent a flicker of something sharp and unpleasant through you. Jealousy. You hated the way it crept up, unbidden and unwanted, curling around your chest like a tight fist. You had no right to feel like this. You barely knew him. Sure, there had been some... moments between you—moments that had left you feeling dizzy and breathless and more than a little confused—but that didn’t mean anything, right?

Right.

You tried to remind yourself of who he was. Of what he was. Remy was trouble. Unpredictable. Dangerous. The kind of man who could sweep you off your feet one minute and disappear the next, leaving you to wonder if any of it had been real. You’d seen it before—men like him, with their smooth words and easy smiles, always keeping you at arm’s length, always leaving you wanting more but never offering anything solid to hold onto.

And yet, you couldn’t stop the way your eyes lingered on him as he led the woman toward the VIP section. His arm was still wrapped around her waist, and she was laughing at something he said, her head tilted back, her smile wide and carefree. The sight of them together stirred something bitter in the back of your throat, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself to look away.

You had no reason to feel like this. No right. What had happened between you and Remy—if you could even call it that—was nothing more than a fleeting moment, a spark that had flickered briefly before being snuffed out by the reality of who he was.

James, always perceptive, caught the shift in your expression. He glanced from you to Remy, his brow furrowing slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just handed you another clean cloth, his voice quiet but steady. “You good?”

You nodded quickly, too quickly, and plastered on a smile that felt a little too tight. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just need to finish up here.”

But as you wiped down the last of the spill and turned back to the bar, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of Remy’s presence, even from across the room. It was like he had cast a shadow over the space, one that you couldn’t quite shake, no matter how hard you tried.

Because the truth was, no matter how much you wanted to pretend otherwise, seeing him with someone else had stirred something inside you—something you weren’t sure you were ready to face yet.

The lunch rush had swept in like a tide, and you found yourself pulled from one patron to the next, each conversation blurring into the next. The stories and small talk were always the same—mundane snippets of life, told with slight variations by different faces. A businessman complaining about his boss. A tourist asking for recommendations. A regular droning on about their week. You nodded, smiled, and laughed in all the right places, the mask of polite interest never slipping from your face. It was part of the job, after all—being invisible, being present, being everything they needed you to be for the few minutes they stood at the bar.

But as the minutes dragged on, you could feel the dull ache in your hand becoming sharper, the wound from earlier throbbing with each movement. Every time you gripped a bottle or wiped down the counter, the skin stretched and pulled, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from wincing. You glanced down at your palm, the red mark still angry and swollen despite the bandage. But there wasn’t time to stop, not with the bar bustling and James already swamped at the other end.

Finally, when you couldn’t ignore the tightness in your hand any longer, you allowed yourself a brief moment of reprieve. You leant back for a moment, blowing on the cut in your hand, trying to quell the pain. As you heard your name being called from the other end of the bar, you turned to the sound and there stood a familiar figure, his blond hair catching the light, his wide grin instantly putting you at ease. Steve. The sight of him made your shoulders relax, and the tension that had been coiling inside you loosened slightly.

“Well, good afternoon, Steven,” you teased lightly, a grin to match his spreading across your face.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the bar as the tight black uniform he wore stretched across his broad chest and arms. “What, no nicknames today?” he asked, his voice warm and teasing.

You cleared your throat dramatically, playing along. “Sorry, Captain America,” you replied with a laugh, watching as the amusement sparkled in his bright blue eyes. There was something undeniably comforting about Steve—something stable, easy, uncomplicated. A sense of friendship rooted in years of shared banter and harmless flirting, where neither of you expected more than the lighthearted companionship. There was always a natural ease between you and Steve—a rhythm you’d both fallen into over time, like an unspoken dance. Conversations flowed effortlessly, punctuated by teasing quips and the occasional shared glance that said more than words ever could. He wasn’t just another face behind the bar. Steve was steady, like a lighthouse in the storm, always there to keep things grounded when the crowd got rowdy, or when the night wore on and you found yourself needing a moment of respite.

It hadn’t always been this way, though. Not long ago, when Steve first stepped foot in the bar, there was something more intense about him. He used to have that sharp, commanding presence—like someone who could size up a room in seconds and have everything under control with just a flicker of his gaze. He hadn’t needed to raise his voice to keep things in check; his mere presence had a way of calming the chaos, the same way it likely had when he was still in uniform.

Steve had been forced to leave the Army after an incident—a shadowy chapter in his life that no one knew the full details of. He never talked about it, but the scars were there in his posture, in the way his shoulders tightened when someone asked about his past. Whatever happened had changed the course of his life, leaving a mark that still lingered, though he carried it with quiet grace.

Now, instead of leading soldiers or making split-second decisions in the heat of battle, Steve worked security at the bar. It was a far cry from the days when he’d been responsible for a team, the weight of command heavy on his shoulders, but he still approached it with the same focus, the same precision. You could see it in the way he moved—every step deliberate, every glance calculated. He was always scanning the room, making sure everyone was safe, that there was no trouble brewing. Even when he seemed relaxed, arms crossed or leaning against the bar with that familiar grin, you knew his mind was always working.

The Army had shaped him, molded him into someone who thrived under pressure, who could make order out of chaos, and though he wasn’t in command anymore, some habits died hard. Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, you’d catch a glimpse of the weight he carried. A distant look in his eye, a slight wince when someone mentioned anything military-related, or the way he’d instinctively roll his shoulder, like the strain of responsibility still tugged at him.

You respected the boundary he kept about his past, never pushing for details. There was no need. Whatever he had gone through was his to carry, and it didn’t define who he was in this place. Steve was more than that. He was the guy who made your worst shifts bearable with his easygoing smile and quick wit, the one who had your back when things got tough. There was comfort in knowing that, no matter what, Steve was there, watching over you and the rest of the bar.

And in return, you offered him that same unspoken understanding. You both knew your friendship—the playful flirting, the camaraderie—it wasn’t going anywhere beyond the bar. There was no secret longing, no hidden agenda. Just a shared connection, a mutual respect, and the knowledge that, in some small way, you were both each other's refuge from the more complicated parts of your lives.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s better.” He shifted his weight slightly, his smile softening as he looked around the bar. “Has it been okay today?”

You nodded, feeling some of the stress of the rush starting to slip away now that you had a familiar face in front of you. “Oh yeah. We’ve got Lebeau upstairs in VIP, so I feel like everyone’s on their best behavior today,” you said with a small grin, though the mention of Remy’s name made your stomach tighten again.

Steve nodded knowingly, his expression thoughtful for a moment before he winced slightly, rolling his shoulder. “Well, let’s hope it stays that way. I’m not sure I’m up for dealing with any trouble today. Pulled a muscle in my shoulder last night, and it’s killing me.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at his dramatic tone, reaching across the bar to give his arm a playful rub. “Aww, poor baby,” you teased, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. But your touch lingered for just a second longer than necessary, a brief moment of warmth passing between you before you pulled your hand back.

Steve chuckled, shaking his head at your teasing, but before the conversation could go any further, you noticed James getting swamped again on the other side of the bar, his movements quick and a little frantic as more patrons crowded around.

You turned back to Steve, offering him an apologetic smile. “Looks like I’m needed. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

He gave you a quick nod, his smile still easy and relaxed, before he straightened up and waved you off. “Go save the day, bartender extraordinaire.”

You made your way to the customers, a smile gracing your face as you continued to take orders; but you felt the lingering gaze on you, the way your hairs stand up on the back of your neck the way it does when something feels off in the air.

You looked up and saw him—Remy, seated in the VIP section, surrounded by luxury and comfort. His posture was relaxed, but his expression wasn’t. His brow was furrowed, his gaze sharp, but it wasn’t anger or possessiveness that darkened his features. No, it was something subtler. Something more elusive.

He wasn’t even pretending to pay attention to the woman beside him now. His focus was on you, and there was something in the way he looked at you that made you pause. It wasn’t jealousy, but curiosity—intense, unrelenting curiosity. As if he was trying to figure something out, to understand a puzzle that had just shifted in front of him.

His gaze flickered briefly toward Steve, who was now standing near another staff member, laughing at something they’d said. But Remy’s attention didn’t linger on him. It returned to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he was studying your every move. It didn’t feel invasive, but it was certainly... thorough. Like he was trying to understand why you had his attention at all—why he couldn’t look away.

There was a pull between you, but it wasn’t the kind that demanded anything, not in that moment. It was a slow burn, the kind that made you feel seen in a way that was both unsettling and intriguing. His eyes weren’t staking a claim, nor was there any silent demand. Instead, there was an openness—a question hanging in the air between you.

His expression softened slightly, as if he had come to some quiet realization, though you couldn’t guess what it was. And then, just as quickly, his eyes flicked away, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he turned back toward his conversation, leaving you with more questions than answers.

Your breath caught, not because of any looming tension, but because you could feel the weight of that curiosity—his, and now, your own. But it didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. You had no reason to feel this way—to feel anything at all for him. And yet, there it was, that undeniable pull, that inexplicable gravity that seemed to anchor you to him, even when you weren’t looking.

You quickly averted your gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you forced yourself to focus on the drinks in front of you. But the weight of his stare lingered, and as you moved through the motions of the lunch rush, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something that you weren’t ready to face.

Because the truth was, no matter how much you tried to push it aside, Remy Lebeau had gotten under your skin. <><><><><><><><> Remy leaned back in the plush VIP chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, the other holding his phone as he turned it toward Olivia. She grabbed it out of his hand, quickly typing something in before handing it back. He grabbed his phone back and looked at it, the familiar excel spreadsheet now showing a long row of numbers.

His eyes slid away from Olivia and toward the bar area, where afternoon’s rhythm was in full swing. You moved with practiced speed, pouring drinks, laughing with patrons, and keeping the alcohol flowing. It was a well-oiled machine, a dance of chaos and control. But Remy wasn’t interested in what you were doing right now. He wasn’t interested in Olivia or the shallow conversations that filled the air. His gaze moved and settled on the dark-haired bartender who’d caught his eye earlier.

Kate, he believed her name was.

She moved with purpose, her hands always busy, but there was something in the way she carried herself that Remy found intriguing. A slight edge to her movements, a tension in her shoulders when she passed him. Her eyes never lingered too long on any one person, but tonight, Remy had caught her looking. And now, he was waiting.

He watched her with the same casual intensity he applied to most things—his posture relaxed, but his mind alert, always taking in the details. After a moment, her gaze flicked upward, meeting his. There it was. The pause, the hesitation.

Remy’s lips curled into a faint smile as he raised two fingers, gesturing for her to come over. It was a subtle motion, but one that carried weight, a quiet command that didn’t need words to be understood.

Kate’s reaction was immediate—her eyes widened just a fraction, and Remy could see the slight falter in her step, the momentary uncertainty. But she recovered quickly, smoothing her apron as if she needed something to do with her hands. After a second's pause, she made her way over, weaving through the crowd with a practiced grace, though her nerves were evident in the way she glanced around, avoiding eye contact with anyone but him.

When she reached him, she took a deep breath in, holding that tablet and standing a little straighter than before. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, her voice steady, though there was a trace of something beneath it. Anxiety, maybe. Or curiosity.

Remy’s smile widened slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He tipped his head back, studying her for a moment before speaking, his Cajun drawl slipping into his words like molasses. “Don’t be nervous, chère. Jus’ got a quick question for y’.” He nodded toward the lower bar area, where the tall, broad-shouldered blonde had just walked into the gaming room. “That blond man—th’ one who just left the bar. Who is he?”

Kate shifted, her eyes darting toward the gaming room. She saw the blonde hair, the uniform, and then she spotted you, laughing with James as you served a customer. Her stomach dropped. She swallowed deeply, trying to keep her tone neutral. “That’s Steve. He’s, uh… head of security here.”

She said it simply, like that would be enough. Short and sweet, she told herself. Don’t make things weirder than they already are.

But Remy wasn’t satisfied. He leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively casual, though the atmosphere between them shifted. His fingers tapped thoughtfully against his lower lip, his red-on-black eyes never leaving Kate. The smile that had once played on his lips was gone now, replaced by something far more serious. His voice dropped, losing its earlier lightness, becoming something quieter but harder to ignore.

“Non, chère,” he said, his tone low and measured. “That ain’t what I asked.” His gaze sharpened, fixing on Kate with an intensity that made her shrink slightly under its weight. “Who’s Steve?”

Kate froze, her pulse racing in her ears. She knew exactly what Remy was asking now. He wasn’t interested in some random security guy. He was asking about Steve’s connection to you. And from the way Remy’s eyes bore into her, it was clear he already had his suspicions. This wasn’t a passing curiosity—Remy felt something, even if he hadn’t put a name to it yet.

The silence stretched between them, thick with tension, and Kate could feel her palms beginning to sweat. She swallowed hard, trying to think of the right thing to say, but her brain was moving too fast, her thoughts tangling together. She knew she had to be careful here. But panic, like it always does, betrayed her.

“They’re just friends,” she blurted out, her voice too quick, too loud. The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Remy’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, a subtle but clear indication that he wasn’t buying it. Kate’s stomach dropped, and she rushed to explain, her words coming out in a panicked tumble.

“Honestly! They’ve got this… weird thing. It’s always been like that since the day he started. They joke around a lot, but it’s nothing serious. I swear.”

She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her heart hammering against her ribcage. She had definitely said too much now, and she knew it. Her mind raced, replaying what she’d just said, and the realization hit her like a punch to the gut. She had just confirmed there was something between you and Steve, even if it wasn’t what Remy had been imagining. She had given him a thread to pull on, and from what she knows about Remy, he wasn’t going to let it go.

Remy stayed silent, watching her with that same unnerving intensity. His fingers stopped tapping against his lip, and he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied her. There was no anger in his expression, no outward sign that he was upset—but his silence was heavy, filled with a quiet, simmering curiosity that felt more dangerous than any outburst.

Kate shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her apron again. She wanted to say something else, something to take back the words that had already slipped out, but she knew there was no point. The damage was done.

Remy’s eyes flickered toward the gaming room for just a moment, as if considering something, before returning to her. His voice, when he spoke again, was soft, but it held a weight that made her stomach twist.

“A ‘weird thing,’ huh?” His accent curled around the words, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting them. His lips quirked into a faint smile, but there was no humor in it. “They joke around a lot, you say?”

Kate nodded quickly, desperate to stick to her story now. “Yeah, yeah. It’s like… I don’t know, they’ve got this banter. It’s always been like that. He flirts with her, she flirts with him back. It’s just how they are. But it’s nothing serious, really. They’re just friends.” Her lips fell into a straight line once that came out. She knew what she just said. She just hoped you made it quick when you did kill her.

Remy leaned back again, his gaze drifting from Kate to where you were standing behind the bar, laughing with another bartender. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. He wasn’t jealous—that much was clear. But there was something about the way you moved around Steve, the way you smiled when he was near, that piqued Remy’s interest.

He tilted his head, his fingers resuming their idle tapping against the armrest of his chair. “Hmm,” he murmured, “So they just got a lil’ banter, is that it?”

Kate nodded again, her throat dry. She could feel the weight of her mistake pressing down on her, but there was no way out now. She had already put her foot in it, and all she could do was hope that Remy would let it go. But one look at his face told her he wouldn’t. Not yet.

“Right,” Remy said softly, his eyes still on you. “That’s all it is, huh?”

Kate could barely breathe. The way he said it—it was like he was testing her, seeing how far she’d go to stick to her story. She nodded one last time, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. That’s all.”

Remy’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he finally turned back to her, his smile returning, though it was small and unreadable. “D’accord, chère. I believe ya.” But the way he said it—it wasn’t a confirmation. It was more like an acknowledgment that the conversation was over, at least for now.

“Merci,” he added, his tone softening as he gave her a dismissive wave. “Go on, get back t’ work. Don’t let me keep ya.”

Kate didn’t need to be told twice. She nodded quickly, mumbling a quick “Thanks” before turning and hurrying back toward the bar. Her heart was still pounding, and she could feel the sweat clinging to the back of her neck as she moved. She cursed herself under her breath, knowing that she’d said too much.

As she put distance between herself and Remy, she couldn’t help but glance back over her shoulder. He was still watching you, his expression thoughtful, almost calculating.

Remy wasn’t angry. But he was curious now. And that, Kate realized, might be even worse.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, his eyes never leaving you. There was no jealousy in his gaze, no possessiveness. Just a quiet, simmering interest. You weren’t an open book to him—you were a puzzle, and Remy loved puzzles.

He smiled to himself, a slow, deliberate smile, as he watched you from across the room. <><><><><><>

It wasn’t the rush that made you hate the lunch shift. The crowd wasn’t the biggest you’d face during the day—not by a long shot. Dinner and night shifts were much worse, especially on weekends when the small, dimly lit club in the basement opened up, drawing in waves of people eager to drink and dance until the early hours of the morning. That kind of chaos, you could manage. You *liked* managing it, in fact. The steady surge of orders, the challenge of keeping up with the pace, the way the energy of a packed bar felt like a living thing, charged and exhilarating.

But lunch? Lunch was different.

It wasn’t just the noise. It wasn’t just the sheer volume of people that filled the space. It was the kind of patrons lunch brought in. The ones who weren’t just loud—they were rowdy, boisterous, and far too handsy for comfort. There was something about the middle of the day that made people drink more aggressively, like they were trying to drown out the daylight itself, as if the brightness outside was something they needed to escape from. You always noticed it—the way they knocked back their drinks faster, ordered another before the first was even half-finished. By the time the second round hit them, the noise level had already soared, and conversations turned into shouting matches over the bar.

And then came the touches.

It was subtle at first, almost innocuous. A hand brushing too close when you leaned over to hand them their change. A casual touch on your arm as someone slurred a compliment at you. But as the hours dragged on and the drinks piled up, those touches became more frequent, more insistent, making your skin crawl. The way some of them leaned over the bar, their eyes glazed and too familiar, made you want to retreat. There was a different energy in the air during lunch shifts—one that rubbed against your nerves and left you feeling raw by the end of it.

So naturally, you hated the lunch shift.

Today was no different. As you caught your breath behind the bar, taking advantage of a brief lull, you wiped your hands on your apron, exhaling slowly. The air was thick with the smell of spilled beer and liquor, the sticky residue of too many drinks mixed with the faint scent of sweat from the crowd. The cacophony of voices had died down for the moment, but you knew it wouldn’t last. It never did.

From your left, you felt someone approaching before you even saw them. A presence that cut through the noise of the bar like a blade. Sharp. Commanding. Unmistakable.

Abigail.

Her arrival was always like clockwork—each step precise, deliberate, the steady click of her heels on the wooden floor like a metronome. Even in the middle of the chaos, she moved with an air of control, like the bar itself bent to her will. In her hand, she carried her ever-present clipboard, its edges worn from constant use, filled with lists and notes you could only imagine were as meticulous as she was.

Without so much as a glance in your direction, Abigail stopped beside you, her eyes already scanning the paperwork in front of her. She was always focused, always thinking several steps ahead, mentally checking off tasks before you even realized they were on the list. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, not a strand out of place, her tailored suit as crisp as ever, even in the stifling heat of the bar. The only thing that seemed to move freely about her was the pen she twirled absentmindedly between her fingers, a constant reminder that she was already planning her next move.

She didn’t even look up from her clipboard as she spoke. “We need to restock the top shelf whiskey,” she said, her voice smooth but firm, cutting through the din of the bar. “And the IPA keg is about to run dry. Can’t afford to let that happen again.”

You nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from your brow. “I’ll take care of it.”

Abigail hummed in acknowledgment, still not looking at you. To her, it wasn’t a conversation. It was just another task on a long list of things that needed to be done. You weren’t sure if she ever truly saw you—or anyone, for that matter. She was the kind of person who existed in her own world, where efficiency and control were paramount. The noise, the chaos, the human element of it all seemed to roll off her like water, never sticking.

But you couldn’t let it roll off you. Not today.

You glanced around the bar, your eyes flicking over the patrons still lingering, their voices rising again as the brief lull came to an end. The rowdy energy was starting to build back up, like a wave gathering strength before it crashed. A group near the end of the bar had started laughing too loudly, their hands gesturing wildly as they sloshed their drinks around, already half-drunk despite the early hour. One of them—a man in a rumpled button-up shirt, tie askew—leaned over the counter, his eyes tracking you as you moved.

Abigail, of course, didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care.

“Make sure the inventory numbers are updated before the evening shift,” she continued, her pen flicking across the clipboard as she made another note. “We’re running behind, and I want it sorted before the weekend rush.”

You nodded again, but your attention was elsewhere. The man at the end of the bar had stood up now, his drink abandoned as he made his way toward you, his steps slow and unsteady. Your stomach twisted, the familiar knot of unease tightening as he approached.

Abigail’s voice droned on, calm and steady, completely oblivious to the growing tension in the air. “Also, I need you to—”

“Sorry,” you interrupted, your voice tense as you stepped away from her and toward the man before he could get too close. “I need to handle something.”

Abigail blinked, finally glancing up from her clipboard. Her gaze followed yours to the man now leaning against the bar, his eyes glassy, a lazy grin spreading across his face. She didn’t say anything, but the faint arch of her brow told you she had noticed him now. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t stop you. She didn’t need to. This was your job, after all.

You took a deep breath and moved to the man before he could get any closer, plastering on your best customer service smile. “Can I help you?”

He smirked, his eyes drifting down to your apron, then back up to your face. “You can help me with a refill, sweetheart,” he slurred, leaning in closer than necessary. His breath reeked of alcohol, and you had to resist the urge to pull back. “And maybe with a little… company?”

Your smile tightened. This was what you hated about the lunch shift—the way it brought out the worst in people. The way it made you feel like you were always one step away from something you didn’t want to deal with.

“I’ll get you that refill,” you said, your voice strained but polite, “but for the rest, you’re on your own.”

The man laughed, a loud, obnoxious sound that grated against your nerves. But before he could say anything else, you felt Abigail’s presence beside you again—this time, unmistakable. She stepped forward, clipboard still in hand, but now her eyes were on the man, cold and calculating.

“Is there a problem here?” she asked, her tone devoid of warmth, but not unkind. It was the kind of voice that commanded attention without needing to raise it.

The man blinked, his grin faltering as he looked between you and Abigail. Something about her presence—her sheer, unflinching authority—seemed to sober him up, if only for a moment. He straightened, muttering something under his breath before slinking back to his seat.

Abigail didn’t watch him go. She didn’t need to. Her attention was already back on you, her expression calm and composed, as if the little scene that had just played out was nothing more than a minor disruption in her meticulously organized world. “Get the refill,” she said quietly, her tone business-like. “Then take five.”

You nodded, grateful for the brief reprieve. The tension in your shoulders eased just a fraction, though the knot in your stomach remained tight. You turned to grab the man’s drink, but as you did, you couldn’t help but glance at Abigail from the corner of your eye. She was already back to her clipboard, her pen moving swiftly across the page, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. To her, it probably hadn’t. She was used to handling these situations with quiet authority, never letting anything faze her.

But for you, it was just another reminder of why the lunch shift always left you feeling on edge.

As you reached for the bottle, Abigail’s voice cut through the air again, sharp and clear—though not unkind. “Wanda—” she began, referencing the red-haired waitress who had helped you clean up after your little… incident the other night. You winced at the memory. “—she’s coming in to take over for you.”

You froze, brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what? Why?” You glanced instinctively toward James, who was working a few seats down the bar, pouring drinks for a couple who barely acknowledged his presence. He caught your look, shrugged casually, and went back to his task, clearly just as clueless as you were.

Abigail, however, didn’t miss a beat. She flipped a page on her clipboard, her pen clicking as she made another note. “You’re going to take over for Kate so she can go on her break,” she said, flat and matter-of-fact, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked, trying to process. “Take over for Kate?” The question felt ridiculous on your tongue, and yet there it was. “Why me?”

Abigail’s eyes snapped up from her clipboard, fixing you with a look that said she wasn’t asking a question—she was giving an order. And it was clear that there would be no arguing. Her expression remained neutral, but her gaze was sharp, piercing through any resistance you might have thought about mustering.

“Is that a problem?” she asked, her voice cool, her tone making it very clear that this wasn’t a conversation. It was a directive.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words that slipped out were not the ones you’d planned. “Did Kate put you up to this?” The second the question left your lips, you regretted it. You knew you’d crossed a line. Abigail’s face didn’t change, but her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—narrowed ever so slightly, like a predator honing in on weakness.

For a long, excruciating moment, she didn’t say anything. The air between you seemed to grow thicker, heavier, the noise of the bar fading into the background as her gaze locked onto yours. There was no anger, no raised voice—just that terrifying calm Abigail always carried, the kind that made you feel like you were a step away from falling off a cliff.

Finally, she spoke, her voice dry and pointed. “Now why would she do that?” Her tone was dripping with sarcasm, but there was an undercurrent there. An unspoken understanding that hung between you like a weight. She didn’t need to spell it out. You knew. She knew. Kate knew exactly what she was doing by sending you upstairs, and Abigail wasn’t oblivious to it, either.

And the reason?

He was sitting up there right now, lounging in the VIP section, sipping on a bottle of wine that probably cost more than your rent, his arm casually draped around a woman who wasn’t you.

The question wasn’t rhetorical, nor was it open for debate. Abigail’s pen scratched against the clipboard again, her eyes never leaving yours. “Just make sure you’re not tipping any trays of glasses on people today,” she added, her voice as cutting as ever. “I’ve had to file enough paperwork for you to last the rest of the month.”

You couldn’t help the small, sheepish smile that tugged at your lips, though the weight in your chest didn’t lift. “Oh, we’re still mentioning that?” you asked, your attempt at humor falling flat even to your own ears. You knew it was a losing battle, but you couldn’t help trying to lighten the mood. The incident from last night—the one where you had quite literally tipped an entire tray of glasses onto a patron—was still fresh in everyone’s mind. Clearly, Abigail wasn’t about to let it go anytime soon.

Abigail raised an eyebrow, her expression sharpening, though a faint glimmer of amusement flickered in her eyes. To your surprise, she actually smiled—a rare, thin-lipped smile that barely softened the edges of her usual severity. “Oh, this will be talked about and the footage shown to anyone who asks until the day you decide to leave here.”

You groaned softly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again. The humiliation of last night still stung, and the idea of it becoming some kind of permanent inside joke made your stomach churn. Apparently, there would be no living it down anytime soon.

Abigail gave you one last look before nodding toward the stairs that led up to the VIP section. “Off you trot,” she said briskly. “And make sure you’ve got your radio on you. Just in case.” She paused, her gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You know how lunch gets around here. If anything happens, call Steve.”

The weight of her words settled heavily on your shoulders. Just in case.

You knew what she meant. You didn’t need her to say it outright. It wasn’t the lunch crowd she was worried about. It was him. Remy. The implications of being up in the VIP section with him, even for just a short time, hung in the air between you. There was always an edge of danger when it came to him, a sense that anything could happen—and that you weren’t entirely sure you could handle it when it did.

Abigail flicked her pen one last time before turning and marching off, her heels clicking against the floor in a precise rhythm, leaving you standing there with a deep sigh. Your gaze followed her retreating form until she disappeared into the back, and then it drifted upward, toward the staircase that loomed like a shadow over the rest of the bar.

Of course. Of course you were being sent up there. Kate had likely orchestrated the entire thing, knowing exactly what she was doing. She had probably seen the way you’d tensed when Remy walked in earlier, the way your eyes had flickered with something—jealousy? Curiosity? Longing?—when you saw him with that woman.

And now here you were. No escape, no excuses.

Your heart thudded heavily in your chest as you started toward the stairs, weaving your way through the crowd of oblivious patrons. The further you walked, the heavier the air seemed to become, like the atmosphere itself was thickening around you, pressing down on your lungs. By the time you reached the foot of the stairs, your pulse was racing, your chest tight with anticipation and anxiety.

You didn’t want to see him.

But the truth was, you did. You wanted to see him more than you cared to admit, even to yourself.

As your hand gripped the rail and you took the first step up, you tried to push the swirling thoughts from your mind. You reminded yourself, as you had a thousand times before, of who he was. Of what he was. Remy LeBeau was trouble—pure, unfiltered trouble. The kind of man who could ruin you without even trying. You’d seen it happen to others, had watched him charm his way into someone’s life and leave chaos in his wake. You knew better.

And yet, despite all the warnings, despite everything your brain screamed at you, you couldn’t deny the pull you felt toward him. The magnetism. The way he seemed to draw you in, like a moth to a flame, even when you knew you’d get burned.

The woman upstairs with him? She didn’t matter. Not really. Not when you knew that Remy didn’t let anyone get too close. Not when you knew that whatever connection you felt with him—whatever it was—it was fleeting. Temporary. A momentary spark that would never be allowed to catch fire.

But even as you told yourself this, you could feel the flutter of nerves in your stomach, the anticipation curling inside you as you climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

Because the truth was, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise, a part of you wanted to see him again. And that terrified you more than anything else.

Because no matter how hard you tried to deny it, no matter how much you told yourself that Remy LeBeau was bad news, there was no escaping this truth: part of you didn’t care if being near him burned you.

You just wanted to feel the heat.

<><><><><> The VIP room, perched on an indoor balcony that overlooked the bustling main bar below, felt like a world apart—an oasis of luxury and exclusivity suspended above the chaos. Every detail of the space was carefully curated to exude opulence, from the grand chandelier that dominated the ceiling to the rich, dark leather couches that invited the wealthiest patrons to sink into their embrace. The chandelier’s crystals caught the warm, amber light, scattering it in delicate patterns that danced across the room, casting everything in a soft, intimate glow.

The polished mahogany tables, sleek and gleaming under the low light, were arranged in such a way as to provide small pockets of privacy—secluded alcoves where secrets could be whispered and deals could be made. At the far end of the room, a sleek bar stood as a monument to indulgence, stocked with the kind of premium liquors most people could only dream of tasting. Behind the bar, Kate worked quickly, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she prepared drinks for the waiting woman who sat nearby, her expression one of disinterested impatience.

The air was thick with the clinking of glasses, the low murmur of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter that felt just a bit too loud, too exaggerated. It was the kind of laughter that came from people who were playing a role—performing wealth, status, and power for the benefit of those around them. These were people who lived in a world of appearances, where every gesture, every word, was calculated to maintain an image. Even the murmurs of conversation carried a certain weight, as if each word exchanged was part of some intricate, high-stakes negotiation.

But despite the hum of activity, your attention was inexorably drawn to one particular table—the one that always seemed to catch your eye, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

As you ascended the stairs to the VIP section, your pulse quickened, that familiar combination of anticipation and trepidation settling deep in your chest. You hated how easily your body reacted to him, how the mere thought of his presence could send a ripple through your nerves. It frustrated you, the way he seemed to have this magnetic pull that you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that he was someone you should avoid. Someone dangerous. Someone who was nothing but trouble.

And yet, like gravity, he pulled you in, a force you couldn’t quite escape.

The moment you stepped into the VIP room, you felt it—the shift. Remy straightened ever so slightly in his seat. It wasn’t a dramatic movement, nothing overt that would draw attention, but it was enough. Enough to tell you that he’d seen you the second you walked in. That small, subtle shift sent a jolt through you, a silent acknowledgment of your presence, a reminder that Remy LeBeau was always aware of you. Always watching.

He sat with his usual air of relaxed confidence, his posture loose and lazy, one arm draped over the back of the leather couch. But there was something simmering beneath the surface, a tension in the way he held himself, as if he were a coiled spring waiting to snap. The stubble that shadowed his jawline added a dark edge to his already sharp features, giving him an air of menace that was impossible to ignore. His lips were curled into a subtle, knowing smirk, but it was his eyes—those dark, intense eyes—that truly set your nerves on edge.

They followed your every movement, slow and deliberate, like a predator watching its prey. There was something in his gaze that made your heart pound harder in your chest, though you couldn’t quite decide if it was from fear, excitement, or something far more dangerous.

Seated next to him was a woman who, under any other circumstances, would have commanded the room effortlessly. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders like silk, and she was stunning in that way only wealth and confidence could craft. Her high cheekbones, full lips painted a deep, sultry red, and flawless skin seemed to glow under the soft lighting. She wore an emerald-green dress that clung to her body like it had been made specifically for her, its plunging neckline designed to draw attention. Every inch of her screamed elegance and poise, and yet, despite her beauty, there was a palpable disinterest in her demeanor.

She lifted a delicate forkful of food to her lips, her movements slow and deliberate, but her eyes never once flicked toward Remy. In fact, she barely seemed aware of his presence at all. Her other hand idly toyed with the strap of her clutch, her manicured fingers tapping against it in a rhythmic pattern. It was as if she were above it all—above him, above the room, above the entire situation. She was playing her part in this little performance, but her heart wasn’t in it.

The contrast between them was stark.

Her indifference was practiced, almost rehearsed, like she knew exactly how this game worked, and she didn’t need to try anymore. She was here for appearances, for the look of it, not for any real connection. But Remy? He wasn’t interested in her, either. Not really. His body language made that clear. He leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made the rest of the room seem to blur into the background. It was as if the woman beside him didn’t exist, as if she were nothing more than a beautiful prop in a scene that didn’t require her presence.

His attention, whether you wanted it or not, was entirely on you.

You hated the way your pulse raced in response, the way your skin prickled under the weight of his gaze. It made you feel exposed, vulnerable, even though you were fully clothed and standing in a room full of people. Remy had that effect on you—he made you feel like you were the only person in the room, like he could see right through you, past the carefully constructed walls you’d built around yourself.

And that terrified you.

Your feet carried you toward the bar, your movements automatic, but your mind was spinning. You told yourself to focus on the task at hand, to keep your head down and do your job. But as you passed by his table, you couldn’t help but feel the pull—the gravitational force that seemed to bind you to him, no matter how hard you fought against it.

Remy’s lips curled into a smile as you neared, a lazy, knowing smile that reached his eyes, making them gleam with something dark and dangerous. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.

The woman beside him didn’t even glance up. She was too busy pretending not to care.

But Remy? He cared. He cared in a way that made your stomach twist with equal parts dread and desire.

Kate was practically vibrating with anticipation, her grin sharp and knowing as she leaned over the bar, brimming with whatever delicious gossip she was about to drop on you. You could feel her eyes on you, her excitement barely contained, like she’d been waiting all night for this moment.

She took a quick glance around the room—more for show than out of any real need for secrecy—and her voice dropped to a hushed tone, as if she were about to share state secrets. “Okay, so,” she began, her tone laced with that familiar edge of exasperation. Her eyes flickered toward Table 7. “Our friend over there is about to be cut off. The guy’s been downing whiskey like it’s water, and he’s well past the point of making a fool of himself.”

You followed her gaze to Table 7, where the man in question was gesturing wildly with his drink, his voice carrying a little too loudly over the low hum of conversation. He was already starting to slur his words, and you could tell it wouldn't be long before he became a problem.

Kate rolled her eyes, her lips pulling into a thin line of annoyance. “I’ve already had to remind him twice that this isn’t a frat party. If he gets any louder, I might just throw him out myself.”

You nodded, mentally filing away the warning. You’d clocked the guy the moment he ordered his third double in less than an hour. He was a disaster waiting to happen, and you didn’t envy the poor soul who’d have to deal with him once he hit his breaking point.

But Kate wasn’t finished.

She jerked her head subtly toward another table, her tone shifting, a little more serious now. “Table 9—that one’s a little weird. The guy’s been feeding his date margaritas like it’s some kind of competition. I don’t like the vibe. Something’s off.”

Your eyes darted to Table 9. The man was leaning in close to his date, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh, but her expression was distant, her eyes slightly glazed over. The laughter didn’t reach her eyes, and the unsettling feeling that had been gnawing at you all night suddenly sharpened. The gut feeling Kate mentioned washed over you, too—a heavy, sinking sensation that made your stomach twist.

“Keep an eye on her, will you?” Kate added, her voice low but firm. “I’ve got a bad gut feeling about it.”

You nodded again, this time more seriously, making a mental note to swing by their table more frequently. Something about the way the man’s hand rested on his date’s arm, possessive and a little too tight, made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to wait until something went wrong.

But Kate wasn’t done, and you could tell by the glint in her eyes that she was saving the best for last.

She shifted her weight, pointing a casual thumb over her shoulder toward Table 2. Her expression softened just a little, the edge of her usual sarcasm giving way to something almost tender. “Oh, and Table 2 is celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. Vis wanted to send them a special dessert, something on the house. Make sure it gets out to them, okay?”

A small smile tugged at your lips. You’d noticed the couple earlier in the night, their fingers intertwined across the table, still holding hands like they were teenagers in love. Table 2 had been nothing but sweet and polite all evening, and you were happy to make their night a little more special. A soft moment of kindness in the middle of all the chaos.

But just as you were about to respond, Kate’s grin widened into something positively wicked. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and she leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. You could tell by the way she was savoring the moment that this was the part she’d been waiting for.

“And of course...” She paused dramatically, drawing out the suspense, her smile growing even more smug. “Your favorite person in the world is being the least interesting man in the room tonight.”

Your heart sank, the familiar tightness settling in your chest. You didn’t need to ask who she meant. The sinking feeling told you everything. But instead of letting on, you raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference as you waited for her to spill the rest.

Kate’s eyes gleamed as she said his name, her tone dripping with mock reverence. “Remy LeBeau.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Just hearing his name was enough to send a ripple through you, but you kept your expression neutral. Barely.

Kate, apparently oblivious to your internal turmoil or maybe just enjoying it too much to care, continued with a smirk. “Him and his date? Zero chemistry. Seriously. They’ll talk for maybe thirty seconds, she’ll look at her phone, and he’ll go back to doing his whole brooding, mysterious thing.” She placed a hand over her heart in mock adoration, sighing dramatically. “Which, let me tell you, I’m a little surprised about. I figured he’d at least pretend to care—flash that charming smile, maybe throw a few of his smooth lines her way.”

Kate paused, letting the moment hang between you like a spark waiting to ignite something much bigger. You could see the gleam in her eyes, the way she was savoring this. And then, with a smug little smile, she dropped the bomb.

"But nope. You know what he did ask me about earlier? Steve."

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Steve?” What does Remy care about Steve?

Kate’s grin got impossibly wider, clearly enjoying every second of her revelation. “Yeah. Well, not about Steve exactly.” She leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice as if she were about to share some great secret. “He was asking all casual-like, ‘Who’s that who just walked into the gaming room?’ And me, being the genius that I am, go, ‘Oh, that’s Steve. He’s head of security’” She rolled her eyes dramatically, clearly amused by her own mistake. “And then it hits me—he wasn’t asking about Steve. He was asking about you.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of anxiety tightening into something sharp. The realization hit like a wave crashing over you, cold and relentless. Remy hadn’t been interested in security, not really. He had been fishing, and Kate—without even realizing it—had handed him exactly what he was looking for.

You felt your heart rate pick up, a strange mix of anger and unease threading through your veins. Of course Remy would find a way to get under your skin without even trying. But what really got to you—what really pissed you off—was Kate's casual slip-up.

“Jesus, Kate,” you muttered, unable to keep the annoyance from creeping into your voice. “You didn’t tell him about Steve and me, did you?”

Her smug expression faltered for a split second, and then she gave a sheepish shrug, biting her lip as if trying to contain a laugh. “Well... I might’ve mentioned the whole ‘flirting thing.’ You know, the way you and Steve are always at each other’s throats but in, like, a cute flirting way.” She waggled her eyebrows, clearly not reading the room—or at least, not your mood. “I figured it was harmless. I mean, come on, it’s an open secret around here. Everyone knows you two have that whole back-and-forth thing that isn’t going anywhere going for you.”

You could feel the heat rise in your chest, not from embarrassment but from frustration. The last thing you needed was for someone like Remy to get the wrong idea about your relationship with Steve. While the banter between you and Steve was mostly harmless—a few playful jabs here and there—it was yours, a private dynamic that kept things light on the long, grueling shifts. It was certainly not something you wanted to be shared with someone like Remy, who would no doubt twist it into something else, something he could use to needle you.

“Kate,” you said, your voice strained. “He’s Remy LeBeau. He doesn’t need more ammunition.”

Kate’s grin faded slightly, her expression softening as she noticed the real tension behind your words. She shifted her weight, her tone turning more serious. “I didn’t mean to put my foot in it,” she said, voice quieter now. “I just thought... well, you know. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

You exhaled sharply, trying to rein in the frustration that was bubbling up inside you. It wasn’t Kate’s fault, not really. She didn’t know the full extent of what you were dealing with when it came to Remy. She didn’t know how he always seemed to be one step ahead, always watching, always figuring out ways to dig deeper under your skin. She saw him as everyone else did—a little dangerous, sure, but charming enough to make it seem harmless. But you knew better. You’d felt the weight of his attention, the way he could turn the simplest conversation into something that left you unsettled and thinking about it long after he’d walked away.

“I know,” you said finally, your voice softer now, the edge of anger replaced with something more resigned. “But he’s not... he’s not like the others. He’s trouble, Kate. Real trouble.”

Kate gave you a long, searching look, her smirk returning just a little, though there was more understanding behind it now. “Sure,” she said, drawing the word out like she wasn’t buying your explanation for a second. “But whatever it is, it’s got him asking about you. And I’m just saying... that doesn’t happen for no reason.”

You swallowed hard, trying to push down the flurry of emotions rising up inside you. “It’s not a thing,” you said, more to yourself than to Kate. “He’s just... he’s just trying to mess with me. That’s all.”

Kate raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Mess with you? That’s what you think is going on here?” She eyed you for a moment longer, then shook her head with a small, knowing smile. “Whatever you say, hon. But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on that one. He’s asking questions—and he’s watching you like a hawk. You can’t tell me that doesn’t mean something.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat. Because, deep down, you knew Kate wasn’t wrong. Remy’s attention wasn’t random. It wasn’t casual. And that fact alone was enough to unsettle you in ways you couldn’t quite explain. “It isn’t whatever the fuck you think it is,” You mumbled to yourself as you moved around the bar.

Kate raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, her eyes dancing with amusement. “If you say so,” she said with a casual shrug, though her knowing grin never wavered. She stepped back, handing you the order tablet with a little flourish. “Go on, then. Try not to make it too obvious when you stare him down, okay? People are starting to talk.”

You shook your head, refusing to take the bait, though your cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I don’t stare,” you muttered under your breath, but Kate was already turning away, making her way towards the stairs, clearly enjoying your discomfort. You tried to shake it off, focusing on the task at hand, but the question Kate had planted in your mind lingered. Was there something else simmering beneath the surface? Something neither of you was quite ready to confront?

You had barely even made your first drink when you saw him approach.

Remy leaned casually against the bar, handing you an empty glass with that same effortless confidence that always seemed to follow him. His eyes flicked down to your hand, and you could feel the weight of his attention settle on you, even as you focused on pouring a drink for the blonde woman beside him. She smiled her thanks before walking away, leaving you alone with him—the man who had been the source of all the uneasy feelings building inside you.

“Th' usual,” he said smoothly, his voice low and rich with that familiar Cajun drawl. A grin tugged at his lips, but the look in his eyes was different—more intense, sharper. He leaned in closer, his presence filling the space between you, and despite the casual tone, there was something about the way he looked at you that made your stomach twist, your pulse quicken.

You reached for the bottle from the top shelf, trying to ignore the way your hands trembled ever so slightly as you poured the drink. As you set the glass in front of him, you could feel his gaze lingering on you, like he was waiting for something—something you weren’t sure you were ready to give.

Before you could say anything, Remy’s hand reached across the bar, his fingers brushing yours as he gently took your hand in his. His touch sent a jolt through you, soft but firm, as he turned your hand over, his eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on the wound on your palm.

“Wha’ happen’, chère?” His voice was lower now, concerned, the playful tone from earlier replaced by something more serious. His thumb traced lightly over the slightly swollen skin, the small movement sending a shiver down your spine.

For a moment, you froze, heart stuttering at the warmth of his hand against yours. The gentleness of his touch was unexpected, and it stirred something inside you—an unfamiliar flutter that made you feel both vulnerable and guarded all at once. You pulled your hand back reflexively, bringing it close to your chest like you could shield it from him.

“Just… had an incident yesterday,” you mumbled, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavered slightly. “I cut myself.”

Remy’s eyes never left yours as he asked, “How?”

His gaze was relentless, pinning you in place, and for a moment, you considered telling him not to worry about it, that it was none of his business. But the intensity in his eyes—the quiet way he seemed to search for something deeper—made it impossible. You sighed, looking away, your shoulders slumping slightly.

“I dropped a tray,” you admitted softly. “Cut my hand cleaning up the glass.”

Remy’s expression didn’t change much, but there was something in the way he studied you—something that felt too perceptive, too knowing. His eyes lingered on your face, tracing over every line, every flicker of emotion that passed through you. The weight of his stare made your chest tighten, and for a brief moment, you felt exposed under his scrutiny.

But then, he gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. “Gotta be careful wit’ tha’,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost gentle. He didn’t push for more, didn’t pry or lecture—just acknowledged it with that same easy-going tone, as if he understood that the conversation was over.

The tension in your shoulders eased slightly, though your heart was still racing. You slid his drink across the bar, trying to compose yourself, but the knot in your stomach only tightened with each passing second. Remy was still watching you, his gaze heavy, unreadable, and the weight of it made the air feel thick around you. There was something unsaid between the two of you—something that had been gnawing at you since Friday night.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, driven by a mixture of confusion and frustration.

“Why’d you give me that money?”

It came out quieter than you intended, but the vulnerability in your voice was impossible to hide. You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back, to shield yourself from whatever answer he might give. “I don’t have anything to offer you for it.”

Remy’s eyes flicked up to yours, and for a fleeting moment, something shifted in them. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—like he understood more than you were ready to admit. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. When he set the glass down, his smile softened, the usual cocky edge replaced by something quieter, something real.

“Was a tip,” he said simply, his voice softer now, the drawl in his words less playful and more sincere. “Y’ did good on Friday nigh’.”

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Not that good,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “Not enough for a tip like that.”

A small, knowing smile curled at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes stayed fixed on yours, steady and unwavering. “Maybe y’ did,” he replied, his voice low and sure, like he was stating something obvious. “Bu’ either way, chère, y’ don’ owe me nothin’.”

His words hit harder than you expected, catching you off guard. There was a sincerity in his tone that you hadn’t anticipated, and it lodged itself deep in your chest, unsettling you in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You wanted to argue, to push back against the strange kindness he was offering, but the way he looked at you—like he saw past all your defenses—made it impossible. Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond to Remy’s steady gaze. His sincerity had thrown you off balance, and the weight of his words had left a strange warmth in your chest. Before you could even formulate a response, Remy tipped his head back, finishing the last of his drink in a single, smooth motion. The glass clinked softly against the bar as he set it down, and without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away—back to his waiting date.

You watched him, feeling the energy between you shift abruptly, like a door closing with a soft yet definitive click. His date, the brunette with her perfectly styled waves and an emerald-green dress that hugged her like she’d stepped out of a fashion editorial, had been watching the entire interaction. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked between you and Remy as he sat down. There was a flicker of something in her gaze—curiosity, maybe, or amusement—but whatever it was, she kept it carefully masked behind an air of cool detachment.

She looked at Remy as if expecting some explanation, some acknowledgment of the strangeness of what had just occurred. But he didn’t give her any. He didn’t even spare her a glance. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, one arm draped casually over the back of his seat. His attention had already shifted, as if the brief exchange with you was all he needed for the moment, like it had been a checkmark on a list, a box neatly ticked.

The room buzzed with noise—laughter, clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation—but it all seemed to fade into the background as you stood there at the bar, frozen in place. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of the strange feeling that settled over you, a feeling you couldn’t quite name but that gnawed at your insides nonetheless.

Remy’s words, few as they were, lingered in the air around you. They echoed in your thoughts, replaying on a loop—the tone of his voice, the way he said your name like he had known you far longer than the two times you have crossed paths, the way his gaze seemed to cut through every bit of armor you’d built around yourself.

And that touch—just the briefest brush of his fingers against your hand—still ghosted on your skin. It wasn’t the touch itself that unnerved you; it was the intent behind it. It wasn’t flirty, not overtly seductive like the Remy you’d heard about. It was something else. Something quieter, more deliberate, like he was trying to convey a message you weren’t quite ready to hear.

For the first time, you wondered if there was more to Remy LeBeau than the swagger, the effortless charm he used like a weapon. Maybe, just maybe, there was something deeper lurking beneath the surface—something he didn’t show to just anyone. And maybe, just maybe, he saw something in you that you hadn’t yet seen in yourself.

As that thought crept into the far corners of your mind, you stood frozen at the bar, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment replayed itself over and over in your head. His words, his touch, the way he looked at you—not with the casual interest that he might’ve shown anyone else, but with a focus that made your skin prickle, made you feel seen in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

You weren’t used to that. You were used to blending in, to keeping your head down, to being just another face in the crowd. But with Remy, it was different. He had a way of zeroing in on you, of making you feel like the only person in the room, even if only for a moment. And that feeling… that was dangerous.

It was dangerous because you knew who Remy LeBeau was. He was the kind of man people warned you about—the kind of man who could get under your skin, who could make you forget who you were if you weren’t careful. He was dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical harm and everything to do with what he could do to your heart, to your mind.

And yet, here you were, standing at the bar, replaying every subtle nuance of the brief conversation in your head as if it meant something—something more than just a casual exchange between two people who happened to be in the same place at the same time.

You didn’t know what to make of it, or of him. But one thing had become clear to you in that moment: Remy LeBeau wasn’t just dangerous because of the things you’d heard about him. He was dangerous because he had a way of making you want to know more, of pulling you in even when every part of you knew you should stay away.

And as you watched him lean back in his chair, his eyes flicking briefly toward you before settling somewhere in the distance, you realized that the real threat wasn’t Remy himself.

The real threat was what you might do if you ever let yourself get too close. You watched as Kate sauntered back from her break, a smug smile plastered across her face—the kind of grin that made it clear she’d enjoyed herself way too much. She slid behind the bar with the casual ease of someone who’d just spent the last thirty minutes indulging in something delicious.

"God, I love the Chinese place down the street," she sighed dramatically, leaning against the counter like she was about to launch into a monologue. "I swear, their noodle dish? Life-changing."

You chuckled, placing a glass in the washer. "Careful, Vis will be heartbroken hearing you rave about someone else’s cooking."

Kate snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Vis can live with it. Besides, I needed something to break up the monotony of this shift." She leaned further into the bar, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the polished wood. "Speaking of monotony, you’re free to go save poor, hard-done-by James, who’s been spending the last ten minutes scrubbing someone’s vomit off the floor."

You winced in sympathy. "Better him than me," you muttered, mentally bracing yourself for the rest of the shift. You went to move, but Kate’s persistent finger-tapping on the bar caught your attention. Her eyes were a little too bright, and her lips were pursed in that familiar way that told you she was sitting on something she was dying to say.

“What is it, Kate?” you asked, turning to face her fully.

She hesitated for a moment, her mouth twitching as if trying to decide whether it was worth saying out loud. But Kate was never one to hold back, and before long, she looked like she was on the verge of bursting. Finally, she leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So... did you talk to Remy?"

You rolled your eyes, a mix of irritation and amusement bubbling up inside you. Of course that’s what was on her mind. "Have a good afternoon, Kate," you said, brushing her off with a playful tone as you moved past her.

You didn’t wait for her response, heading down the stairs and back to the main floor. The bar had quieted considerably since earlier; the rowdy patrons had either left or settled into a calmer rhythm, leaving the room feeling almost peaceful. The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the space, but it was a far cry from the chaos you’d seen earlier.

You approached James and Nat, who were standing by the bar, both looking like they were done for the day. James was just finishing loading the last tray into the washer, his face twisted in the kind of grimace that spoke volumes about the unspeakable things he’d had to deal with. Nat stood beside him, arms crossed over her chest, her expression neutral, but you could see the exhaustion in the way her shoulders slumped slightly. Still, there was a hint of amusement in her eyes, visible only if you knew her well enough to catch it.

"How’s it going?" you asked, leaning casually on the counter next to Nat.

"James is traumatized," she replied dryly, though you could hear the teasing edge in her voice. "You missed quite the show."

James groaned dramatically, casting a look of pure disgust in Nat’s direction as he wiped his hands on a towel. "If I never have to deal with that again, it’ll still be too soon."

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head. "Well, you’re almost done. Just clock out and try to erase the memory. Pretend it never happened."

James rolled his eyes but grinned, tossing the towel onto the counter. "Easier said than done."

Nat shot him a sideways glance, her lips quirking up into a small smile. "I’ll help distract him," she said, her voice softer now, more playful. "We’ve got plans this afternoon."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh yeah? What’s on the agenda?"

Nat uncrossed her arms and leaned against the bar, her posture relaxing slightly. "We’re heading down to the riverwalk. There’s this new place—well, new to me—where you can rent bikes or take a boat. Figured we’d check it out, get some fresh air, maybe have lunch by the water."

James nodded, though he still looked half-dead from the day’s work. "If I don’t pass out first," he added, earning a light elbow jab from Nat.

"Don’t be dramatic," she teased, rolling her eyes. "A little sunshine will do you good."

You smiled at the thought of Nat and James spending the afternoon together. It was rare to get a break from the constant grind of work, and the idea of them sneaking away for a few quiet hours by the river seemed perfect. You could hear that subtle excitement in Nat’s voice—the kind she didn’t show often, but when she did, it was impossible to miss.

"Sounds like a perfect plan," you said, glancing at your watch with a dramatic sigh. "I’ve still got a whole afternoon here, so I guess I’ll just go die in a corner somewhere." You grabbed the list of tasks that still needed to be tackled before the night shift took over, waving it like a white flag of surrender.

Nat chuckled, shaking her head. "At least you’ve got good company." She gestured toward Steve, who was standing a few feet away, deep in conversation with one of the security team, his arms crossed over his chest in that casual yet commanding way.

You rolled your eyes, laughing. "Yeah, he can be okay sometimes," you teased, but the grin tugging at your lips betrayed more than your words did.

James snorted, drying his hands with a clean towel. "Don’t tell him that—you’ll inflate his ego."

"Too late," you quipped, casting a glance toward Steve, who seemed to sense your gaze and gave you a small, curious look from across the room. You quickly turned back to Nat and James, grinning. "Besides, a little ego boost never hurt anyone."

Nat raised an eyebrow, catching the playful edge in your tone. "Careful," she said with a smirk. "Flirting on the job is a slippery slope."

"Who, me?" you said, feigning innocence. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

James shook his head, tossing the towel onto the counter. "Alright, enough of that. Let’s get out of here before this conversation gets dangerous."

Nat chuckled, giving you a quick wave. "We’ll see you later?"

"Yeah," you nodded, giving them both a mock salute. "Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do."

James grinned, his arm casually draping around Nat’s shoulders as they made their way toward the door. "That leaves us with a lot of options, doesn’t it?"

You laughed, watching them go, feeling a warm sense of contentment settle over you. They deserved the break, and it felt good to see them heading off to enjoy some time together.

As the door swung shut behind them, you turned back to the list in your hands, ready to dive into the never-ending tasks of the day. But before you could get too far, Steve wandered over, his presence as steady and noticeable as always.

"Looks like they’re off to have a nice afternoon," he observed, leaning casually against the bar next to you.

"Yeah," you said, glancing up at him with a smile. "Some of us aren’t so lucky."

Steve tilted his head, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "I don’t know, seems like you’re doing just fine here."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Oh, yeah, you know me—just living the dream behind the bar." You paused, then added, "Speaking of which, I heard you’re going to your sister’s place next week?"

Steve nodded, and there was something so genuine about the soft smile that crossed his face. His eyes seemed to warm at the thought, the kind of smile that made you forget, for a second, the chaos of the bar around you. "Yeah," he said, his voice carrying that quiet sincerity he was known for. "Heading out for a few days. Haven’t seen her in a while. Figured it was time."

You couldn’t help but tease him, your lips curving into a smirk as you gestured around the bar with an exaggerated sweep of your arm. "Going to miss all this?" you asked, mock disbelief in your tone. "How could you possibly survive without the endless excitement of dealing with customers, broken glasses, and, of course, vomit?"

He laughed—a deep, rich sound that somehow made the room feel smaller, like the world had momentarily shrunk to just the two of you standing there. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed always got to you, even if you’d never admit it. "Yeah, it’s gonna be tough," he said, shaking his head as if the thought amused him. "But I think I’ll manage."

You leaned against the bar, feeling the cool wood press against your palms, and tilted your head slightly as you looked up at him.

"You sure?" you asked, the playful edge in your voice hiding the undercurrent of something more. "Because, you know, I could always tag along. Make sure you don’t get too bored."

For a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that made you want to take a step back. His grin widened, that easy confidence of his coming to the surface as he leaned in just a fraction, lowering his voice as if you were the only two people in the room. "I think I’d enjoy the company," he said, and there was something in that tone, something teasing but also sincere, that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your breath hitched slightly, but you quickly covered it with a playful smile, your eyebrow arching as you fought to maintain your composure. "Careful what you wish for, Rogers," you shot back.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and you could feel the weight of it. But before either of you could say anything else, the moment was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching the bar. You straightened up instinctively, pulling away from the invisible thread that had been tethering you to Steve.

Remy strode into the bar, his presence as magnetic as ever, but now, there was something different in the air around him. It was as if a storm had followed him in, darkening the space with a tension you could almost feel on your skin. If Steve’s energy was like a calm breeze, steady and grounding, Remy’s was the opposite—intense, electric, and demanding attention. He didn’t need to say a word; his mere presence was enough to shift the atmosphere.

You noticed it immediately. The easygoing swagger that usually accompanied him, the smooth confidence that seemed to follow him like a shadow, was gone. His movements were stiffer, more deliberate, as if he was holding something back. His dark eyes scanned the room, but when they locked on you and Steve standing by the bar, something flickered behind them—something raw, something unsettled.

"Hey," you greeted him, trying to keep your tone light, but even you couldn't ignore the sudden weight in the air. There was an edge to Remy right now, one that hadn’t been there before when you saw him. The playful banter that had existed between you and Steve just moments earlier seemed to vanish in an instant, like a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind. The room felt heavier, more charged, as if something unspoken had filled the space between all of you.

Remy’s eyes flickered between you and Steve, and you saw it—the brief tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze lingered on Steve just a moment too long. His usual charm, that effortless grin that could disarm anyone, was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was unreadable, dark, as if he were fighting to keep something buried beneath the surface.

You could feel it too, that subtle shift in the air. Remy had always had a way of commanding attention, but this was different. It wasn’t just intensity—it was something darker, more personal. As his eyes moved back to you, there was a moment where you thought you saw something flash in them—hurt… jealousy? But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a rigid mask of indifference.

He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. His voice was low, clipped, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large bill. "Can you pass this to Kate for me?" he asked, his words sharp, like he was eager to get the interaction over with. His tone was so unlike the Remy you knew—smooth, charming, always with a joke or a teasing remark. There was none of that now. Just cold efficiency.

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in his demeanor. "Uh, sure," you said, taking the bill from him with a small nod. "I’ll make sure she gets it."

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, dark and unreadable. There was tension in the set of his shoulders, the way he stood as if ready to bolt or explode at the slightest provocation. And then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked toward Steve, something hard flashing in his eyes. It felt like a silent confrontation, a challenge neither of them was willing to voice.

Steve, to his credit, remained calm, his posture relaxed—though you noticed his blue eyes narrow slightly, as if sensing the shift as well. He didn’t say anything, but the air between the two men seemed to crackle with unspoken words, unacknowledged tension.

Remy gave a tight nod, his jaw still clenched, before turning away. His hand rested lightly on the back of his date as they moved toward the door, but even that gesture felt different—less affectionate, more mechanical, as though he was going through the motions. His usual fluid grace seemed absent, replaced by something colder, more deliberate, like a man who was forcing himself to keep control.

As you watched him go, the knot in your stomach tightened. The air between you and Steve felt heavier now, thick with something unspoken, as if Remy’s tension had seeped into the room and refused to leave. The moment Remy had appeared, the playful ease between you and Steve had evaporated, replaced by a strange, lingering weight.

Steve, who had been quiet through the entire exchange, finally spoke, his voice low and concerned. "Everything okay there?" he asked, his brow furrowed as he glanced at you with a mixture of curiosity and something else—something protective.

You shrugged, trying to shake off the strange vibe that had settled over you. "Yeah… fine," you said, though even as the words left your mouth, you weren’t entirely convinced. Something had shifted, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was. It wasn’t just Remy’s sudden coldness, or the way he had looked at you. There was something deeper, something that felt unresolved.

Steve’s eyes lingered on you, searching your face as if he could sense that something was off. He didn’t press the issue, but his presence beside you felt steady, reassuring in a way that made the knot in your stomach loosen just a little. Still, the unease remained.

As you glanced back toward the door where Remy had just left, the feeling gnawed at you. You couldn’t shake the way his demeanor had changed the moment he’d approached, or the way his gaze had lingered on you and Steve. Was it jealousy? Had he overheard the playful banter between you and Steve? Was that what had gotten under his skin? The thought made your chest tighten, and you wondered if you’d unknowingly crossed a line with him.

Remy had always been enigmatic, but this was different. There was something raw in the way he’d looked at you, something almost vulnerable beneath the surface of his coldness. And that vulnerability, that hint of something deeper, unsettled you in a way you hadn’t expected.

Steve leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping back into that familiar teasing tone, as if trying to pull you back from whatever thoughts were swirling in your mind. "So… where were we?" he asked, his smile warm, inviting you to return to the ease you’d shared before Remy had appeared.

You managed a smile, grateful for the distraction, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Remy. Something had changed. The way he had looked at you, the way his usual charm had been replaced by something darker, more guarded—it all left a knot of unease in your chest. You couldn’t help but feel that whatever had shifted between you and Remy wasn’t over yet.

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sleepdeprivedsimp234 · 2 years ago

Text

~New York gets turned into a child~

⚠️TW⚠️ mentions of implied abuse, some angst, some characters might be OOC, mention of potions

=======================================================================

‘Goddangit…’Louisiana thought to himself as one of the potions he was experimenting with turned to a dull blackish-purple color, meaning it had been a failed potion. He was trying to see if he could make some new potions that could help speed up the process of healing, but alas his attempts were not successful. Loui sighed and stood up from his little floor table that he used for crafts and made his way downstairs to rid of the failed potion.

As he walked into the kitchen he saw New York leaning on the counter with his phone in his hand. "Hey York." He said with a bright smile.

York’s eyes flicked up from his phone to look at the shorter state. "Hey." He gave the younger a smallish smile before turning back to his phone. Perhaps he’ll manage to escape engaging in small talk. Sike b*tch-

"How are you sha?" Loui said. ‘F(speaks New York)’ The Empire State thought to himself.

"…"

"Aight den." Said the Pelican State, understanding that his friend didn’t want to talk right now. He started walking to the sink when all of a sudden the Dakotas came speeding through the kitchen, bumping into him which made him fall back into York and spill the potion on the taller.

Thankfully, York managed to catch him before he could bust his head open on the cold hard ground (OH, OH, TROUBLE, TROUBLE 😫✨).

"Omg I’m so sorry York!! D*mn it how could be so f(speaks New Orleans)in’ clumsy…" Loui said frantically as he regained his balance.

"It’s fine kid." York said, "It wasn’t yer fault, so don’t beat ya self up over it."

"O-ok den.. Ya might wanna get a differen’ shirt tho sha." The shorter of the two said.

"Yea I know." York said. He started walking up to his room when suddenly he felt a bit dizzy. He stumbled a bit as he passed the kitchen island and grabbed onto it for support. He was secretly hoping and praying that Louisiana hadn’t noticed, but alas we don’t all get what we want.

"Woah, are ya ok sha?!"

"I-I’m fine."

"Are ya sure? Yer stumbling more than fourth grade me in ELA when the teacher asked me to presen’ ma work to da class." Loui said, kinda concerned for his friend.

"Yes I’m sure."

"Ok den…"

York regained his balance and started walking towards the stairs. Unfortunately, he barely made it out of the kitchen before he lost consciousness and fell to the floor, and to add insult to injury, hit his head on the tile floor.

After hearing a thud, Loui looked up from whatever he was doing, sprang to his feet and rushed to New York’s side. "York!!!" He yelled as he lifted up the taller and pulled him into his chest. Apparently, he yelled it loud enough to get the attention of Massachusetts, who ran into the room as fast as he could to see what was happening.

"What the fa(speaks Boston) is goin’ on here?!" The older shouted, confused as to why there was yelling, but his face dropped when he saw his younger brother unconscious in Louisiana’s arms. He ran over to where Loui was knelt down with his brother, "Holy sh*t, is he alright?!?!"

"I-I d-dont know sha! He was a-actin’ a-all weird and and-"

"Lou, bud I’m going to need you to calm down." The older said, trying to get the other to calm down and breathe so he could explain what happened. Yes, Mass was internally panicking, but he needed to address the situation calmly. "C’mon, breathe…. Yep just like that kid… Good job I guess. Now can you tell me what the fa(speaks Boston) happened?"

"Ok ok…" Loui started, finally gaining control of his breathing again."He was actin’ a-all weird and stumblin’ an’ sh*t, so I asked im’ if he was aight. He said yes, so I d-decided to jus’ ignore it. Next thang I heard was a thud, so I looked up an’ saw York on the flo’ unconscious."

"Ok thanks I guess…. Give im’ ere’." Mass said, taking his brother in his arms when his friend handed him over. He gently moved his brother’s coat out of the way so he could check his pulse in his neck, secretly happy to find a pulse. He then grabbed York’s arm so he could check his pulse in his wrist. Mass rolled up York’s sleeve, trying his best to not look at the SH scars that lined his brother’s arm, and checked his pulse, finding similar results. "Aight there d-doesn’t seem to be any severely wrong with im’."

"What is wrong wit’ him doe?" The other state said.

"Huh?"

"Ya said ‘severely’, which sorta implies dat dere’s somethin’ wrong wit’ im’ sha."

"Oh- OH… yea the entire thang’s existence is kind of an issue itself." Mass said with chuckle. Loui just rolled his eyes and laughed a bit.

"I’ll just bring im’ to his room and let im’ rest. He probably passed out from sleep deprivation seeing as this dumb*ss never sleeps." The Bay State said as he stood up and picked his brother.

"And you do?" Loui said, giving the shorter a teasing look and smirk.

"Oh shut tf up, yer one to talk." Mass said, giving the younger a glare.

"Touché. I’ll see ya lata’ I guess. Bye Mass."

"Later kid." Mass said. He walked up the stairs with New York in his arms, ignoring any weird stares he received. Once he got to the NE’s floor of the statehouse he started walking down to the end of the hall where York’s room was, but soon got stopped by somebody calling his name.

"Mass! Hold up!" He stopped and turned around to see Pennsylvania running after him and eventually come to a stop as well.

"The f(speaks Boston) do ya want Penn?" He said.

"*pant* *pant* I was coming to see if somethin’ was wrong cuz I saw Yorkie in ya arms, and I know that he neva’ lets anybody pick him up willingly. Is he alright?" Penn said once he caught his breath.

"I don’t know exactly wha’ happened, I heard a bunch of shoutin’, asked what happened, and Lou said he passed out. I checked on im’, and there seemed to be nothin’ wrong with im’ other than his entire existence ofc. Apparently he also hit his head real hard." The shorter responded and gestured towards the slight mark on the side of his brother’s head.

"Oh dang…. Why do you uh…-think he passed out?" Penn asked.

"This idiot prolly passed out cuz he never fa(speaks Boston)in’ sleeps." Mass answered.

"Yea that’s likely. Do ya want me carry im’ for ya?" Asked the Keystone State, who held out his arms awaiting his fellow state’s response.

"Naw I got im’. He’s really light and easy to carry. Howeva’ ya can open his door so I don’t have to figure out how to do so without droppin’ im’."

"Aight."

Once they got the room, Mass set the taller, unconscious state on his bed and put a hoodie and sleeping shorts on him and left the room after.

=======================================================================

3 hours later…..

A few of the states were all relaxing in the living room on the main floor of the statehouse (the statehouse has 6 floors, not counting the basement). Texas was reading a book in a corner, Florida was on his phone, Loui had fallen asleep covered by a blanket on Florida’s lap (my precious baby 🥺🥺🥺), Cali and NJ were watching whatever f(speaks Midwest)sh*t was on the TV, and Mass was cooking dinner.

The sudden memory of York still being unconscious in his room suddenly flashed into Mass’s room as he was cutting vegetables for the soup he was making. ‘Uh sh*t…’ "Hey can someone go check on York? It’s been three fa(speaks Boston)in’ hours and he still hasn’t come out his room." He shouted.

"No can do Masshole! I’ve got a sleeping Loui on top of me and moving would be kinda illegal right now." Florida said with a laugh.

"Yea that would be, though I neva’ expected yous to care whether somethin’ was illegal or not." Mass said.

"I’ll go. I ain’t got nothin’ better to do anyways." Tex piped up from wherever he was.

"JESUS- Where tf didja come from?!" New Jersey exclaimed, clearly startled by Texas seemingly coming out of nowhere.

"Uhh…. The corner….?"

"For somebody that’s that friggin’ tall yer awfully good at hidin’ dear lord…."

"Uh thanks..? I think?" Tex said, confused as to whether or not that was a compliment. He just shook it off and went upstairs to check on New York. Once he got to York’s room he knocked on the door.

"York?"

No answer.

"York are ya there?"

Still no answer.

"New York?"

….

"New York, answer me."

…..

"Aight im comin’ in Empire." Texas said before opening the door and stepping into York’s room. He looked over to where York’s bed was and was surprised when he didn’t see New York, but instead a small fragile looking child huddled in the corner looking terrified. "Hey! Who are you, and what’re ya doin’ ere’?" He half shouted as he started walking to the bed.

He stopped when the kid backed up even further in the corner (if that was even possible). He sighed and walked over to the bed and sat down at the end of it, farthest from the child. Tex noticed how the child’s eyes followed his every move. ‘Dang what is this so scared for…’ he thought to himself.

"Hey kiddo, no no… don’t be afraid, I ain’t gonna hurt ya." Texas said with a comforting smile. This seemed to calm the child down just a lil’ bit. Or at least enough that he was able to actually speak.

"W-who are y-you?? Where a-am I??" Asked the child.

"Texas. My name’s Texas." The older responded. "And you are at the statehouse, don’t you worry yer cute lil’ head, yer safe here."

"O-ok…" the kid mumbled. He gathered enough courage to get out the corner he had backed into.

Texas raised his hand to take off his hat, in hopes it would make him less intimidating, but stopped when he saw the kid flinched and let out a small whimper.

"Sorry I’m sorry! Pls don’t hurt me!!! I didn’t mean to….." the child yelled and started hyperventilating a bit. Texas took off his hat as quickly and swiftly as he could so he comfort the kid whilst not looking intimidating to the younger and hugged the child close.

"Hey hey… shh shh…. It’s ok…. You’re alright… I ain’t gonna hurt ya kid." The Lone Star State said calmly and quietly as he comforted the younger by hugging him close and rubbing his back gently. "Yer okay…. It’s alright…." Tex had successfully calmed the kid down. The child looked up at him from where he was on the older’s lap.

"N-new Y-York…." The kid mumbled.

"Hmm?"

"M-my name i-is New Y-York."

‘IM SORRY WHAT-‘ Texas thought to himself. ‘How is he a kid then?! And why is he so terrified of me?! York would never…. I’ll just play along I guess.’

"New York huh?" He questioned. The kid nodded with a small smile. He chuckled, "That’s a nice name."

"T-thank you s-sir."

"Aye now- Ya don’ hafta call me sir, just call me Texas or Tex like the others do." Texas said, wiggling a finger under the kid’s chin, making him giggle and push him away.

"Whahat others?" Asked the child with a confused expression on his face.

"The others that live with me." Tex replied.

"C-can I m-meet them?"

"Course’ let’s go!" The older said as he got up from the bed. The younger followed suit, but when he stood up he nearly fell right over. He would’ve fallen if Texas hadn’t been there to catch him.

"S-sorry s-sir- I mean Texas!!" The kid cried out, putting his hands/arms up in front of his face. This kinda caught Texas off guard. He knelt down in front of the kid and gently moved his hands out of his face.

"Hey hey hey, why’re ya apologizin’? Ya didn’t do anythin’ wrong."

"W-well my f-father thinks that it’s s-stupid t-that I s-stutter and s-stumble when I walk when I-I can’t r-really help it. He u-usually yells at m-me for it and tells me t-that I-I’m never going to amount to anything i-in life if I c-can’t even speak or w-walk properly." New York’s words broke Texas’s cold heart. Who in their right mind tells that to their kid?! That’s just sick! He was about to ask the kid who his father was and where he lived so he could go beat a b**ch up when he realized that this was past York, meaning his father was possibly not around anymore. He saw a single tear run down York’s face and instantly hugged him close (Tex’s mama bear instincts are kickin’ in now- not that he’s gonna tell you that).

"Hey hey hey…. It ain’t yer fault bud. Ya can’t help it, it’s just how you were born. Yer father has no right to blame ya for somethin’ that ya can’t control." Said Texas.

"Really?"

"Really. Now, do ya wan’ me to carry ya? So ya don’t fall on the floor or down the stairs?" The older suggested.

"Y-yes please." Said York (just to be clear, this is still past him, current him would never allow anyone to pick him up). The poor child was unable to comprehend the kindness he was receiving (poor baby’s so traumatized 🥺😭).

"Ok. Up you go!" Texas said as he picked the child up, and started chuckling when the kid climbed further into his arms and kicked a bit (prolly cuz he was now several feet off the ground). When he picked up the child, he tried to ignore how uncomfortably thin and light he was as he started heading downstairs.

=======================================================================

When he got downstairs with le child:

"Hey y’all I think we may or may not have a slight problem." Texas said, kinda quietly cuz’ York was half asleep on his shoulder.

"Whaddya mean is he dead or some sh- oh….." Mass started to say as he walked out the kitchen wiping his hands with a towel.

"What is it- oh f(speaks Jersey)." Said Jersey, who had turned around from where he was on the couch.

"I-is that…?" Mass asked, with what Texas could describe as a sad or fearful expression on his face.

New York had now near fully woken up. "Mass!" He shouted with the most joy in his eyes that Texas had ever seen. The younger wriggled around to escape, so Tex put him down and let him run to his older brother, whom he hugged when he got to.

Mass hugged back as tightly as he could without hurting his little brother, and with little to no hesitation. "Y-Yorkie?" He asked despite knowing for a dang fact that this was his brother

"Mhm! You look so different, and relaxed for once, did s-something h-happen?" York asked, burying his head in the crook of Mass’s neck.

"Ummm….. Yea sure. I guess ya could say that." The older responded with a slight smile.

York looked at a smallish (emphasis on the "ish") cut that Mass had gotten when he was cutting veggies and let out a small gasp. "Mass you’re hurt!" He said grabbing his big brother’s hand.

"Huh?" Mass looked down at his hand. "Oh, hehe guess I am…. It’s just a small cut tho, no big deal."

"I-I know, but I t-thought you p-promised to not hurt y-yourself on p-purpose anymore!" The younger said sadly. There were a few shocked expressions from the others in the room except for Jersey, Connecticut, and Louisiana (who was still asleep on Florida’s lap 🥺).

"I know bud, don’t worry. I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear! I just accidentally hurt myself when I was workin’ earlier." Massachusetts reassured the younger.

"Are y-you sure?"

"Of course, Yorkie." Mass said, smiling at the other, who smiled back.

"Okie! Where are the other two?" Asked the younger.

"Oi Jersey! Connie! Get ya *$$es over ere’!" Mass yelled.

"Alright jeezus- no need to yell!" Connie (Connecticut) said as they both walked over to where their siblings were.

"Wow, you all l-look so d-different!" York said.

"Hehe yea…"

"I’m sorry but what the F(TECHNICAL GLITCH) just happened?!" Florida shouted, accidentally waking up Loui who groaned a bit in sleepy frustration. "Crap- sorry Loui."

"It’s fine sha… but what’s all da shoutin’ about…?" Loui said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"I think that Yorkie got turned into a child. And who knew that his siblings could be such softies!~" Florida teased. He smirked when the older of the four glared at him.

"Aight whose turn is it to beat the sh*t outta im’?" Connie said to the others.

"Mine. C’mere Flori- huh?" Jersey said as he started to jump up, but he stopped when he felt a small tug on his arm. He looked down to see York, who had grabbed his arm as if to stop him from attacking Florida. "Yorkie? What’re ya doin?"

"I’m not letting you hurt anyone! Please don’t be like Father." Said the youngest.

"Wha… Oh…. Oh d*mn…" Jersey said, at first confused as to what he meant, but soon came to a realization.

"What does he mean by that??" Cali asked from where he was in the living room.

"Shut up California." Texas said.

"Wait a dang minute- Did Flo’ida just say dat York turned into a child?!" Loui said, now wide awake.

"Yup." They others all (-York) said in unison.

=======================================================================

Later after dinner:

Everyone except for Massachusetts and Louisiana had gone to their rooms after dinner. Mass was just sitting in the kitchen with some random boring book and Loui was on the couch with York.

"Hey kiddo wanna see somethin’ kinda cool?" Loui said to the younger. He smiled when the younger nodded excitedly. "Okay!" He opened his palm and closed his eyes for a moment. Then all of a sudden, Loui’s palm started glowing and there was small little light figures dancing and running around the two of them in a circle.

"Woah…." The younger whispered under his breath. His eyes were filled with wonder and astonishment.

"Kinda nice huh?" The older said with a smile.

"Mhm! It looks so pretty!"

"Heheh thanks sha." Said the Pelican State as he brought the magic back into his body so he didn’t pass out in front of the child.

"What d-does that mean?" York said.

"What?"

"Sha?"

"Oh- OH… haha, ‘sha’ means darling, but I call all my friends that." Loui answered. He gave the younger a confused look when he looked behind him and giggled. All of a sudden, he felt two cold hands on his shoulders and gave a small shriek. "Alaskahaha why man?!"

Alaska chuckled just chuckled and said, "Felt like it. Who’s the kid?"

"It’s York." The shorter responded.

"That’s York?" Alaska said nonchalantly. "Huh. Not gonna lie he was actually pretty cute as a kid."

"Wow. Neva’ expected dat from you of all people." Loui said teasingly.

"What’s that supposed to mean?!"

"Ya know what I mean."

"Whatever." Alaska said, rolling his eyes. He noticed how Loui looked just about ready to pass tf out (An HC that I have for Loui: He is the most powerful magic user, but it also tires him out and/or makes him dizzy as h*ll) and how distant his eyes looked.

"Ummm Mr.Louisiana? Are you alright?" York asked, concerned as to why his friend looked so tired and distant.

"Oi Boston!" Alaska shouted.

Mass looked up from where he was reading with a slight death glare. "It’s Massachusetts, but good enough. Whaddya want?"

"I think that ya might wanna check on im’." He said, pointing at Loui. "He ain’t looking too good right now."

"Whaddya mean?" Mass said as he walked over. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Loui. "Oh. Umm… well. I can say that I think he’s aight, he’s prolly just a bit tired and/or dizzy from usin’ his magic. I’ll bring im’ to his room, you can stay with the kid." He grabbed Loui’s arm and guided him to a standing position with an arm around his upper torso so he could support him.

"I don’t remember signing up for babysitting, but whatever." Alaska said as he walked over to the other side of the couch and sat down next to New York.

"Good. Cuz that wasn’t a question. Also just a heads up, if ya hurt im’ in anyway shape or form, I’m going snap yer spine just a ‘lil bit’." Mass said as he walked away with Loui.

The two just sat in silence for a good solid minute before York decided to say something.

"S-so…. What’s your n-name?" He asked, gaining the tallest state’s attention.

"Haven’t ya heard any of the other two say it?" The older responded.

"Uh-uh. If one of you did say it, I p-probably wasn’t paying a-attention because according to my father, I’m fully i-incompetent as a functioning b-being." Said the child. York’s words left Alaska slightly stunned.

"Well I don’t think that’s really true…, but if you must know, my name is Alaska." The older answered. ‘What kind of parent says that to a kid?!’ He thought to himself.

"That’s a nice name." York said.

"Thanks. Y’know, ya ain’t half bad, kid." Alaska said, giving the smaller a small smirk and ruffling his hair.

"Hehe thanks. I like you, you’re weird." Said York with a giggle.

"Aye I am not! You’re the weird one here!" Alaska said, smirking and poking the littler one in the side, making him giggle.

"Nohoho I’m nohohot! (No I’m not!)"

"Yes. You. Are." Alaska said whilst poking the kid with each word, the younger giggling in response. He stopped when the kid swatted his hands away with his little claws. But then something caught his eye. York’s legs and arms were littered with bruises, big and small, and small scratches/cuts as well. "Hey kid?"

"Yea?"

"How’d ya get yourself hurt that much?" He asked. Alaska noticed that after he asked the question, the younger’s face suddenly gained a slightly sadder expression. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yea, I’m f-fine. My f-father just s-said that I a-am not supposed to t-tell anyone what happened." The younger said with a small, sad smile. That’s when it clicked in Alaska’s mind what had happened.

"O-oh ok." He said, deciding to not linger on the subject any longer. Alaska couldn’t help but smile fondly when York yawned with a slight squeaky sound (Idk bro I just yawn like that sometimes). "Tired?"

"Mhm…" the younger mumbled.

"Thought so." Alaska said as he picked up the sleepy child and set him in his lap in a comfortable position. He gently ran a hand through the smaller’s hair and started humming a Russian lullaby he learned a while back. He smiled when he heard a small purring sound emitting from the child. After about three minutes York was dead asleep. Alaska smiled fondly and rested his chin on the younger’s head. The two sat in silence for a few minutes before the sound of someone clearing their throat broke the silence.

Alaska turned around to see Mass standing in the corner smirking at them. ‘Oh sh*t…’

Mass chuckled and said, "Huh. Didn’t peg you as the type to be good with kids."

"Shut the f(speaks Anchorage) up." Alaska said, giving the Bay State a death glare, making the smaller put his hands up in mock surrender.

"I’m just sayin’." Mass said, walking over to the other two states."Here I’ll take this out of yer hands." He took the sleeping child out of the Last Frontier’s arms and brought York to his room.

~THE END~

=======================================================================

Lil’ bonus part for the end: In the morning:

*inserts screams as New York chases Mass, Rhode, and Florida (who took pictures the day before) throughout the entire backyard*

New York: GET YOUR *$$ES OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!!!

Mass: NO, PISS OFF- *gets tackled* DANG IT!! FLORIDA, RHODE SAVE YOURSELVES!!

Florida: C’MON RHODEY FASTER FASTER-

Rhode: WAIT FOR ME I HAVE TEENY LEGS-

========================================================================

#ben brainard #welcome to the table #welcome to the statehouse #wttt new york #wttt massachusetts #wttt louisiana #wttt texas #wttt florida #wttt new jersey #wttt connecticut #wttt california #I nearly died of cuteness when writing this-#help-#I think it’s a universal agreement that England is a piece of sh-

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