#alex nilsen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lqveharrington · 1 month ago

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Timeless | T.B.

summary: tom said that in every timeline, you would find and love each other

pairing: all tom blyth characters above (plus alex) x fem!reader

includes: FLUFF, kissing, allusions of sex mentions of killing, threats, teasing

a/n: i just love me some tom blyth 🩷 also, all the other universes mentioned are the ones connected with my own writing for them, so see if you can spot the similarities between coryo and billy’s parts 😉

Ever since you began to date Tom, you've felt more love than you have in years. He was the kindest, most caring, and protective man you have ever met. He made sure every single interaction wasn't crossing any boundaries — not wanting to make you uncomfortable — and he made every interview and press conference never spoke badly about. It was all so courteous that it didn't take long until he decided to put a ring on it — hiding the engagement until you both posted wedding photos for your anniversary.

"It's your day off, stop scrolling through Instagram comments." You set down the cups of hot chocolate on the coffee table before taking away his phone, hiding it away in the drawer. He raised his brow as his hand found the curve of your hip, tugging you to sit beside him. "I'm taking away your phone privileges for the rest of the day."

"A day off with my wife if I stay away from the internet?” He tapped his chin in thought as his free hand went under your calves, pulling yours legs over his lap. “I think I like that idea, Mrs Blyth.”

His accent nearly made you swoon. You loved him for who he was, and the additional accent was a bonus you got lucky with.

You would never get tired of how kind Tom was to you — even after two years of dating, one year of engagement, and one year of marriage — you still were head over heels for him.

Meeting his iridescent blue eyes, you lean in for a proper kiss and smile when he pulls you closer. Tom tilts your head up to his with a finger, kissing you with the same passion he always used. You follow suit and only separate in surprise when he nips at your bottom lip.

"Rude much." You giggle and rest your head on the cushion behind you, hand coming up to touch your lip. “Such a tease, Blyth, such a tease.”

"It’s not my fault you’re so irresistible." Tom took your hand away from your face and began to individually kiss each and every finger, slowly moving higher and higher until he was back to your lips. “Would kissing you make you feel better?”

You pretend to think about it for a second, holding back a smile when you see him impatiently waiting for you to say yes. But the second he heard the beginning syllable of the word, he cupped your face with both hands and met your lips, enjoying your short yelp of surprise.

Tom pressed short kisses to your lips and smiled when you pressed a hand against the left side of his chest. He knew exactly what you were listening for, you did this every time you felt so much love from him.

When he finally pulls away, he glances down at your lips and smirks when he realizes that your lips were a shade deeper than they were earlier. He thumbed your cheek and tucked a piece hair behind your ear, kissing your cheek.

“You know what I’m thinking of?” He murmured, allowing you to rest your head on his shoulder.

You shrug and look up, “What are you thinking of, Tom Keir Blyth?”

He rolled his eyes at the full name and kissed you silly again before speaking, hiding another smirk from your dazed look before you shook it off. "I think we would find each other in every universe. Fall in love just like we are now."

You hum and play with his sweater, thinking about the possibility. Even if you did exist in different universes, the chances of finding each other in every lifetime was slim, maybe even zero. But your love for one another was a flame — a magnetic force that always attracted.

After a few beats of silence, you finally say something in regard to the thought with a benevolent smile, wedding and engagement ring shining from the sunlight hitting it.

"I think so too."

“Hey, how was— What’s that for?” You start to ask him about his daily ride when you look up and see the bouquet of wildflowers, an array of pinks, blues, and purples. You grin at him and take the flowers from him, fingers gingerly touching the petals while silently questioning him.

Billy grinned back and his hand found its home on the curve of your hip. “Saw em’ by the forest as I was coming back. Figured m'pretty girl deserved all the pretty flowers.”

Your cheeks were starting to hurt by how hard he was making you smile. He was so infinitely lovable and you just knew when you got married to him, it would double by millions. He slowly began to thumb your hip and tilted his head down to accommodate your height with how close you were both standing.

“You’re sweet for an ex-outlaw.” You whisper and cling onto the flowers, eyes lighting up in mischief. You pull yourself impossibly closer, your lips dangerously close to his. "You are so in love with me, Bonney.”

“Am I now?” He murmured and noticed the hint of mischief in your eyes, a small smirk gracing his lips.

You went to answer but got cut off when he pressed his lips to yours, your initial shock fading into desire. One of your hands finding its way to his chest, feeling the heartbeat you felt so much love from. But as Billy’s hand slowly traveled south, your brother made the unfortunate decision to enter the living room.

“Didn't you say Billy was— Oh, ew!” Adam’s recoiled and turned around, gagging into his hands. The memory was forever going to scar him. He heard gasping and quick steps away, making him shut his eyes in revulsion. “Why are you touching her like that!”

“Adam—“ You try to speak over him, but he just kept going on about all the different things he would never do when he got older and how your parents would totally freak if they were the ones to walk in. How your dad would kill Billy if he ever saw whatever he was doing to you.

He continued to babble and babble, eyes wide in sickness. “Does pa know he touches you like that? He would have a day with Billy! I—“

“Adam, turn your ass back around and head into the kitchen. We’ll be over in a second.” You clamped a hand over his mouth, voice strict and eyes annoyed. Adam nodded swiftly in horror and quickly made his way back into the kitchen, wincing when you shouted again. “And you don’t say a word!”

You turn back around to find Billy standing there with the bouquet, his brows raised in full amusement. He sent you a wink — which you rolled your eyes to before approaching him and his smug face.

“William Bonney.” You stood in front of him and crossed your arms, tapping your foot on the wooden floor like a mother.

He tilted his head to the side and handed you the bouquet again, grinning when you snatch them out of his hands. Billy crossed his own arms — noticing your eyes drift down to his exposed arms. “Eyes up here, sweetheart.”

You scowl and yelp when he pulls you in his arms. Looking up at him, you push a finger to his chest and reprimand him. “Pull a stunt like that again and our shooting lessons will be turned against you.”

“I didn’t think he would walk in here, sweetheart.” He buried his head into your neck and pressed soft kisses to your neck. "I'm sorry,"

“In every universe, I’m sure someone would’ve walked through those doors, Billy.” You mumble and accept his kisses, running your free hand through his brown hair. "Trust me."

Knock Knock Knock

“Come in.” Coriolanus' voice rang out in his office. In the few seconds the door open and shut, he didn't hear the person announce who they were, his jaw ticking in annoyance. He looked up from his paperwork to maybe see an Avox until they softened at the sight of you. You were in the dress he just bought you, making him smirk in satisfaction.

“I brought lunch.” You smile and move to place the tray down on the side table by the small library in the room. "You didn't come down for lunch and I was getting worried."

Coriolanus sighed and ran his fingers through his blonde hair for what seemed like the nth time in one hour. “I needed to finish reading all the paperwork the Districts mailed earlier and I couldn't just discard it in the middle of completion. Even if it's all complaints." His piercing eyes watched as you grabbed a plate and handed it to him before you pulled yourself to sit on top of his desk, careful not to disturb the organized mess of papers. "How are the twins' studies?"

You crossed your legs and play with your rose necklace, watching the white snow coat the trees and ground outside. “Their governesses said they are doing exceptionally well today. Celine’s working on her long division and Lio is working on his poetry; which, by the way, is about you."

He hummed and took a bite out of the steak, his free hand finding your knee and thumbing the skin there. Coriolanus looked over your face, watching you mess with the necklace he got you all those years ago. Even after he offered to buy a new one, you refused to let go of the old one. It was your favorite thing he ever gave you.

Well, besides Celine and Aurelio of course.

"They'll be as smart as their mother in a few years." He glanced over at you, raising his brows when you shake your head, pearly whites peeking through in doubt. "What? You and I were practically tied for the Plinth prize before they changed the stupid rules." You still gave him an unimpressed look. "Have I ever lied to you?"

Your soft smile falters and your eyes darken as old memories resurface. “You really want me to answer that?”

You didn't mean to say that out loud — regretting it instantly and internally wincing when you saw his own eyes darken to the dark azure you knew all too well.

Coriolanus raised his brows at you and carefully stood, full six feet standing in front of you. He firmly grasped your jaw in his hand and tilted your head up to meet his eyes. You hid all fear away, knowing he wouldn't do anything to hurt you after you reduced him into nothing but a mess after leaving him long ago.

“You really want to ruin my day, beautiful? Because I can make this day worse.” Coriolanus murmured as his lips lightly grazed yours — almost daring you to continue.

“Noted.” You murmur back and earn a quick peck to the lips as a reminder that you solely were his before he removed himself from you. You watched him with careful eyes — almost like you were handling a stray cat — and continued to play with your necklace until you saw the storm clear from his eyes.

"Tigris is coming over tonight to fit us for the annual Christmas gala. She wants more leeway in case Celine hates her dress again." Your finger feels for the intricate details of the necklace as you remember the memory of a screaming five-year-old tugging at the dress her aunt took ages to make.

Coriolanus pursed his lips at the thought and shook his head. It was an absolute mess of a day, but luckily Tigris had made a spare dress for her. He pulled your crossed legs to lay across his lap, hand running up and down the space there without any care about the heels digging into his thighs.

“I thought we had a party to attend to tonight?” He tilted his head back and shut his eyes, still contemplating whether or not to even hold a gala this year.

You could feel his emotions radiating off of him. This time of the year was always bad for him, especially when he was already swamped with so much work. Slowly, you move closer to him until he opened his eyes again to find you sitting right in front of him, legs on either side of his.

“It's just Livia's get together, she won't care.” You murmur as your hands find his tie, tugging it ever so slightly. “Besides, tonight's a night.”

He brought his hands up to you waist and dragged you closer until you were sitting on his lap, eyes darkening once more. It was rare for you two to even have a night once a month, but it seemed like this month was going to have more than one.

"I thought we still had a week left." He rested a hand on your thigh, dangerously close to anything underneath your beautiful dress.

You put a hand on his chest and feel the rhythm of his heart, the one you knew loved you despite every obstacle you both faced. “Tigris is taking them afterwards, she wants bonding time with them.”

“A night it is.” Coriolanus murmured and met your lips, smirking when you let out a noise of surprise when he bites your bottom lip. Separating, he places on last kiss to your lips before helping you stand, adjusting your dress until you were decent. “I have a meeting in five minutes, I’ll come find you later.”

“I’m helping with decorating the manor. Again." You complain and adjust the ends of your hair, making sure they were perfect before adjusting Coriolanus' appearance. "The stupid Avoxes don’t know where the garlands go. They go in the same place they always do.”

“So picky, my love.” Coriolanus stood and placed another kiss to your lips, feeling you smile. He placed a few more kisses until you pulled away and rubbed the lipstick off his lips. “You just have to have your way no matter where you are, yeah?”

“Imagine in a different timeline I never got to decorate our house properly. It would be tragic.”

“Tragic indeed.”

When you went to get Alex from his room, you expected him to be ready to leave and just have a wonderful break from the school. But when you got there, he was still sitting at his desk, reading papers his students wrote. You roll your eyes at the man before knocking on the door frame.

“Alex, you realize today is the last day before winter break, yeah?” You give him a weird look from the doorway to his classroom, leaning against the frame.

“I do.” He flips the paper and reads the back, chuckling to himself at the sentences written down.

“Then what are you grading? They were due Wednesday.” You walked over to him and looked over his shoulder, huffing when you realize the papers were being covered by his frame. You waited a second to see if he even realize you were next to him before calling out his name again. “Alex?”

He looked up to the door only to jump back in surprise to see you standing next to him with an annoyed look. “Yeah?”

“If you don’t answer me properly, I will leave you here and decorate our place on my own—" You try to speak again when he looks down at the paper again, making you smack his shoulder with the back of your hand. “Alex Nilsen!”

Alex jumped again and packed away the papers into his messenger bag, standing to pull on his winter coat. “Sorry, done, I’m done.”

“You’re incorrigible.” You cross your arms and stare at him with an unimpressed look. As you watched the sun begin it's descent down, you didn't realize Alex took the opportunity to sneak behind you and press a kiss to your cheek. "Hey!” You whip your head around and send him a startled look before it softened into a joking pout. “That’s unfair. You didn’t even tell me what you were looking at.”

Alex hummed and let you rest your head on his shoulder, swaying side to side softly. “If you really want to know, I was reading letters my students wrote to you.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, pulling away slightly to meet his eyes properly. “To me?”

“Yes, you.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek again and smiled when you gingerly rested your forehead on his cheek. “They love when you come and visit me in the middle of class.” Alex nudged you softly. “Well, that and I stop teaching to talk to you.”

“Surprised you haven’t gotten fired for that yet, Nilsen.” You joke and squeal when he spins you around so your chest was against his, both of you wearing bright smiles.

“Maybe because I’m one of the best English teachers here.” Alex tilted his head to the side and sat down on his desk, letting you slot yourself between his legs. When you scrunched your nose at his comment, he sent you a confused look. “What?”

You shrug and you run your fingers through his hair, the small brown curls soft under your palms. “You have too big of an ego already for me to say.”

“Now you have to tell me.” He took your free hand and traced the lines adorning your palm. He waited for you to say anything, but when you didn’t speak and chose to continue running your fingers through his hair, he became impatient. “Come on.”

“I was going to say that you aren’t wrong. You’re one of the best English teachers in Linfield, Ohio.” You murmured and instantly regretted it when you say his eyes light up and a smirk grace his face. “Alex—“

“Oh, my ego just grew by a million.” He kissed the back of your hand.

“Shut up, I was being nice.” You complain and cover your face before realizing why all his students wrote you letters. “Besides, most of your kids do theater. They all come back to me at the end of the day.”

Alex pauses his teasing, thinking about his roster. “Holy shit, you’re right.”

You laugh softly and move to sit beside him on the desk, lacing your hand with his. You rest your head on his shoulder once more, squeezing his hand before you hear he speak in a much softer, loving tone.

“That may be why they love you so much,” Alex started and thumbed your hand, his warm smile reaching his eyes, crinkling their corners. “But never as much as I love you.”

You perch your chin on his shoulder and smile, blush coating your cheeks “You’re such a sap.”

“That loves you.” He turned his head and pecked your lips over and over and over until you put your hand on his mouth to stop him.

Your eyes brighten with so much love, your smile true to every word you uttered. “Love you too, Nilsen.”

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lucygxybaird · 30 days ago

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12 Days of Christmas - Day 7

You really should have seen this coming.

Your balance has never been good, as proven multiple times over the course of your childhood.

You still have a small scar on your left knee from an accident suffered when you were learning to walk (why your parents let you toddle around on your gravel driveway, you still don’t understand). It took you nearly four months to learn to ride a bike, because you kept falling over every time your dad let go. After your mother enrolled you in a gymnastics class, as a result of you begging for months, she had to take you out again after you first lesson because the balance beam represented such a risk to your safety — and the safety of the other children — that she feared a lawsuit.

Even as an adult, you can’t wear those fluffy slipper socks on stairs for fear of serious injury.

So you really don’t know why you decided to volunteer to hang up the green-and-red streamers over the gymnasium door. Point of fact, you don’t know why you agreed to help decorate at all. You mean well, but you’re not crafty. Every stamp on the Christmas cards you sent out this year were crooked, for God’s sake.

Your only excuse is that you really, really want to fit in at this school. You’ve always wanted to be a teacher, and the high school in East Linfield seems like a good one.

It certainly didn’t help your worries that you started so late in the year, because the previous teacher had moved with his husband to Palm Springs. The kids hadn’t even finished reading A Tale of Two Cities, and here you were trying to fuse your own lesson plan with the one they’d been working on. You were excited and frazzled and anxious all at once, a potent cocktail that meant you had your guard down.

So when another woman in the English department asked if you were free tonight, because they really needed an extra hand decorating the gym for the Winter Snowball, you found yourself smiling and saying, “Sure! I’d love to help out.”

Which is how you find yourself balancing on your tiptoes, on the very top of a stepladder, and you’re so, so close to getting the tinsel where you need it to be. If you could just get it a little bit — you push yourself a smidge higher on your toes, your fingers brush the nail where you’re meant to drape it, and —

There’s a very concerning creak, and you feel rather than see the stepladder slip out from under your feet as it collapses like a house of cards in a wind tunnel. You clutch uselessly, desperately, at the yard of tinsel in your hand as you fall backward, your arms windmilling like that’s going to help you in any way whatsoever.

Bang!

You wish that was the sound of the stepladder hitting the ground, but that flimsy thing couldn’t make so much noise if it was bounced around in a car trunk by a very tiny, very angry gorilla. No, in actuality, it’s the sound of your head smacking against the gym floor hard enough for you to see stars. Which is something you thought was a cliche, but it’s true. Points of light explode behind your eyes, one after the other, like silent fireworks.

When you open your eyes — not that you remember closing them — you see a face hovering over yours, and you realize you aren’t actually on the floor anymore. You’re being cradled in someone’s arms, propped up in their lap. It takes you a few moments to realize that the arms and the face bent over you, concern etched all over it, belong to the same person.

Moments after this realization comes another one.

You know this guy.

“Alex,” you say fuzzily, and his anxious expression melts — momentarily — into a smile.

“That’s right,” he says. “Yeah, I’m Alex. We met last week, remember?”

You do, if only because you’d thought then — as you do now — that he’s very, very cute. “I remember,” you assure him.

He smiles at you again. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna try to get you up now, alright? You ready?”

You nod.

“Okay,” he repeats. “Alright—!”

And then he scoops you up into his arms, standing up with a little grunt of effort, and you clutch at him like you’re holding onto a life preserver in the middle of the ocean. Both your stomach and your vision stage separate revolts, like they’re eighteenth century American colonists and French citizens, respectively. You clutch at Alex’s shoulders for a moment while he looks at you with increasing alarm.

“Are you okay?” he says. “We should get you to the emergency room.”

Your stomach flips all over again at the thought of doctors, not to mention the astronomical bills you’ll have to pay. “No, no, I’m fine,” you assure him. “You can put me down now.”

“Oh—” It seems like he’s forgotten you’re even in his arms. “Oh, yeah, right, of course, sure.”

He sets you down, his hand still on the small of your back. By now, other people are starting to rush over, all of them looking concerned, although you think at least one of them — the woman who asked you to help, for one — might be more worried about how litigious you are than the state of your skull.

“I’m okay,” you tell all of them, a statement which immediately collapses as soon as you try to take a step forward.

The moment that you do, your knees buckle as a wave of dizziness washes over you. Multiple pairs of hands reach for you, but when you’re actually able to focus again, it’s Alex’s face that you see.

“I don’t think you’re okay,” he says, his tone so deadpan that you have to bite on your lower lip to keep from laughing. Maybe he mistakes this for a grimace of pain, because his eyebrows beetle down lower over his eyes as he frowns anxiously. “Really, I think you need to go to the hospital.”

Maybe it’s because you’re too dizzy — and increasingly nauseous — to think straight, or maybe it’s because Alex looks so endearingly concerned, as if you’re more than some coworker he only met a few days ago. As if he really cares.

You cave.

“Okay,” you say. “Yeah, okay.”

Alex lets out a breath as you agree, not so much a sigh of relief as of resignation, as if now he’s gotten one item on his checklist done and he has to move on to another. “Come on,” he says, and he anchors an arm around your waist, supporting you as he leads you toward the gym doors.

From the corner of your eye, you see everyone else just standing there, looking bemused if not helpless. A few of them start drifting back to whatever tasks they were working on before you so elegantly displayed how graceful you are. They all seem perfectly happy to let Alex take care of you, but you can’t fault them for that.

You’re perfectly happy with it, too.

As Alex nudges the doors open with his shoulder, you say, “You’ll stay with me, right?”

The doors swing open to admit the two of you into the hall, and as they bang shut behind you, Alex pauses to look you right in the eye. “Yes,” he says. “Unless somebody with a stethoscope and a degree way beyond my capabilities tells me I can’t.”

You can’t help but smile, and when you do, his face softens again. While he’s looking at you like this, you really have no choice but to revisit the he’s very, very cute idea again. And very tall. Which you suppose isn’t saying much, since you stopped growing when you were around fourteen.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He gives a little bow of his head, a movement that’s oddly formal but nonetheless absolutely adorable. “Of course.”

Alex helps you to his car, tucking you into the passenger seat. “Hold on,” he says, and lopes around to the trunk, which he unlocks — you wonder how old his car is — and then rummages around in.

He returns a few moments later with a first aid kit, which he balances on the dashboard in front of you before popping it open. After a few moments of semi-frantic rummaging, he pulls out a cold compress and gently cups the back of your head, laying the cold compress against the rising knot poking up near your left ear.

“What are you doing?” you mutter, as he takes your hand and puts it against the other end of the compress, before moving his own.

Alex jogs around the hood of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, starting the engine before he answers you. “It’s for the pain,” he says. “And to bring the swelling down.”

“Oh.”

He navigates out of the school parking lot and you tip your head back, pinning the cold compress between your throbbing skull and the headrest.

You reach the center of town without incident, but then —

“Oh my God,” Alex says, and you can’t help a snort-laugh (although you wish you could, because it makes your headache worse).

It’s as close to bumper-to-bumper traffic as a relatively small town is capable of exhibiting. Looking at the sea of cars stretching beyond the windshield, you let out a faint moan. Alex shoots you a worried look from the corner of his eye that you aren’t meant to see, but you do, so you bite your lip.

“Are you okay?” he says. “I mean, do you feel — I don’t know — queasy or anything? Or like you’re going to pass out?”

You consider this. “No,” you say. “My head just hurts. I’ve never had my had squeezed by the Hulk but I’m guessing it would feel pretty similar to this.”

Alex huffs out a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “I don’t think I’m going to throw up in your car.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he says. “I’m worried about you.”

You smile, looking over at him. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t absolutely freak out if I threw up in your car right now?”

The line of cars ahead of you moves forward a few precious feet, and Alex manages to weave his car ahead of a few others. He’s concentrating so much on this maneuver that he doesn’t respond to you at first, but then he admits, “Well…I’d try to keep my freaking out to myself as much as I could.”

“I appreciate that.”

It takes nearly half an hour for the hospital to come into view, and even then, it takes another fifteen to finagle a way into the parking lot. By the time Alex has actually found a spot and parked, you do in fact feel a little queasy.

The whole time, though, Alex keeps asking you questions, probably just trying to keep you awake (although you’re pretty sure you read somewhere the whole “concussed people shouldn’t be allowed to sleepthing” is a myth or something, but still).

Where are you from?

You told him, and he says that he’s been there on a vacation with his best friend. You asked him what he liked best. He said the food, which made you laugh. “Did you go to this place called Justine’s? They have the best friend chicken in the world.”

No, he’d said, and you told him that the two of you would have to go back someday and you’d take him. The words had slipped out before you could stop yourself — this was the first full conversation you’d really had with him, and here you were offering to whisk him away — but Alex had only smiled at you. “That sounds nice,” he’d told you.

He asked you when you realized you wanted to teach — in the sixth grade, when you met an English teacher who encouraged you to write, and you never forgot that — and why you moved to Linfield. You said that it was far enough from home for you to have independence, but not so far that traveling back home would cost an arm and a leg.

You’re pretty sure he’d said, I’m glad you chose this place, but at that point you’d hit a speed bump and an invisible railroad spike had been driven into your skull. By the time Alex had finished apologizing, the moment had passed.

“Okay, here we are,” Alex says, pulling into a space. “Wait for me.”

He hops out and is about to slam his door before he takes a look at your face. Closing the door so carefully it could be made of porcelain, he hustles around the front of the car and opens your door for you, scooping his arm around your waist and helping you to your feet.

“Almost there,” he says encouragingly, his tone suggesting you’re lagging in the final leg of a marathon.

He propels you through a pair of automatic doors and into the waiting room, which is — of course — packed, but fortunately not too packed that you can’t find two chairs together. Alex deposits you in one of them while he hurries to the front desk.

He returns a few moments later with a clipboard loaded with insurance forms, which he looks apologetic about. “I know this seems like a lot,” he says, waving the clipboard around, “but I’ll help you. I’ll write stuff down if you want.”

“Please,” you say.

So he sits next to you, his shoulder bracing yours, and writes down your answers in his careful printing. You smile. “You have really nice handwriting,” you say. “It looks like typography.”

Alex chuckles. “Thank you.”

When all the forms are finally done, you realize your head is on his shoulder. It feels very, very heavy, but you do your best. “Sorry,” you say.

To your surprise, Alex reaches over and puts his hand on your cheek, pushing your head back down. “It’s okay,” he says. “Leave it, if you’re comfortable.”

You are. His shoulder is broad and warm, and with your head nestled there, you catch the faint but distinctive scent of pine. “Okay,” you sigh.

Alex pats your knee gently. “Okay,” he agrees.

The two of you sit in (relative) silence, before you say, “Alex?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you being so nice to me? We barely know each other. You could have just as easily have dropped me off and gone back to your day.”

From the corner of your eye, you see him shake your head. “No,” he says simply. “I couldn’t have. It’s not how I am.”

It’s not the most verbose explanation, but you don’t need one. His words strike you cleanly and easily as true, as if someone has told you the sky is blue or water is wet. You don’t have to look out a window or dunk your head in a lake to know that. Alex just isn’t the sort of person who can turn his back on someone who needs him.

“Thank you, anyway,” you say. “I’m glad we’re getting to know each other, even if I might have lost a few brain cells in the process.”

He chuckles. “I don’t think that’s how that works,” he says. “But me too.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “It was probably just some math brain cells. I was never very god at that, anyway.”

“Two plus two is?”

“Mmm — 22?”

“So close.”

Later, you try to blame it on the fact that your brains have been scrambled around in your skull like the little white flakes in a snow globe; a little while later still, you think it just felt right. It takes you a while to realize you’ve even done it, but eventually, you look down to discover that you’re holing Alex’s hand.

And not lightly, either, but with your palm nestled into his, your fingers laced together. You frown down at this, puzzled. “When did this happen?”

Alex glances down at your linked hands. “I don’t know,” he says, and gives a little shrug, the motion small enough not to jostle your head. “It’s okay.”

And then he squeezes your hand, running his thumb lightly over your knuckles in a way that indicates maybe it’s more than okay.

A voice calls your name, and you reluctantly pick your head up from Alex’s shoulder. “We’re ready for you,” a nurse is saying, and Alex helps you to your feet.

You hop up on the little table-bed thing with its crackly wax paper spread over the top, your feet swinging idly. You catch Alex muffling a smile into his collar, and you smile back at him just as a nurse steps into the room.

By the time you walk out of the doctor’s office, clutching a prescription for pain medication, Alex looks marginally more relaxed. “At least we know you’re okay,” he says, letting out a long breath. “Do you have anyone to check on you?”

“Check on me?”

Alex nods. “You’re supposed to check on someone with a concussion to make sure they’re breathing normally,” he says.

You blanch. “Is that unlikely? That I’d be breathing normally?”

At once, consternation washes over Alex’s face. “No, no, no,” he says quickly. “No. It’s just…I mean, they say it’s okay to check on someone with a concussion, to make sure — you know — but — I mean, I guess…I’m — I feel like it’s better safe than sorry, and I don’t want…”

You smile, mostly to reassure him but also because it’s adorable, the way he’s babbling, trying to comfort you. “Alex, if you’re trying to invite yourself over, you can always just ask.”

He smiles back at you. “Can I come over?”

“Sure.”

You direct him to your apartment, and he insists on helping you up the stairs, like you’re a feeble little grandma whose hip will shatter if she lifts her foot at the wrong angle. When you let the two of you into your apartment, Alex asks where your linen closet is.

“I’m not a middle-aged woman with a collection of needlepoint throw pillows,” you say. “I don’t have a linen closet.”

“Okay, so where you do you keep your extra blankets?”

You tell him you keep them in a storage ottoman at the foot of your bed, and he says, “Oh, a linen closet is too old for you, but a storage ottoman is the peak of youth culture?”

“Did you ask just to make fun of me?”

“No.” He nudges you toward your own couch. “Sit.”

So you do, and you turn on the TV, flipping through your streaming services until you just pick something and try to find a show or movie that you both might like. Which is difficult because you have no idea the sort of thing Alex likes to watch, so you settle on a docuseries about the Love Has Won cult. Doesn’t everybody find that fascinating? At least in the “can’t look away from a car wreck” kind of way?

You look up to find Alex carrying a couple of blankets and a pillow, all of which he tucks around you until you’re shaped rather like the Michelin man. He settles down beside you and raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t this the Mother God woman?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” He wriggles his shoulders until he’s more comfortable beside you. “Interesting. Good pick.”

You find yourself smiling way bigger over that little sliver of approbation than you probably should.

When the show is over, the streaming service offers up similar choices, and you let Alex pick. It’s another multi-episode show, which takes you four hours further on, and then he lets you pick the next.

By the time that one is over, it’s pitch black outside, and you hesitate. “Don’t you have to get home?”

You don’t want him to leave.

“No,” he says. “My cat has an automatic feeder. She’ll be okay without me until morning. Actually, she’ll probably appreciate the solitude.”

“What’s her name?”

“Flannery O’Connor.”

You hum softly. After a moment of hesitation, you put your head back on his shoulder. “Well, she was wrong,” you say.

“Who?”

“Flannery. A good man isn’t hard to find.”

You think there’s a smile in his voice. “No?”

“No,” you say. “I found one right here.”

The two of you sit in companionable silence for a moment, watching a former cult member detail how she had to change her name to Aurora and give up all her credit cards. After a few moments, Alex’s hand finds yours again.

“Do you have plans for New Year’s?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you say.

“Would you like some?”

You smile. “Yes.”

A pause, and then he says: “With me?”

You laugh. “Yes, Alex.”

His fingers tighten briefly around yours. “Good,” he says.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the possibility of a New Year’s kiss. You certainly are. When you flit a glance up to Alex’s face, he’s already looking at you.

Judging by the look in his eyes, you don’t have to wonder if he’s thinking about kissing you at midnight on the last day of the year.

He definitely is.

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