#get it. on the fence about making this. on the fence

[pbaz7]

ONE SHOT: EXIT 42

paige x azzi

summary: when the lights and attention is too much, after the season ends Azzi leaves the city searching for solitude. somehow she finds herself in the middle of nowhere at a farmhouse where there’s a country girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.

word count: 18.5k

a/n: truly have no idea how this came about. i just started writing to see where it took me and it turned into this. this is probably the longest thing i’ve ever written so please let me know what you think!

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The W season ended with more of a numb static than any celebration. There was no playoff berth, just an almost instant dissolve into nothingness when the arena lights dimmed and the interviewers thinned out of the media room. Azzi had shaken every hand, signed every last Sharpie-blotted jersey, posed happily with every baby that had on Wings blue. Then, finally, she'd slipped out the back of the arena, into a waiting black SUV, her smile left on the court floor like her sweat for the season.

Now, three hours into her solo drive across Texas, Azzi was down to just one thing, silence. No podcasts. No calls. No playlist of affirmations her manager had made her for game days. Just the warm wind sneaking in through the cracked window and the sound of her custom light pink coupe, flying down the back roads.

She traded in her uniform for a Levi skirt and a white tank top. Her curls were pulled back, aviators shielding her tired eyes from the sun. Azzi still had her stacked gold necklaces and rings on; a compromise of sorts for her laid back outfit. Even the way she gripped the wheel as she drove looked like it belonged in an editorial.

The car's black rims gleamed through the heatwave. Somewhere an hour outside of Waco, the sun was getting lower making Azzi squint through the windshield. Her phone lost signal some time ago, no bars. All she knew was she was supposed to be on this road for quite a while.

But then of course the sputtering started. A few, ominous sounds from the engine before her beautiful car lurched. Stammering forward like a ballerina with a rolled ankle.

“Please no,” she said out loud, but the car jerked again smoke coming from the hood.

Up ahead, past a beautiful wooden fence and rows of trees, a large farmhouse rested. It seemed quiet, a little weatherworn, with a wraparound porch and a barn nestled near it.

There was no driveway Azzi could really make out, just a worn-down path of packed grass and the suggestion of tire tracks. Azzi followed it, rolling her pink coupe forward praying that she would make it.

“Okay, okay,” she whispered, trying to coax it towards the farm house. “Just get me there.”

The car moved up the small slope and coasted to a stop in front of the porch when she pressed on the brakes. Azzi killed the engine, sat there in the car for a second, letting the silence sink into the unfortunate moment.

Please don’t be a horror movie, she thought, reaching for her phone. Please don’t be a serial killer. Please just be normal.

She opened the car door and stepped out into the heat. Somewhere in the house she heard a dog bark a few times before it fell quiet like it got distracted by something else.

The porch stairs creaked under Azzi’s weight and the front door of the home was already open, only a thin screen door keeping the house separate from the world. A German shepherd was lying inside the screen door and it rose as soon as Azzi approached. The dog didn’t seem aggressive; it didn’t growl or bark like the one she heard a few seconds prior. It just watched her with intelligent eyes, head tilting to the side slightly as it analyzed her presence.

Azzi stopped on the steps, adjusted her sunglasses to rest on top of her head, then slowly made her way up. Her hand hovered for a second wondering if this was the best decision before she just pressed the doorbell to get it over with.

From somewhere deeper in the house Azzi heard the sound of a collar; loose metal hitting against itself as another dog approached the door. A golden retriever appeared behind the german shepherd, wagging its tail with his tongue out.

After a few more seconds a figure stepped into the doorway.

The woman looked like she was in her early twenties like Azzi. She had blonde hair that was twisted back into a messy bun like she'd done it without a mirror. She was a few inches taller than Azzi, with strong shoulders and sun tanned skin. Her overalls hung on her waist, the straps undone from her shoulders and swinging gently against the sides of a white tank top. There was a smudge of dirt across one knee of the overalls.

The woman’s eyes drifted down and back up, taking in Azzi’s presence: the pink car, the expensive jewelry, the athletic build, the unmistakable energy of someone who absolutely did not belong where they were. She didn’t do it in a judgmental way, it was more so her trying to piece together the situation at hand

Azzi felt herself swallow under the gaze of the woman’s blue eyes. All of a sudden her throat felt kind of dry and she was cautious of the movement of her throat that had nothing to do with thirst.

The woman finally spoke, easing Azzi’s anxiety a little. “You doin’ ok sweetheart?”

Azzi shifted on her feet before offering an apologetic smile. “I’m really sorry to bother you,” she said, keeping her voice softer than usual. “Something’s wrong with my car, and I don’t have a single bar of service. Your place was the only sign of life I’ve seen in a while, so…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely back toward her car like it might explain the whole situation.

The blonde pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. The golden retriever immediately trotted past her, his tail wagging as he gave Azzi a few eager nudges, brushing up against her legs before running off toward the open field.

The German shepherd didn’t move from inside the house until the woman gave it the go ahead with a slight movement in her hand.

The blonde looked toward the car, then pointed at it. “Let’s see it.”

Azzi nodded, falling into step next to her as they walked toward the pink coupe. Heat shimmered off the hood and when the woman popped it open, a coil of smoke hissed out, curling into the air. She stepped back not even peering into the mechanical mess yet to not burn herself. “Gotta let it cool down before I can look at it for you,” she said, wiping her hands on her overalls.

Azzi nodded.

The woman made sure the hood was propped open to accelerate the cooling down process before she turned toward Azzi. “Come inside. I can get you some water and a phone.”

Azzi didn’t move despite the invitation. Her weight shifted between her feet, the movement almost imperceptible but the blonde caught it. “Or,” she said, with a small half-smile, “you can sit on the porch and I’ll bring it out to you, sweetheart.”

Azzi’s mouth formed a polite, grateful smile. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

The woman gave Azzi a polite nod, like it was no problem at all before she turned back toward the house. Just before she stepped back into the house she glanced over her shoulder and looked around at the open land before she snapped her fingers once, then nodded toward Azzi.

The German shepherd responded by trotting over to Azzi’s side, standing next to her calmly.

Azzi looked down at the dog, then up at the porch, sunlight catching in the blonde woman’s hair as she stepped into the house.

Azzi walked up to the porch sitting down on a wooden swing bench, the wood warm against her thighs. The German shepherd followed her before settling at her feet, fixing its gaze on the property scanning for anything unusual.

The porch creaked with the breeze and Azzi let her shoulders fall as she took in the beautiful view. For once not being surrounded by city buildings, loud cars, and light pollution.

A minute or two passed quietly before the screen door creaked open again. The blonde woman stepped out with a glass of ice water in one hand and a phone in the other. She crossed the porch and handed them both to Azzi without saying much.

Azzi accepted them with a genuine smile before saying, “Thank you.” She stared at the phone for a few seconds, her thumb hovering over the screen before she dialed one of the only numbers she actually had memorized. It rang twice before someone on the other line picked up.

“Hey, Mom. It’s Azzi.”

The dog looked up from her feet at the sound of Azzi’s voice as the woman leaned against the porch railing a few feet away watching her other dog run around chasing a bird.

Azzi kept her conversation with her mom brief. Just enough to say that she was okay, had car trouble and that she just wanted someone to know where she was after asking the woman where they were exactly. Azzi promised to call again once she figured things out, then ended the call and handed the phone back.

“Thank you again,” she said, passing the phone back to the stranger. She accepted it and gave her a crooked charming smile. “Azzi’s a beautiful name. Never heard it before.”

Azzi looked over at her, the compliment disarming her with its sincerity. “Thank you,” she said. “You have one you wanna share?”

The woman grinned, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “Excuse my manners. Don’t get many visitors out here.” She reached out one of her hand’s. It was slightly calloused from farm work but warm. “Paige.”

Azzi shook it, her soft hand wrapping around the woman’s. “Nice to meet you Paige.”

Their hands dropped, and the air held a quiet pause between the two strangers as Paige stepped away.

Azzi looked out toward the land. It was wide open, golden with the last stretch of sun, the sky painting itself in layers of soft fire orange mixed with blue and purple smoke. She had never seen the sky look so natural. The golden retriever who darted across the yard again aimlessly in a blur of joy caught Azzi’s eye.

There was nothing but nature out here. No ads. No cameras. No down to the wire schedules that made Azzi want to pull her hair out or lights beaming down at her to perform perfectly.

It was just a serene quietness that she wasn’t used to.

As the silence stretched between them it wasn’t exactly tense but for Azzi it was unfamiliar, making her skin crawl; she didn’t know how to be quiet and sit still anymore. So she sipped her water and traced her eyes over the endless line where the land met the sky.

The golden retriever came running back towards the house with a tennis ball held between its teeth. It dropped the ball right in front of Paige and looked up at her panting with its tongue out.

Paige chuckled, rubbing behind the dog's ears. “Well, alright then.” She picked up the ball before she launched it toward the open field.

Both dogs took off immediately, their big paws kicking up small clouds of dust as they ran. Azzi couldn’t help it when she smiled. It was one of her genuine, caught-off-guard ones that made the skin around her eyes soften and crinkle.

“It’s nice out here,” she offered. Finally, speaking to the stranger.

Paige glanced sideways at her. “Where ya from?”

Azzi tilted her head, her natural charm when interacting with people floating up. “What makes you think I’m not from here?”

Paige grinned, leaning back against the porch post. “No accent.”

Azzi laughed, making one of her dimples pop. “I’ve only been in Texas for about half a year,” she said.

Paige nodded. “So you’re still in the judging our sweet tea and figurin out if you prefer BBQ or Tex Mex phase.”

“I’m adjusting,” Azzi teased.

“Better learn to love pecan pie, too. Elders get real protective about that there.”

Azzi grinned as she took a sip of her water, the coldness a nice contrast to the heat against her lips. “Have you always lived in Texas?”

Paige looked out over the field, her sensitive eyes squinting against the fading sun. “Pretty much. Grew up in the city and I inherited this place. Figured I’d give peace and quiet in the country a try.”

Azzi nodded, the porch swing creaking slightly when she shifted. “Does it live up to the hype?”

“Some days,” Paige said. “Others, make ya realize you haven't used your voice in days.”

Azzi let the words how nice the words sounded sink into her psyche as her eyes scanned the horizon. “That sounds kind of amazing.”

The two of them watched the dogs run around. The golden retriever was still darting across the yard in wide, goofy routes, the shepherd shadowing him like a quiet older sibling, in more of a controlled manner as they played with one another.

A few more minutes passed in silence before Paige pushed herself to her feet, brushing her palms against her thighs. “Alright,” she said, her voice stretching a little as she straightened, “let me take a look at this for ya.”

She moved toward the pink coupe and Azzi followed her even though Azzi knew she had zero useful knowledge to offer the woman.

“Start it for me darlin,” Paige said after looking down at the hood for a few minutes.

Azzi moved around to the driver’s side and slid in, pressing the ignition button. The engine sputtered to life easily.

Paige leaned forward, squinting into the maze of metal, using the flashlight from her phone to peer down at everything as the car hummed. “You can shut it off.”

Paige straightened up from the hood and wiped her hands on the rag she kept in her back pocket. “You need a new water pump,” she said, pointing to the semi soaked center of the car. “Coolant’s leaking. That’s why she was running hot when ya got here.”

Azzi nodded as if she knew what any of that meant. “Right the water pump.” She tilted her head, lips quirking as she looked at Paige. “That’s bad?”

“Not the worst,” Paige said, her eyes drifting to meet Azzi’s. “I can fix it.”

Azzi’s shoulders relaxed by an inch.

“But bad news…” Paige offered an apologetic smile. “The auto shop in town doesn’t open again ’til Monday mornin.”

Azzi blinked. “It’s Saturday.”

Paige nodded. “’Fraid so.”

Azzi looked around at the dogs tumbling back toward them in the dusky light, and then back at Paige. It was quiet and the sun had almost dipped completely below the horizon. She felt like a flicker of inconvenience in the middle of what was clearly a peaceful life.

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” Paige offered. “Got a few guest rooms. They’re not too fancy, but the sheets are clean and the doors lock.”

Azzi hesitated, her usual instinct to be polite and unobtrusive kicking in. “I really don’t want to intrude. I can probably find a hotel not too far—”

Paige shook her head smiling at Azzi as the last of the light caught in her blue eyes, making them glow a little brighter as she grinned. “It’s really no problem, darlin’. I promise.”

That darlin’ curled around Azzi’s ribs in an unexpected way. It wasn’t flirtatious or performative. It just flowed off of the woman’s lips naturally, the way kindness should sound. Azzi could tell Paige wasn’t trying to impress her; she just meant it.

Maybe it was the Southern charm of the gorgeous woman, or maybe it was the exhaustion catching up to her, but Azzi gave a small smile as she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Paige gave a satisfied nod before she turned toward the yard and let out a whistle. Both dogs perked up and turned on a dime and bolted toward the porch. “C’mon, boys. In you go.”

The golden retriever sprinted past them, his tail a metronome of happiness. While the german shepherd followed at a more regal pace, brushing past Paige’s leg.

As they stepped into the house, Paige’s voice changed. She made it kinder than she’d already been somehow. “You can leave your shoes by the door if you’d like, no pressure though. Floors are clean, but I won’t fuss if you track in a little dirt.”

Azzi stepped out of her shoes easily wanting to be respectful.

Paige moved ahead of her, switching on a low lamp that warmed the entryway in honey-colored light. The air smelled like a mixture of cedar and vanilla. Everything about the interior of the house, the hardwood floors, the framed photos on the wall, the slowness, and the lived-in ease of it made the place feel like it had been here since the beginning of time.

“You hungry?” Paige asked gently, glancing over her shoulder as she moved toward the kitchen. “I’ve got leftover chili, or I can throw together something light if you’re not up for real food.”

Azzi shook her head, still taking everything in. “Leftovers sound amazing.”

“Help yourself to the fridge if you need anything at any point,” Paige added. “One of the bathroom’s just down that hallway to the left, and I’ll show you the guest rooms once we get you fed.”

There was something about the way she said it — we’ll get you fed — like this wasn’t a favor, like it was just what you do when someone’s at your door and needs a place to land.

Azzi once again felt something loosen in her chest at the kindness of the stranger. “Thanks,” she said for what felt like the tenth time, but the genuineness was still there.

Azzi settled at the kitchen table, resting her elbows on the worn solid tree wood. She could tell the table held a lot. Conversations, coffee rings, old and new grief, elbows of different generations. The chairs didn’t match, exactly, but they belonged together and some of them were engraved. The light above the table was a kind of yellow that made you look a little kinder than you did in the mirror.

She watched as Paige moved around the kitchen fluidly, like she’d danced the same pattern a hundred times. She pulled a container from the fridge and scooped chili into a pot, setting it gently on the stove and covering it with a lid to warm it up. Everything she did was quiet somehow, no clattered pans or cabinets being loudly shut.

“What do you do?” Paige asked, trying to make conversation.

The words pulled Azzi from her thoughts. Her eyes had been tracing the veins on Paige's arms and the calluses on her hands.

Paige glanced over her shoulder when she didn’t hear an answer.

Azzi deflected the question with one of her own. “What do you do?”

There was a brief pause when Paige noticed the deflection but she didn’t push it. She crossed the room and pulled out the chair across from Azzi, and sat down, resting her forearms on the table. “Spend the beginning of most my days on the farm,” she said, her accent like warm honey against Azzi’s ears. “Feeding the animals, checking fences, fixing things that fall apart overnight just for the hell of it.”

Paige shrugged like it wasn’t all that remarkable. “Go out to the auto shop sometimes if they’re short-handed. Make sure the elders around here are looked after. Groceries, rides, stuff like that.”

Azzi blinked. “That’s really nice of you.”

Paige gave her a half-smile. “Out here, it’s just life. Everyone’s gotta take care of somebody.”

Azzi didn’t know how to reply to that. Her life, the constant schedule, the sponsors, the city lights that only turned off if the power did, didn’t make space for that kind of simplicity or sincerity.

Instead she looked around the kitchen. It was clean, but not curated like most modern houses were these days. There were mugs stacked near the sink, a chipped ceramic rooster on the windowsill, a cast iron skillet resting on the stove. The wallpaper was a little faded at the corners and a radio sat tucked between two cookbooks.

Paige was still sitting across from her in her undone overalls, her tank top was clinging slightly to her skin from the Texas heat and being in the kitchen and a few stray strands of her blonde hair were loose from the bun as she looked completely at home in it all.

Azzi found herself studying the angles of her face. The curve of her nose and the pinkness of her lips. The way she didn’t seem to need to fill the silence with unfruitful words.

“Out here…” Azzi said quietly, like the words had slipped out without permission. “It seems different already.”

Paige leaned back in her chair. “Different from what?”

Azzi paused, searching for something that didn’t sound dramatic or obvious but ultimately failing. “Everything.”

Paige nodded like she understood what Azzi meant without needing to know the details. “Well,” she said gently, “sometimes different’s exactly what you need after bein’ in the city.”

Azzi nodded, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the glass Paige handed her earlier.

The golden retriever trotted into the kitchen. He had his tongue out as he stopped in front of Azzi, tail wagging with hopefulness of head scratches from the stranger.

Azzi smiled at him, reaching to scratch behind his ears, her hand moving automatically like it was a routine her body remembered better than her mind did. “What’s his name?”

Paige glanced down at him, her smile growing as she watched him push closer to Azzi. “That’s Beau. He likes to pretend he don’t like attention, but he lives for it.”

“And the other one?” Azzi asked, referring to the other dog that was most likely mulling around in the living room.

“Out there’s Stew.”

Azzi looked up at Paige in surprise, her smile blooming wide. “I have a dog named Stewie.”

Paige let out a laugh. “Stewie, huh?”

Azzi nodded, still scratching Beau’s ears as the dog leaned into her palm.

Paige stood and walked to the sink, washing her hands before she pulled two bowls from the cabinet. She ladled chili into the bowls and added wedges of warm cornbread that looked like it’d been made earlier that day. Perfectly golden, crumbed on top of the chili, still smelling faintly of butter and cornmeal after being warmed.

Azzi stood up too, slipping past Beau to wash her hands. The warm water ran through her fingers and she moved slower than usual. When she returned to the table, Paige was already sitting in her seat, one bowl in front of her and one pushed forward in offering. Azzi sat back down and said, “Thank you,” before picking up the spoon.

She took her first bite a little slowly, testing out the taste just in case. But the second the spoon touched her tongue, her eyes fluttered shut for just a second. The warmth of the chili spread through her chest like a cherry blossom in peak spring causing her to let out an involuntary hum.

Paige laughed, leaning back in her chair, her own bowl untouched for the time being. “Good?”

Azzi opened her eyes, unable to stop the smile forming on her face. “I probably haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t made with the exact nutritional breakdown in mind in...months. This is amazing.”

Paige grinned. “Well, this one’s full of beef, beans, and butter. So if that’s a crime where you’re from, I’ll plead guilty now.”

Azzi laughed as she went to dip her spoon back in.

“Eat up,” Paige said. “Plan on showin’ you what farm life’s like tomorrow.”

Azzi looked up and arched one eyebrow. “That sounds a little worrisome.”

Paige grinned as she started to eat, the natural charm in her ambience radiating off of her. “Only if you’re scared of a little dirt.”

Azzi shook her head, smiling into her bowl as she took another bite.

After dinner was over, Azzi reached for her bowl and stacked Paige’s on top of it before trying to get up to head toward the sink.

Paige stopped her halfway, putting her hand lightly on Azzi’s forearm.

“I know you’re not tryin’ to do dishes as a guest in my home,” she said, her voice all soft topped with a charming smile.

Azzi opened her mouth, but Paige was already taking the bowls from her hands, her southern hospitality slipping back into gear like muscle memory. “Go take your shower, darlin’. You’re a guest, not a line cook.”

Azzi hesitated. Something about being taken care of without offering anything in return always made her pause, like her body didn’t know how to relax unless it specifically knew what it had to give in return. Seeing Paige’s genuine smile as she took the bowls from Azzi’s hand made her give in, once again offering a, “Thank you,” before she headed down the hall.

The bathroom was the perfect size and it carried a floral scent that Azzi couldn’t put her finger on. There was a natural homemade lavender soap bar in a ceramic dish and neatly folded towels that Paige set out.

The hot water hit her shoulders and she instantly let out a sigh of relief she didn’t want to admit she needed. Azzi closed her eyes and let the water just run over her skin for a long while with her head tilted down, her curls cascading down her back as the steam curled against her.

When she stepped out she wrapped herself in the soft towel and her limbs already felt looser than they had in weeks. She padded a few steps barefoot towards the room she picked for herself to stay in.

The door was already open and Paige was inside finishing up putting fresh sheets and blankets over the mattress, smoothing the last one out with one hand. The German shepherd was curled on the floor near the corner in his dog bed with his chin resting on his paws.

Azzi paused in the doorway.

The bed was dressed in fresh white sheets and a soft, faded blue blanket layered underneath a knitted blanket. Paige stepped back to check the corners, one of her overall straps now actually secured over her shoulder while the other one stayed loose. She looked up when she saw Azzi and smiled.

“All yours,” she said, tucking one of the edges one more time.

Azzi watched her for a moment, not in awe or anything like that, ok maybe a little, but more so in that quiet wonder that rises when someone does something kind without asking for credit. It wasn’t performative or about being seen as some savior, it was just…Paige. She had shown Azzi more kindness in a few hours than some of the people who’d been in her life for months.

“I’ll let you settle in,” Paige said, her voice dipping into that Southern lilt that always made everything feel like it was going to be ok. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

She snapped her fingers once, gently, and the shepherd lifted his head to look at her. “Stay,” Paige told him, nodding once toward Azzi.

The shepherd let out a huff of air and lowered his head again, settling deeper into the big dog bed tucked against the wall.

Paige reached for the door handle and turned the lock from the inside before glancing back at Azzi. “Some folks sleep easier knowin’ the door’s locked,” she said.

“Thank you,” Azzi said, giving her a soft smile.

Paige gave her a nod before she stepped out and pulled the door softly shut behind her.

Azzi was standing next to the bed, her towel still wrapped around her, skin still warm from the shower. She looked at the dog, already dozing off with this toy tucked under him. She looked at the bed that was freshly made just for her and then she just stood there a minute longer. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what to do next, it was just that for the first time in a while, there was no pressure to decide right away.

…

The next day Azzi woke up without an alarm for the first time in almost a year. Her phone wasn’t buzzing and there weren’t any blinking reminders filling her notifications. Just the quietness of the house and sunlight easing its way through the linen curtains, brushing over the bed.

She blinked slowly, slightly disoriented as her body tried to figure out if it was okay to feel rested.

The room was completely still. In the corner Stew was lying exactly where she’d last seen him, with his chin propped on what looked like a soft, worn plush toy shaped like a duck. His eyes were open as he looked up at her and somehow his posture was relaxed and alert at the same time.

"Morning Stew," she whispered, her voice a little raspy from her sleep.

She pushed herself up, letting her feet settle against the warm wooden floor. After freshening up and doing her hair Azzi changed into something comfortable — lulu joggers and a thin tank top — she padded into the hallway. The soft sound of her footsteps were followed by Stew’s heavier gait and his collar echoing around the house.

The house smelled faintly like coffee and Azzi knew some of the windows were open because she heard birds chirping from different angles. It was a morning song that didn’t exist in Azzi’s usual life because she was surrounded by traffic and smog.

She wandered through the house, half-curious, half-lost in how big it actually was. It wasn’t until Stew picked up pace, his tail swaying a little more eagerly, that she followed him toward the screen door.

Outside, Paige was sitting on the porch steps with a mug in one of her hands. She hadn’t seen Azzi yet, but the second Stew came barreling out into the yard, she spoke without turning her head. “Mornin’.”

Azzi smiled, stopping just shy of the top step, watching the two dogs tumble through the grass.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice a little softer than it was yesterday when she arrived, her eyes still adjusting to how wide open the sky looked out here.

She let her gaze drift past the yard to the line of trees that stretched like a straight spine across the horizon, to the fields highlighted in the morning sun, to the faint sound of something in the distance: it sounded like maybe a tractor.

She stepped closer, careful not to move too fast and interrupt the moment before she glanced down at the mug in Paige’s hands. “Coffee or tea?”

Paige turned her head to look up at her. “Coffee,” she said. “But I promise to not to judge you if you’re one of those green tea types.”

Azzi laughed under her breath and took a seat beside her, the porch wood holding the warmth of the mornin sun.

“No judgment necessary,” she said. “I just forgot what a slow morning feels like.”

Paige sipped from her mug, her gaze on the dogs as they rolled around together. “Well,” she said, “you’re in the right place for it.”

As Azzi sat next to Paige, their shoulders brushed before Azzi settled fully. They weren’t touching but they were close enough that the warmth between them would’ve been shared if either of them leaned slightly to the side.

Azzi toyed with the bottom of her shirt as she scanned the horizon like she was trying to read something written in between the tree lines. It was so weird for her to be in a setting that held no expectations and after a moment of not being able to sit in silence anymore she quietly spoke. “My days usually start around five,” she said, not looking at Paige. “Then it’s just...nonstop work. My schedule is built down to the second. If I’m lucky, on some days I get an hour to myself before I fall asleep and do it all again the next day.”

Paige didn’t say anything, just nodded along.

Azzi let out a deep breath before she kept going. “People talk to me a lot about what I should do, what I should wear, how I should act, who I should be. Smile more but not too much because people still need to take me seriously. Be more down to earth but don’t share everything about myself. Say less. Say something more inspiring.” Her voice curled at the edges of the last word like it tasted sour on her tongue.

She glanced sideways and found Paige already watching her with curiosity that made space for Azzi to speak freely.

“I get it. It’s part of my job and I’m so grateful,” Azzi added quickly, like she’d rehearsed that line a thousand times before. “I know what I signed up for.”

Paige took a sip from her mug. “Don’t mean it ain’t heavy sweetheart.”

Something about how simply Paige said that made Azzi smile a little. Like the truth could just...be, without needing to be dressed up.

“I guess I just forgot what it feels like to be quiet. To wake up and not already feel behind about things I have no idea about.”

The dogs came sprinting back in front of them, Beau with a stick way too long for his mouth, as Stew chased after him trying to get it for himself.

“Have you ever liked the noise?” Paige asked curiously.

Azzi thought about it before saying, “Maybe at one point, but lately I think I’ve been craving silence more than anything else.”

Paige hummed in understanding, her eyes following the dogs until she couldn’t see them anymore. “Well,” she said after a few seconds, “you’re welcome to as much silence as you need. We’ve got plenty of it round here.”

“That sounds amazing...but a little scary at the same time.”

Paige grinned. “Only if you’re the type who gets addicted to stillness.”

Azzi tilted her head just enough for a strand of hair to fall loose against her cheek. “Maybe I am.”

Paige grinned to herself subtly, like she’d caught the tail end of Azzi’s flirtation and tucked it somewhere for later.

“You hungry?”

Azzi stretched her arms above her head causing her shirt to ride up slightly. “I could eat.”

Paige stood up and put her mug on the porch railing, she then tipped her chin toward the side of the house. “Come on, then. Gonna show you where breakfast starts.”

Azzi followed her, the cool blades of grass brushing against her ankles as they walked. Stew trailed close behind them while Beau wandered off in pursuit of something rustling in the bushes.

They rounded the side of the house, past a rust-colored watering hose, until a shed came into view. The air smelled like hay and something faintly vanilla sweet, maybe clover drying in the sun.

Azzi slowed down when she realized where they were heading. “Wait…chickens?” she said a little hesitantly, both of her eyebrows raising.

Paige looked back at her with a smile. “Where’d you think eggs came from? Trader Joe’s?”

Azzi laughed under her breath, a little surprised at herself. “I guess I’ve just never met my breakfast before.”

“Well,” Paige said, swinging open the door with one hand, “they’ve been dying to meet you.”

The chickens clucked and moved around the enclosure like they owned the place. Which, by all appearances, they did. Paige stepped inside first, grabbing a wicker basket off a nearby hook.

“Here darlin,” she said, handing it to Azzi. “Gentle hands. Don’t squeeze or drop the eggs. They’ll hold grudges if you waste em.”

Azzi took the basket a little awkwardly, her stance a mixture between curious and cautious.

“You’re joking,” she said.

“Am I?” Paige responded, trying to be deadpan, but her mouth was already twitching into a grin.

Azzi moved through the enclosure slowly, watching as Paige reached into one of the nesting boxes and came back with two brown eggs cupped in her palm.

“Just like that,” Paige said, stepping aside to let Azzi try.

Azzi leaned in tentatively and one of the hens gave her a quick side-eye but didn’t move. With a careful, and painfully slow reach, Azzi managed to pick up an egg and place it in the basket. A large smile overtook her face.

“Not bad, city girl.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Azzi said, a little smugly, showing off her playful side.

But of course the world needed to keep balance and without warning, one of the smaller chickens shot across the coop floor in a blur charging directly at Azzi’s feet.

Azzi jumped back with a loud screech, almost dropping the basket.

Paige let out a low laugh, causing her chest to vibrate. “She likes to test folks every mornin,” she said, walking over and shooing the chicken away with her boot. “Power trip, mostly.”

Azzi looked down at the basket, checking that none of the eggs had cracked. “I feel like I just failed a very specific interview.”

Paige grinned as she took the basket from her. “Nah. She only goes for the pretty ones.”

Azzi blinked at that, and then glanced away, hiding the smile that bloomed warmly across her face.

Paige grabbed the rest of the eggs before she set them gently to the side and picked up a tin bucket of feed. “Alright,” she said. “Now we earn it and say thank you.”

Azzi followed her to the other end of the enclosure, watching as Paige scattered grain, the chickens swarming in quickly.

“You want a turn?”

Azzi nodded and took the bucket, laughing as a few of the bolder hens followed every step she took.

There was something simple and satisfying about doing this first thing in the morning. The light movement, the sun cascading in, the rhythmic cluck of chickens going about their business like the world around them wasn’t on fire.

By the time they were finished with the chickens, Azzi’s shoes were a little dusty and her shoulders were surprisingly still light.

Back inside, the coolness of the house was a nice contrast to the heat outside.Paige was washing her hands at the kitchen sink with her sleeves pushed to her elbows, the sound of running water mixed with the sound of birds outside. Azzi lingered by the table, glancing at the radio between cookbooks, silently wondering if it even worked.

“You want help?” Azzi asked.

Paige reached for a pan without looking at Azzi. “No, I'd like for you to just sit there and look pretty.”

Azzi’s dimple popped and she didn’t even bother to pretend she was offended. She slid into one of the chairs and propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hand as she watched Paige move around the kitchen.

Their conversation meandered easily through small things. The weather, the names of the chickens. A story about the time Beau got muddy from being stuck under the porch trying to chase a frog in the rain.

Eventually Paige turned around from the stove and placed a plate gently in front of Azzi.

Fresh soft eggs with the kind of scramble that comes from someone who knows how to be patient and cook them to their full potential. A slice of toast was slathered with a deep red jam that smelled like the personification of summer. There was a side of sliced avocado and a small bowl of fruit filled with peaches, blueberries, and slices of something green and unfamiliar but sweet.

Azzi blinked at the meal like it was too beautiful to eat. “Thank you,” she said, quieter than she was speaking before.

Paige wiped her hands on a towel and glanced down. “How you take your coffee?”

“Just a little cream.”

Paige nodded and poured from the pot into a ceramic mug, adding a splash of cream before she placed it in front of Azzi and finally sat down across from her.

Azzi took a sip of her coffee first, the warmth settling deeper than just her chest.

The first bite of eggs was soft, buttery, somehow both delicate and rich. The jam on the toast was the perfect mixture of sweetness and tart, bright, like someone bottled a family memory and spread it across warm bread. Even the fruit tastes different; less like it had come from a store and more like it had been chosen only when it reached its pristine ripeness.

Paige watched her with a small grin on her face. “Alright?” she asked.

Azzi nodded as she finished swallowing. “It’s not fair,” she said, almost to herself.

Paige raised her eyebrow. “What’s not?”

“That everything here tastes like it was literally pulled from the earth before you put it on my plate.”

Paige smiled crookedly, the apples of her cheeks growing. “That’s ’cause it was.”

Azzi looked out the window, past the frame and into the light slipping through the trees. She didn’t know how to describe how at ease she felt, how good it felt to be actively present in her day.

They ate in a comfortable silence. Azzi didn’t feel the need to fill the space with pleasantries or small talk and unlike most people Paige didn’t ask for anything more than her presence.

When they were done, Paige gathered both plates without asking, rinsing them in the sink with the same calmness she did everything else.

Azzi leaned back in the chair with her coffee cupped between her hands. Her eyes were wandering along the quiet patterns of the room. She watched the sway of a curtain near the window, looked at a sun faded picture tucked in the corner of another framed picture, and listened to the dogs still running around freely outside.

Paige turned around, drying her hands on a towel, and let her eyes rest on Azzi as she looked around. Even in an outfit as simple as a thin tank top and sweats, Azzi looked like she belonged on a billboard. Paige noticed the quiet luxury stitched into the details; the fabric, the way it fit her. Even her posture held a polish for cameras she probably didn’t realize anymore.

“You mind if I give you some clothes?” Paige asked, casually.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, a flirtatious smile forming as she tilted her head. “What, I don’t look good in these?”

Paige chuckled, the Southern charm slipping in under her breath. “You’d look good in anything, sweetheart,” she said, before adding, “I just wanna give you somethin’ you can dirty up a little.”

Azzi looked down, a soft laugh coming from her as she bit her bottom lip lightly. “Okay.”

Paige just grinned, shaking her head like Azzi was trouble that she definitely didn’t mind.

She disappeared down the hallway and a minute later came back with an armful of worn denim and cotton.

“Jeans and a tank top,” she said, holding them out. “You about my size right?”

Azzi took them, running her fingers over the fabric. The denim was soft from years of wear and the tank top was a pale washed-out green color.

“Close enough,” Azzi said.

Paige went to grab something by the doorway and came back with a pair of light brown boots, scuffed at the toes. “You’re gonna want these too. Don’t want you stepping on anything with only sneakers on out there.”

Azzi took them with a large grin on her face, coffee eyes sparkling a little. “You usually dress your guests?”

“Only the beautiful ones.”

Azzi’s laugh followed her down the hall as she went back to the guest room to change. For a moment, the farmhouse felt like the only place in the world that made sense. Even though Azzi knew getting used to something like this would only make going back to the city harder, she allowed herself to bask in it and pretend that this was just her daily life.

She stepped back in the kitchen with the clothes fitting her in a way that made her pause when she first put them on. The jeans were low on her hips, and pretty loose in the thigh area. The tank top was roomy without swallowing her frame completely. Paige was all over the clothes. Everything she put on smelled faintly like vanilla but there was something else underneath it, with a deeper scent. Cedarwood or sandalwood maybe. The soft masculine scent comforted Azzi in a way. It made her feel held without feeling overwhelmed.

Paige had changed too. Traded her sweats for blue jeans and a white ribbed tank that hugged her in a way Azzi wasn’t ready for this early in the morning.

Azzi’s gaze got caught on the exposed skin. On the sharpness of Paige’s collarbone, the defined lines of her muscles in her arms. Heat flickered in her stomach and something warm stirred in her chest before she cleared her throat.

Paige looked up, giving Azzi a quick scan that transitioned into a grin. “Look at you,” she said a little proudly. “If I ain’t know any better, I’d say you were tryin’ to fit in.”

Azzi arched her eyebrow, lifting a boot clad foot before putting it back down. “What gave me away? The boots or the borrowed masculinity?”

Paige laughed, grabbing a ball cap off a hook by the door. “Neither. You wear it well.”

They stepped outside together, the screen door snapping gently behind them. The light outside was wider than it was earlier that morning, more golden lines were slanting across the fields, the dew starting to lift off the grass. Stew trotted ahead of them while Beau took a more chaotic route darting between puddles and shrubs with his tongue out.

“What’s first?” Azzi asked, pulling her hair back so her curls weren’t in her eyes as they reached the edge of the fence.

Paige unlatched the gate and pushed it open with her hip. “We’ll start easy. Waterin’ the garden, checkin’ the fence line, tending to the horses.”

“You’re really laying on the full country fantasy, huh?”

Paige looked over her shoulder and just grinned, her eyes gleaming under the brim of her cap.

They walked toward a small shed tucked next to a row of raised garden beds, and Azzi felt the morning settle around her again. Even though she knew she was going to be ‘working’ it didn’t feel heavy like usual. Like she knew the hours ahead weren’t waiting to demand something, but to be lived through, one quiet moment at a time as she connected with the earth.

The sun was already climbing insistently. It was late September, but Texas hadn’t gotten the memo. The heat still hung in the air like it needed to be baked into the soil. It was unbearable yet but it made shirts stick between shoulder blades and turned every chore into something a little more draining.

The garden beds stretched in neat colorful rows, full of stubborn green. There were tomatoes, peppers still ripening in the shade of their leaves, vines reaching toward the sky like they weren’t aware the season was changing.

Azzi held the hose Paige gave her in one hand, the nozzle set to a soft spray as she moved between the beds. The water misted out in a gentle arc, darkening the soil in wide, damp circles. It was ridiculously calming. The rhythm, the lightness of it as her boots sank slightly into the dirt as she moved.

Paige was crouched a few feet away with her knees deep in one of the beds, long fingers buried in the soil as she tugged up a tangle of weeds. Her white tank top already had faint smudges of dirt, the fabric pulling across the slope of her back and the carved muscle of her shoulders every time she leaned forward. There was a sheen of sweat along her upper chest now, catching in the dip of her collarbone and Azzi couldn’t quite stop watching it.

They talked in fits and starts casually, spaced by silence and the sound of the hose.

“So what’s your garden philosophy?” Azzi asked, adjusting the nozzle to hit a stubborn patch of squash.

Paige pulled another weed and tossed it into the bucket at her side. “Plant what you’ll eat. Don’t plant what you won’t. And don’t baby anything too much; if it wants to live, it’ll find a way.”

Azzi smiled to herself. “That sounds suspiciously like life advice Paigey.”

Paige glanced up at her, the sun hitting the sweat on the edge of her jaw. “Ain’t it all?”

Azzi shook her head and went back to watering, eyes drifting now and then when Paige shifted. At one point she was crouched low with one boot braced against the edge of the bed. There was something about watching her work and the casual competence of it that got under Azzi’s skin in the strangest way.

“You always this hands-on with the property?” Azzi asked, moving toward the next bed. It was a normal question but the cadence of her voice let it be known she was trying to tease Paige a little bit.

Paige sat back on her heels and looked at her, wiping the back of her wrist across her eyebrow to catch the sweat. “Well, I’m not about to outsource pullin’ pigweed to a stranger.”

Azzi laughed. “That’s fair.”

“But yeah,” Paige added after a few seconds, brushing her hands off on her jeans. “I like takin’ care of what’s mine. Feels more honest that way.”

Azzi met her eyes for a few beats longer than she meant to. “That makes sense,” she said softly.

Paige just smiled at her, laughing when Azzi playfully sprayed Beau who was messing around outside of the garden before she leaned forward again dropping her focus back to the dirt like she didn’t feel the energy radiating from Azzi’s eyes.

The sun kept rising as they worked and Azzi, for all her control, discipline and years of media training, thought entirely too much about the way sweat traced the line of Paige’s spine when she bent down, and how still she felt in the middle of it all.

How easy it was for her to just be. Not only be herself but be present in the moment. She found herself relaxing enough to snort when she found something funny, to be loud when she wanted to be outgoing and quiet when she needed a moment to think.

They left the garden with dirt still stuck to their hands, Paige carrying the basket of weeds as Azzi slung the hose \ over the post where it belonged. The afternoon sun had of course climbed higher, beautifully spilling across the fields. Mother nature showed mercy with a breeze that picked up enough to blow Paige’s hair where it had started to stick to the back of her neck.

“Come on,” Paige said, tipping her chin toward the barn past the rise. “Let me introduce you to the real divas of this place.”

The barn doors were already open and the air was cooler when they stepped inside. Three horses stood in separate stalls, all of them turning their heads at the sound of footsteps. They were all beautiful. Elegant animals that made you quiet down to look at them in their natural state.

“This here’s Rosie,” Paige said, stepping close to a deep chestnut mare with a white blaze down her nose. “Bossy as hell but she earns the right with the way she rides.”

Rosie flicked her ears, then stepped forward to nudge Paige’s shoulder with her nose like she was saying hi.

“The big guy next door is Jasper,” Paige said, reaching out to run her hand down the neck of a tall black gelding whose coat gleamed showing how well kept they were. “He’ll follow you around like a big dog if you let him.”

Azzi hovered behind Paige, looking at each horse as she introduced them. Her expression was a mix of intrigue and hesitancy looking at the large animals.

“And last but never least,” Paige said, nodding toward the farthest stall, “is Taffy. Don’t let her name fool you, she's got more attitude than both the others put together.”

Azzi laughed and finally stepped a little closer. “They’re much bigger up close.”

Paige glanced back at her. “Ain’t much in the world more honest than a horse. They don’t fake anything. If they don’t like you, you’ll know. But if they do, it's up there with the seven wonders.”

She reached into a feed bucket and handed Azzi a half of an apple. “Go on and give it a try,” she offered. “Rosie won’t bite…hopefully.” She grinned as she added the last part jokingly.

Azzi looked at her sideways but took the apple. She moved toward Rosie slowly with the fruit flat on her palm. When she got close enough Rosie leaned in brushing her lips against Azzi’s palm as she took the treat.

Azzi looked down at her intact hand in surprise. “She’s really gentle.”

Paige grinned and stepped in next to her, close enough that they could feel the heat radiating off of one another. She reached up and guided Azzi’s hand toward Rosie’s cheek. “Here,” Paige said, quietly to not startle anyone. “Right there. See?”

Azzi’s palm settled against the mare’s face, and Rosie leaned into it, huffing out warmly against Azzi’s forearm.

“Okay,” Azzi whispered. “Okay, that’s…she’s kind of incredible.”

Paige smiled. “You did good, city girl.”

Azzi turned her head, the proximity of the two of them close enough that she could see the faint smear of dirt still on her cheekbone from the garden.

With their positioning and the couple of inches Paige had on Azzi the blonde had to glance down to make eye contact. When she did she noticed Azzi studying her already. “What is it?”

Azzi’s voice comes out with a sense of vulnerability when she speaks. “You’re just good at making things seem a lot less scary.”

They glanced at one another with a brief look of infatuation before Paige whispered “Got the strange feelin that you’re braver than everybody round here sweetheart.” This made Azzi feel flushed from how seen she suddenly felt.

They stood there for a breath, taking in each other's features before Paige smiled and pulled away delicately, her palm brushing against the back of Azzi’s hand as she let go. “We’re in here to feed ‘em first,” she said, moving toward the tack room. “But if you’re feelin’ up for it later, I’ll saddle Rosie for you.”

Azzi looked at the mare, who blinked at her with a look that could almost be called regal. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of that just yet, but I’m not shooting the idea down.”

Paige nodded and called back over her shoulder, “We’ll see what the day says.” Knowing that a day on the farm could say anything.

The work in the barn moved in more of a slow rhythm than the garden. They kept pace with the time of day as Azzi helped refill the feed bins, unlatched a few gates and raked hay with loose, imperfect lines that made Paige laugh. She held the bucket while Paige cleaned out the stalls, handed her tools—sometimes the wrong ones—when Paige had to fix something, and watched the ease in her hands as she moved through the morning with the comfort of knowing what needed to be tended to and what could wait.

Azzi enjoyed every second of it. She was used to her body being tired. Sore from lifting, bruised from days and games packed too tightly together, jet lag from city to city, but this feeling was different. Her muscles ached, but it was in a way that felt more purposeful. She could feel every part of herself in the work she was doing: her shoulders, her hands, her breathing. It was like the static in her chest had finally gone quiet.

She wiped sweat from her temple with the back of her arm and leaned on the fence post, the thick heat starting to catch up to her a little.

Paige glanced over from where she was tossing fresh hay, her white tank now damp and sticking to her torso and back. She grinned when she saw Azzi leaning on the fence. “Still breathin’?”

Azzi’s laugh was unfiltered as she nodded. “Barely.”

Paige laughed and offered for Azzi to go inside. When Azzi immediately shot down the proposition Paige gave her something to do back at the barn so she could have a break from the sun.

They finished just after one, the sun high and the sky a clean washed-out blue that stretched endlessly. They both went back inside to shower and by the time Paige stepped out and grabbed her keys, Azzi was waiting on the porch steps with her fingers trailing over Stew’s ears as Beau barked for her attention.

Paige went to pull the truck around. It was a baby blue Ford that looked like it had lived a few lives and still had gas for more. She hopped out and walked around to the passenger side, pulling the door open making a soft creak echo through the air.

Azzi grinned as she walked toward the truck. “Chivalry’s still alive in the country, huh?”

“Only from the God honoring ones,” Paige said with a grin as she tipped her head toward the passenger seat.

Azzi slid in, and a second later she felt the dogs leaping into the truck bed, their tongues out in excitement for a car ride.

The drive through the country was slow, gravel dust trailing behind them as Stew and Beau barked here and there. Paige drove with one hand on the wheel and the other hanging out the open window, the breeze pushing through the cab carrying the smell of faint wildflowers.

They made their first stop at a modest brick house, the yard was overgrown and Mrs. Emory was already sitting on the porch with her cane resting next to her seat with a glass of sweet tea condensing beside a stack of dog-eared crossword puzzles.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” the older woman teased as Paige got out the truck, already heading toward the mower.

Before she started cutting the lawn Paige introduced Azzi to Mrs. Emory and the older woman practically ran in the house to get another fresh glass of sweet tea for Azzi. As Paige cut the grass Azzi stayed on the porch and the dogs were laying in the shade. It didn’t take long for Azzi to start hearing stories about grandbabies who lived in Austin and how none of them called enough. Azzi nodded, smiled and asked questions as she listened. She never once rushed the older woman when she went on side tangents and hid the faint blush when she mentioned that she’d be the perfect woman for someone as kind as Paige.

When Paige was putting up the mower and all the supplies Mrs. Emory reached out to pat Azzi’s hand as she held it with her own. “You’ve got a good stillness to you, sugar. City folk don’t always carry that so I want you to make sure you hold on to that.”

Azzi smiled warmly, putting her other hand on top of the older woman in sincerity before she answered honestly. “Thank you ma’am.” She paused as her eyes drifted to Paige getting distracted fixing something that was a walking hazard for Mrs. Emory, “But I have to be honest, I think I’m borrowing it.”

When they left, Paige wiped sweat from her face with the bottom of her shirt and mumbled something about needing a gallon of water and a slice of pie before opening the passenger door for Azzi.

The next stop was a corner house outside town where an older couple, the Langstons, waved from their porch swing like they’d been waiting all morning to see the baby blue truck pull up.

“We wrote you a list, darling,” Mrs. Langston said as Paige leaned over the railing smiling charmingly at her. “Tried to be good this time, didn’t we, Harold?”

Harold grunted but smiled, handing Azzi a notepad full of slanted handwriting and several reminders to “pick the good kind of peanut butter, not that no-sugar nonsense that Darla wants them to get.”

Azzi took the list and laughed when the older couple started bickering as she and Paige walked away. A few minutes later she was walking up and down the grocery store aisles with Paige next to her pushing the cart. She watched Paige talk to the butcher like an old friend, watched the way the clerk smiled at her extra wide when she asked for a bag of candy to sneak to the butcher's kid sitting in the back.

At one point, while they were standing in the produce aisle of a different store, Azzi reached for a tomato at the same time Paige was making their fingers brush. Paige pulled away, mumbling in her accent about cliches while Azzi laughed.

“Do you do this every week?” She changed the topic to put Paige out of her misery.

Paige shrugged, looking down to hide her smile. “Most weeks.”

“They said you’ve been helping them for years.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged again like it was no big deal. People don’t get easier with time,” Paige said. “Just more deserving of their community.”

They finished the errands, delivered the groceries, stayed long enough to watch Mr.Langston drink half a soda on the porch before he got yelled at and Mrs.Langston insisted they take a bag of fresh figs from the tree out back before they left.

By the time they climbed back in the truck, the dogs were panting from running around and immediately laid on their blankets. On the drive back Azzi leaned her head against the window and let her eyes drift closed. She wasn’t tired, almost the opposite actually. She felt so full of the constant moving that somehow had stillness attached to it that made her feel grounded and good about what she was doing.

…

Back at the farmhouse, the sun was slanting through the kitchen window as Paige worked on making lunch. The table was already scattered with the fruits and vegetables from their morning labor. Baskets filled with bright tomatoes, crisp greens still flecked with dirt, peppers, and the small basket of figs from the Langstons’ tree.

Paige chopped as they talked, the smell of sautéed garlic and herbs weaving through the air, mingling with the sweet musk of the ripe figs.

Azzi was perched on the kitchen counter, watching as Paige peaced together the last details of their meal. Paige caught her eye and grinned, holding up a fig. “You wanna try it.”

Azzi took it, biting into the juicy flesh of the fruit. The sweetness exploded on her tongue. It was rich with just the faintest tang and she blinked, caught off guard. “Shit,” Azzi murmured, taking another bite. “That might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Paige laughed, sliding a plate toward her. “Wait ’til you try what I cooked.”

Azzi grabbed a fork from next to her to taste the meal. Paige had given her a full plate of tender meat and roasted vegetables all directly from her farm. When she gathered an even portion of the food on the plate she raised the fork to her lips and immediately closed her eyes, savoring the layers of flavor. She couldn’t do anything but shake her head before Paige laughed and helped her off the counter so they could eat at the table.

They ate slowly, words flowing between them easily. Paige let Azzi talk about whatever came to her mind: adjusting to Dallas, the chaos, the weird little moments she missed about being at home. Azzi found herself rambling and unraveling more about herself than she thought she would to another human.

In the middle of her talking Paige grinned at her. “You got a little somethin’ right there, sweetheart.”

Azzi reached up, swiping awkwardly at the corner of her mouth, but her fingers missed the smear of sauce that was on her cheek.

Paige smiled and leaned in, brushing it away with the back of her hand gently. “There you go.”

Azzi looked down a little bashfully as Paige wiped the sauce off of her hand with a towel.

When they finished, Paige leaned back in her chair. “So how ya feelin’ about ridin’ those horses?”

“Ready as I’ll probably ever be.”

Paige led Azzi to the paddock where Rosie was waiting. The mare’s coat gleamed and her dark eyes regarded them with calm curiosity, remembering Azzi from that morning.

Paige handed Azzi a soft brush and demonstrated how she should brush along Rosie’s neck and flank. “Horses can feel your energy,” Paige said quietly, “so start soft. Let her know you’re trying to be her friend, not boss.”

Azzi took the brush and was a little tentative at first, but when she didn’t see the mare react badly she gradually relaxed, letting Rosie lean into the brush. She felt the warmth of Rosie’s body beneath her hands, the steady breathing, the quiet strength in her muscles.

“Good,” Paige encouraged, moving around to set the saddle and cinch the straps. When Rosie was brushed and fully tacked up Paige led her out of the padlock and into the open. “Ready for the mount?”

Azzi swallowed a little nervously, so Paige smiled at her trying to ease her nerves. “You’ll be ok darlin’ trust me.”

Azzi nodded and Paige stepped over offering her hand to help Azzi settle on Rosie’s back. When she got on Azzi’s body stiffened and her muscles coiled with nervous energy. Rosie shifted underneath her, sensing the tension making her ears flick back briefly.

Paige climbed up behind her, settling carefully on Rosie’s back. Azzi blinked slightly surprised at how close Paige now was.

Her presence was steady as she wrapped her arm around Azzi’s waist reaching forward to take the reins. Feeling Paige behind her eased the knot of tension in Azzi’s stomach muscles a little but the rest of her was still tense.

“Hey, just breathe with her. Loose arms and loose legs.” Paige reminded Azzi, “You’re safe up here, I won’t let anything happen.”

Azzi exhaled slowly, loosening her muscles as she coaxed herself into relaxing and allowing her shoulders to drop.

“Better,” Paige said, keeping her voice low, as Rosie began walking slowly.

True to Paige’s earlier statement, Rosie was a little bossy. Sometimes she nudged forward with impatient steps even though Paige was taking the reins slowly. Sometimes she’d just pause to remind them who was in charge making Paige laugh and tap her on the back leg to get going again.

Azzi leaned back into Paige’s chest, feeling the gentle squeeze of her forearms as she held the reins steady.

As they moved through the large field letting Rosie leisurely canter a breeze ruffled Azzi’s hair and she couldn’t believe how truly alive and present in the moment she felt. Completely connected to the rhythm of the earth around her.

Every so often, Paige made sure to check in asking Azzi, “You doing okay?” or “Want to take it a little faster?”

Azzi’s quiet smile was always the answer Paige needed, and when they did pick up their pace, the wind sang through the open fields more freely, carrying away the heaviness of the last few months of her life completely.

“Alright,” Paige said behind Azzi’s ear, “you ready to feel what Rosie can do?”

Azzi twisted her head slightly to glance back. “That wasn’t already her giving it everything?”

Paige laughed, her breath tickling the shell of Azzi’s ear. “Not even close.”

With a soft click of her tongue and a subtle nudge of the reins, Paige urged Rosie forward and the mare responded as she shifted into a gallop allowing all four of her hooves to be off the ground each time, letting her move more freely. The wind caught Azzi’s hair, loosening it from where it had been tied back, the strands flying behind her.

The unkept field was wide open ahead of them, the tall grass swaying in the wind like waves. Trees lined the edge of the horizon, their branches reaching out toward the sky like they’d forgotten how to stop growing.

Being unused to the speed Azzi leaned into Paige, her back pressing against her chest, the motion of the horse underneath them a rhythm she was trying to sync with in the moment. Paige adjusted herself with a subtle shift, steadying her frame more for them both as she absorbed Azzi’s weight and murmured above the wind, “There you go, just like that.”

Azzi's hands hovered over the reins, unsure of what to do with them considering Paige was controlling the horse, so Paige reached to wrap her fingers over Azzi’s, guiding them toward the reins.

“Let her feel you,” Paige said, speeding Rosie up a little bit. “Don’t grip, just hold.”

Azzi nodded, allowing Paige’s hands to keep hers in place where they were supposed to be on the reins. She could feel the softness of Paige’s palms interrupted by the occasional bump of a callous as Rosie galloped.

They rode like that for a while, Paige quietly correcting Azzi when she tilted too far, the reins shifting in her hands almost like a new language she was just learning to speak that Rosie was already fluent in. When Paige felt her relax into it, felt her hands adjust enough to guide Rosie without being fearful, she slowly drew one hand back and rested it on Azzi’s hip, keeping the other one on the reins loosely just in case.

Azzi felt the slight shift in weight from Paige removing her hands from on top of hers and adjusted her hold.

“You’re a natural,” Paige said over the wind, pride threading through her tone.

Azzi smiled as she got caught in the moment. The feeling of the wind in her hair, the weight of Paige’s hand on her hip, the warm sun beaming down on her face, the way Rosie moved underneath her. “I could get used to this.”

Behind her Paige smiled too with her eyes on the trail ahead, her mind spinning a little bit before she pulled Azzi closer to her.

The scene looked like something out of painting. The land rolling gold and amber, rippled with tall grasses that bent and shook in the breeze. Wild sunflowers popped up along someone’s fence line. Patches of purple thistle that looked a little unruly from being unkempt.

Azzi let her breath out slowly, closing her eyes for a second as they moved through it all just to feel. The rhythm of Rosie’s hooves like a heartbeat connected her to the earth. Azzi knew how much stress she’d been under but she didn’t realize how bad it’d gotten, how hard it had been for her to hold herself together, how tightly she’d been holding herself until now. Until the moment her back eased into Paige’s chest again and she let her body yield to the guidance of someone else.

She didn’t usually let people get close like this. Not physically and definitely not emotionally. She doesn’t remember when her life became a counterfeit form of nearness for other people to feel: cameras, fans, handshakes, interviews. All forms of life touching her without any intimacy. Conversations that held no depth, being looked at but not seen.

But here she wasn’t being watched and she didn’t have to perform. She wasn’t trying to be likable or strong and clever. She was just a girl on a horse, feeling the heat of a Texas sun and the warmth of a woman on her back, breathing in air that smelled like dry grass and sweet earth instead of fumes and grease.

Paige’s presence behind her wasn’t demanding anything from her and that made her feel more than a thousand people screaming her name ever could. So she shifted closer, leaning her head back gently against Paige’s collarbone. Azzi felt herself smile when Paige’s grip on her hip adjusted in response, wrapping her forearm around her torso.

After a few minutes there was a creek that shimmered ahead and Paige loosened her hold around Azzi’s torso to grab the reins and pull them gently bringing her to a slow stop near the grassy bank.

“Alright,” she said, jumping down first and holding her arms up for Azzi. “C’mon. I got you.”

Azzi hesitated. Not necessarily because she needed the help, but because she didn’t particularly mind the idea of Paige’s hands around her waist again and that made her a little warm. Still, she tried to play it cool, swinging her leg over Rosie before she let herself be guided down.

Paige’s hands lingered longer than necessary brushing against Azzi’s hips before she minded her manners and dropped her hands respectfully. “There you go.”

Azzi met her gaze smiling at her blue eyes before she cleared her throat softly and stepped back. Paige grinned, shaking her head, deciding to turn and unsaddle Rosie instead of saying anything, letting the horse wander toward the creek’s edge to drink.

Azzi wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t know how you’re not melting. It’s September. Isn’t it supposed to start getting cooler?”

Paige chuckled as she kicked off her boots. “Texas doesn’t believe in seasons, darlin’. Just has moods here and there.” She peeled off her socks, rolling up her jeans. “Go on. Boots off. Water’s shallow and usually cold. Might do you some good.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Cold?”

“Best kind,” Paige said, stepping in first.

Azzi followed her lead, untying the boots and pulling them off before doing the same with her socks and rolling the borrowed jeans up to her knees. She wasn’t expecting the water to be as cool as it was making her gasp a little. “Oh my God.”

Paige laughed. “You act like you ain’t ever met cold water before.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes and Paige smiled sweetly before flinging water towards her when she swiped her hand under the surface.

Azzi yelped and tried to give a poorly timed retaliation that ended up making her foot slip on a smooth creek stone. Before she could react her body tilted forward and she lost her balance a little Paige catching her before she fell in the water.

Their bodies collided gently and Azzi clutched her hands around Paige’s arms to steady herself, as Paige grabbed her waist. Her hat almost fell off in the commotion, but Azzi caught it before it fell in the water, laughing as she put it back on Paige’s head backwards this time.

Paige’s mouth curved. “Well, look at you gettin’ all bold.”

Azzi’s grin matched Paige’s as her cheeks flushed with something that wasn’t just from the heat. “Can’t let you lose your whole look.”

“You’ve got nice eyes,” Paige said suddenly. “That color’s beautiful...kinda like hazelnut coffee just before cream hits it.”

Azzi blinked a little caught off guard by the compliment. People didn’t usually compliment brown eyes so it made her chest a little warm. Sunlight danced in Paige’s calming blue eyes and Azzi found herself thinking that she wouldn’t mind swimming in them.

Her chest fluttered and so she did the only thing she could do to recover. She laughed and it came out a little flustered so she pushed Paige lightly, sending a splash of water toward her to get back at her.

“Okay, Casanova. Don’t make me push you all the way in.”

Paige took it with a smirk, looking down at the water dripping off her arm. “Might be worth it if you come with me,” she said, eyes still on her, low and easy.

Azzi tried not to smile too much, but failed so she rolled her eyes and turned around. As they waded deeper into the creek, laughing and playfully splashing one another with water, their shadows stretched out behind them. A breeze drifted across the surface tugging at the ends of Paige’s hair where it was still twisted into a bun underneath her hat.

She reached up, taking off her hat and biting down gently on the brim to hold it between her teeth. She pulled the ponytail holder from her hair with wet fingers and shook her hair out, running both hands through the damp waves to cool her scalp. The movement was casual and completely thoughtless but Azzi watched the light catch in the strands. Paige’s hair was a honey-blonde when it was wet and the long soft waves fell down her back in uneven layers.

When she was done she shoved the hat back on her head, the same way Azzi had returned it earlier and squinted toward the sky.

Azzi blinked twice trying to clear the fog from her brain. “You’re insane.”

Paige looked toward her with her eyebrows knitted together completely confused. “What’d I do?”

Azzi gestured vaguely at her. “That whole thing. Your hair’s down, backwards hat, standing knee-deep in a creek like a fucking postcard.” She added. “You’re like a picture perfect view of Southern charm. They’d probably put you on a recruitment poster if Texas wanted more lesbians.”

Paige shook her head in astonishment. “Is that that’s what I am? A recruitment poster?”

“Absolutely.” Azzi grinned. “Your energy’s a little more captivating out here. Should’ve come with a warning before I agreed to this.”

Paige rested her hands on her hips as she played into Azzi’s joke. “What should I have said?”

Azzi tilted her head trying to think of something. “Probably something like ‘Caution: Will ruin your city standards for women and convince you to fall for the Southern charm within 24 hours.’”

Paige whistled low. “That mouth of yours.”

“What about it?” Azzi asked, feigning innocence.

Paige shook her head, smiling to herself as she looked down a little bashfully. “It’s gonna get me in some trouble.”

She tilted her head toward the grassy bank, where there was a gentle slope beneath an old pecan tree. “C’mon,” she said, already walking to step out of the creek. “Let’s dry off before I end up showin’ you how unpleasant I look with a cold.”

Azzi followed behind her with the jeans sticking to her calves as they climbed out. Paige dropped onto the grass first with her legs stretched out in front of her and her arms braced behind her allowing her to lean back and look up through the tree limbs. Azzi took the spot next to her, close enough for their knees to nearly brush.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The horse's occasional huff filled the air as it measured around.

Azzi leaned back to mirror Paige’s position, pulling her hair out of her face as the light caught her eyes.

“You're really amazing at making me feel like the world’s not rushing me?” she stated casually.

Paige glanced over at her with a soft smile. “You’re good at flirtin’ without soundin’ like you’re flirtin’.”

Azzi laughed under her breath before deciding to lean back further. She closed her eyes and just felt the sun filtering through the branches hitting her skin, allowing the warmth to spread over her body.

The breeze whispered through the pecan branches above them, the leaves dappling sunlight across their shoulders. Somewhere nearby a cicada buzzed and the creek babbled on like time didn’t pass for it.

They stayed there for a while talking, getting to know each other's likes and dislikes, small things that made them tick, pet peeves, and favorite foods. It wasn’t until the sun softened and the sky began to tilt into the golden hour haze that Paige sat forward, brushing her hands on her thighs and stood up. “Come on,” she said, nodding toward Rosie, who was grazing a few yards away. “Let’s get her ready.”

Paige helped Azzi stand up, giving her time to brush herself off before they walked toward the horse. The sun caught in Paige’s damp strands of hair again and Azzi enjoyed it for a second before she had to blink herself back into reality.

Paige handed her a soft bristle brush to get Rosie ready to ride again. “Remember to start slow,” she said, guiding her to Rosie’s flank. “Go down the grain of the hair with even pressure.”

Azzi mirrored Paige, brushing along Rosie’s side.

“She likes you,” Paige said, watching Azzi with a small smile.

“Or she’s being polite.”

“Same thing, in her case.”

They worked together before Paige showed her each strap of the saddle, how the cinch should feel—firm, but not too tight around her coat. She showed her how to check the bit and bridle and when Rosie was ready, Paige patted her flank. “Alright, up you go.”

Azzi climbed into the saddle with a little more confidence this time around but she still hesitated a little when she had to shift her weight to be comfortable.

“You’re alright,” Paige said when she noticed. “She remembers you.”

Azzi nodded, settling her hands on the reins.

Then she felt Paige’s hands on her hips as she pulled herself up and onto the saddle behind her.

Azzi was ready for it this time, but she still felt the flutter in her stomach when Paige settled close to her.

They started off slow again with Azzi easing Rosie into her gait. She held the reins a little more naturally now, guiding them with small shifts in pressure as Paige stayed quiet behind her. She had one hand resting on the rein while the other was resting on the saddle horn, wanting to be respectful.

“Try takin’ her left,” Paige said near Azzi’s ear, the warmness of her breath skimming Azzi’s cheek. “Real gentle with the rein.”

Azzi followed the cue, and Rosie obeyed without so much as a complaint which surprised Paige. Rosies muscles shifted beneath them the sound of her hooves meeting the ground circling around them.

“See? There you go” Paige said, letting her hand fall away from the rein now. “You’ve got her.”

Azzi smiled to herself. The city had never felt this far away and she’d never felt this grounded.

The barn came into view just as the light started to stretch across the fields, dipping everything in the soft, amber haze that made it feel like the whole world had exhaled now that the day was winding down. Azzi guided Rosie the last few steps toward the barn before Paige swung down first. She turned around, offering to help Azzi down. “Come on, city girl.”

Azzi laughed and let Paige guide her down. Even though she knew the blonde was doing it on purpose there was nothing showy about the way Paige helped her. It felt genuine, not performative gallantry. She always made sure to keep a respectful grip just enough to steady her as she got down.

Together, they brushed Rosie down from the ride. Azzi dragged the soft bristle brush along her coat while Paige checked her hooves and murmured little reassurances when Rosie got a little bossy and let out a huff because she wanted to go to her pen. Rosie’s ears always twitched at their voices but overall she stayed relaxed, clearly satisfied with the ride.

The second they exited the barn, the dogs came running up the path clearly waiting for them.

Beau bounced with full-body excitement. His tail was wagging so hard his hips followed every movement. He barked once, circled Paige, and then ran over to Azzi like he’d missed her more than what was reasonable for someone he met less than 24 hours ago.

Stew was more composed and ran over to nudge his head against Paige’s thigh before slowly blinking at Azzi in greeting. Clearly happy to see them both.

They laughed and scratched behind eager ears before heading back inside.

The house was still cool and Azzi padded down the hall, having peeled off her boots by the doorway. After stopping in the guest room she disappeared into the bathroom.

Warm steam clouds filled the bathroom as she let the hot water run. Standing beneath it, a sigh slid from her chest before she even realized she was holding one in. Her muscles stretched and eased under the heat, the small ache of the ride sinking into a deeper satisfaction.

She thought about the entire day. About riding Rosie and how natural Paige’s hand felt over hers. About Paige’s laugh while they were in the creek, her blonde hair down, putting her hat back on backwards. For some reason the picture of that moment still sat with her, it felt so vivid and close when Azzi closed her eyes. Paige had charm, sure, the Southern kind that came wrapped in polite smiles and “sweethearts.” But there was depth behind it that Azzi couldn’t help but want to be on the other end of.

Azzi dipped her head underneath the water stream and stayed there letting the water drown out all of her thoughts and quiet everything. And when she stepped from under it, blinking the water from her lashes, her chest felt clearer.

She washed herself off from the long day before she put on soft clothes. A loose cotton t-shirt that Paige gave her and a pair of her own short pajama shorts. As she walked back toward the kitchen her damp hair was draped to one shoulder and it dripped onto the shirt slightly.

Paige was standing at the stove, already cooking something for Azzi again. Her hair was in a wavy ponytail and she had on a black loose shirt and checkerboard pajama pants. She hadn’t noticed Azzi yet so Azzi leaned against the doorway for a second, just taking her in. The way she looked, how she moved, how her clothes smelled, and just how at home in her skin she was.

“Hey,” Azzi said softly.

Paige glanced at her and smiled. “Hey yourself.”

“You’re really going to cook for me again?” Azzi asked as she stepped closer. “After the day you had?”

“Well, someone’s gotta feed you,” Paige said as she stirred something in the pan. “And you earned it.”

Azzi shook her head, slipping around her to stand near the stove. “Nope. Sit down.”

“What?”

“I’m cooking,” Azzi said, already grabbing a cutting board and pulling the drawer open for a knife. “You’ve been taking care of me all day. I can’t let someone who’s kind enough to let me stay in their home serve me like I’m helpless.”

Paige shook her head. “I can’t let a guest work sweetheart.”

“Well,” Azzi said, flashing her a smile that made her dimples pop as she took the wooden spoon from her hand, “I’m not really your guest anymore, am I?”

Paige laughed at the supposed loophole. “Well,” she said, “I’ll excuse my manners then.” She stepped away from the stove and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge before she dropped onto one of the chairs at the table, spreading her legs comfortably as she looked at Azzi.

Azzi glanced at her from where she was as she pulled the ingredients she wanted from the fridge. “Just gonna sit there and watch me?”

“Yup,” Paige said, tipping the bottle toward her lips. As she did her eyes sparkled with amusement and she couldn’t stop grinning.

Azzi rolled her eyes but didn’t stop herself from matching the grin as she turned around. She started cutting something on the cutting board and from the table, Paige watched her. Paige noticed the sudden ease in her posture, the way the tension that had stuck to her when she first approached the door had melted off of her. Aside from all of that Paige let herself respectfully think about how beautiful Azzi was.

Neither of them said much for a few minutes. The scent of onions and herbs filled the kitchen as Azzi moved comfortably through the kitchen now. Paige, for all her insistence that she’d sit back and let herself be taken care of, had disappeared out the backdoor with a promise to only feed the dogs and not touch any tools.

Azzi caught glimpses of the dogs running around through the kitchen window and the back porch light caught Paige’s figure as she bent down to fill the bowls. Beau circled her like a giddy child and Stew watched from the side more stoically.

���All taken care of and I promise I ain’t touch one tool” she said, as she stepped back into the kitchen.

“Mmm,” Azzi murmured, still focused on the pan. “You know, I don’t think I’ve been in one place for this long without checking my phone. Don’t think I’ve seen it since I got here.”

Paige grinned as she stepped beside her with her beer bottle in her hand. “And would you look at that, somehow, the world’s still turnin’.”

Azzi glared at her, but her smile gave her away.

Paige held out the beer. “Want a sip?”

Azzi shook her head. “I don’t think I like beer.”

Paige tilted her head. “You ever had one like this?”

“I don’t think I like any beer,” Azzi clarified.

“Well,” Paige said, stepping just a little closer into Azzi’s space, “don’t knock it 'til you try it.” She held out the bottle, her blue eyes twinkling as she looked at Azzi.

Azzi hesitated before she reached for it, her fingers brushing against Paige’s as she took the bottle and took a sip. Her face contorted and she shook her head no. “God,” Azzi mumbled, half-choking. “That tastes awful.”

Paige tried to hold in a laugh but she grinned as Azzi glared at her a little. She brought her hand up to rest on Azzi’s back, rubbing it a little to help soothe the cough. “That bad?”

Azzi passed the bottle back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “How do people drink that on purpose?”

“Acquired taste,” Paige said, grinning. “Like black coffee or heartbreak.”

Azzi snorted. “Well, I’ve had both of those. Still not a fan.”

The beer fizzed in the bottle as Paige sat back in a kitchen chair. She lifted the bottle to her lips and asked, “So what are you a fan of, then?”

Azzi looked at her but didn’t answer right away. Instead, she kept her focus on the skillet in front of her.

The quiet filled around them and Paige studied Azzi and her silence at the question. Crickets had started to chirp outside, the sound of the night falling into rhythm with the soft sizzle coming from the stove.

There was something almost unreal about the scene. The city girl in short pajama shorts and a large t-shirt barefoot on the tile, cooking like she belonged in the country. Like the chaos she came from never existed. As she moved to finish up dinner Azzi started to speak to Paige calmly, listing off the small random things she ‘was a fan of.’ She knew she didn’t need to perform for cameras or sponsors here so she gave genuine answers just for the woman sitting across the kitchen with patient eyes and a crooked smile to hear.

She plated the food, nothing extravagant, just good, clean ingredients that she turned into something cooked with a little care. She turned and set a plate in front of Paige, their hands brushing in the transfer.

Paige looked up at her with a soft smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Azzi sat down across from her and propped her elbow on the table letting her chin rest in her palm as they let the meal cool down. The conversation didn’t need a map. It wandered like a breeze through cracked windows, easy and open. Azzi was able to be unfiltered and open because she knew no one was waiting on a soundbite.

They were just two women in a house that knew how to hold secrets. Dogs padding in the hallway. A kitchen table that bore the wear of decades of conversation. And Azzi, feeling something she hadn’t let herself feel in longer than she could remember. Wanted, but not demanded. Seen, but not scrutinized.

Paige asked her questions without pressure, and Azzi found herself answering them without thinking too hard. Little things. Big things. Things she didn’t even realize she was still carrying from years ago. And Paige listened like she was completely captivated by every word that came out of Azzi’s mouth. Like she was storing each piece of information in her brain in a special place just for Azzi.

This made Azzi’s chest feel oddly full. Like if she spoke too loud, it might spill over.

So during the small times it got a little too much she took another bite of her food instead, chewing slowly, her eyes drifting to Paige, who caught her gaze and smiled around a mouthful of dinner letting her know it was alright to take her time.

Azzi would smile back at her and a few times she found herself thinking about how she didn’t want this to end. Not the meal. Not the night. Not this strange, perfect little pocket of peace they’d created together. She didn’t know where it was going with them if anywhere and she wasn’t in a hurry to figure it out.

When they were done the utensils clinked as Azzi reached to rinse their plates, but Paige got on her feet first waving her off. “Nope,” she said, setting her own plate on the counter with a thud that made the dogs perk up. “You cooked, I clean. Don’t go ruinin’ a perfectly good system.”

Azzi opened her mouth to argue about the point she made earlier, but Paige was already moving as she gathered everything and started humming something under her breath. Azzi found herself watching her again, and honestly it was getting a little insane how many times she just stared at Paige but she couldn’t help it. She was caught off guard by how effortless it all felt. How easy it was for her to be here with Paige.

“Thank you,” Azzi said quietly.. “For letting me be here. For…dinner. All of it.”

Paige glanced over her shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for, darlin’. You’re easy to have around.” She turned back around before adding, “I’ll head into town first thing in the mornin to get those parts for your car. Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Azzi nodded as a strange little knot formed behind her ribs. As the faint reminder that all of this had a ticking clock came rushing up.

She went down the hall to use the restroom and splash a little water on her face and by the time she stepped out, the house had settled for the night.

When Azzi walked toward the guest room Stew was already there again curled up on his dog bed with his tail thumping against the floor when he saw her.

Paige walked up to rest her shoulder on the doorframe. “He’s yours again tonight. Hope you don’t mind. Just want you to feel safe.”

Azzi smiled, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. “Not even a little.”

Paige reached for the door handle, locking it again politely.

Azzi looked up, her eyes meeting Paige’s in a silent conversation before she looked away. “Thank you Paige.”

Paige took a visible breath and nodded, her features unreadable in the dim light. She gave Azzi a mellow smile. “Sleep tight, city girl.” And then she shut the door gently behind her.

Azzi stood in the middle of the room taking in the details of the room so she could remember them. The bed was just like she left it that morning and she slid beneath the covers and let herself exhale.

She told herself it was just a farmhouse. Just a borrowed room.

But the way the air settled around her, the way the dog breathed steadily in the corner of the room, the way Paige’s voice lingered in the quietness of her brain and made her feel safe. All of it felt like more and Azzi didn’t feel like she needed to hold herself together to fall asleep. She was already drifting with a smile on her face.

…

The next morning Azzi blinked against the sunlight streaming into the room. Her limbs were heavy in the indulgent kind of rest you only got when you were peacefully in deep sleep. In the corner of the room, Stew was curled on his designated spot, the faded duck tucked beneath his chin.

Unlike the morning before, when he’d only blinked at her when she woke up, this time Stew stood up and stretched before padding up beside the bed, panting softly with his tongue out. He looked at her like he’d been waiting for her to wake up and was more than ready to start the day.

Azzi laughed, still half buried in the covers, and reached out her hand. “Morning, buddy.”

Stew pushed his head against her fingers a few times before stepping back and letting her sit up. She ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head at the fact that her bonnet fell off before she smiled at the way that waking up here made everything feel softer.

She took her time freshening up, rinsing her face in cool water, pulling on another pair of borrowed jeans that Paige left her and one of her own crop tops. Her body felt good. Limber, rested and present. There wasn’t an ounce of the usual static buzzing underneath her skin. She felt like a calm had settled into her bones like it was meant to be there.

When she stepped outside with Stew walking close on her heels, Beau was already in full swing, running around the yard with another stick. He paused when he noticed them, dropping the stick and barking once before he picked his stick back up and sprinted toward the trees.

Azzi’s eyes followed Beau for a few seconds before she looked over at Paige.

She was crouched over the front of Azzi’s car, elbow-deep in the hood with a towel slung over one shoulder. Her Levi jeans clung to her hips perfectly and she had on a simple black sports bra that hugged her shoulders, golden skin glowing under the sun.

Her boots were dusty and her hair was tied back but there were a few strands that had gotten loose that stuck along the edges of her temples. She looked like she belonged in a goddamn calendar and Azzi rolled her eyes at herself for how easy she felt.

Stew huffed beside her impatiently.

“Alright, alright,” she mumbled.

She started walking toward the car, her steps slower than Stew wanted them to be. The Texas heat was already rising despite how early it was and she saw the sweat clinging to Paige’s skin as the sun beat down on her. Azzi didn’t mind it one bit.

Without turning around, Paige’s voice drifted back toward her. “Morning, darlin’.”

Azzi smiled at the sound of her voice. “Good morning to you too.”

The sound of a tool hitting against metal was followed by Paige straightening up from under the hood. She wiped her forearm across her eyebrows, the front of her torso was streaked with a faint line of grime from where she’d leaned into the engine. The smudge only made her look more like herself, more fucking attractive than Azzi had the self control for.

“Took the old water pump out already,” Paige said as she tossed a wrench in the open toolbox at her feet. “It was damn near fossilized.” She looked at Azzi’s appearance and grinned lopsidedly. “How’d you sleep?”

Azzi let her gaze wander briefly along the curve of Paige’s sweaty shoulders, the way her long fingers looked even though they were a little dirty, at her wet torso. “Better than I have in months,” she answered honestly, still watching her from a few feet away.

Paige nodded, not commenting on the ogling as she wiped her hands on the edge of the towel slung over her shoulder. “Good,” she said simply, like it was the only thing she’d hoped for yesterday.

After a second, Azzi turned back around and headed into the house without saying anything. The dogs followed her halfway before veering off to chase each other in the side yard. Inside, the house was cool from the AC, and she filled a tall glass with ice water, watching the condensation bloom against the outside as she carried it back outside.

Paige was still at the car when she came back, crouched underneath the hood again. Azzi stepped into her space blocking the sunlight, letting the heat wash over her skin instead of Paige’s.

“Figured you could use this.”

Paige stood up and took the glass with a grateful hum. She took a large gulp saying, “Damn, that hits the spot,” before lifting it to her mouth again and tilting the cup further back.

Azzi’s eyes lingered again. She really didn’t mean to stare, but it was hard not to. The way Paige’s throat moved as she swallowed the water, the sun highlighting the toned lines of her stomach, the way her chest rose and fell under the sun. Paige’s body was built of work, carved by days like this one, under heat and honest work instead of gym lights and mirrors. Azzi was still looking when Paige’s eyes flicked toward her and caught her looking again.

Azzi’s breath got stuck when their eyes met. Paige didn’t say anything, just held her gaze and raised her eyebrow and grinned. Azzi blinked and looked down, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, suddenly very aware of how warm the sun felt on her skin.

Paige lowered the glass and leaned back into the open hood of the car. “Car should be back on the road in a few,” she said. “Assumin’ I don’t melt first.”

Azzi chuckled. “Guess I better keep the water comin’ then.”

“Guess you better,” Paige said, smiling without looking up but Azzi saw it all the same.

Azzi sank down onto the porch swing, the old chains creaking enough to make her presence known anytime Paige wandered if she was still back there. She tucked one leg underneath her and let the other sway gently.

Paige was still at the car, bent forward at the waist and her radio, the same old one she kept in the kitchen, dial always set between static and a country station had been brought out and was sitting on the porch, the faint sound of a woman’s voice crooning about someone who left and someone who replaced them and stayed.

Azzi leaned back and let her head rest against the wood slats, as she let her eyes trace everything around her. Even the breeze had gone soft, like it was taking its time to soak up the moment too.

She didn’t know when the shift had happened. When the tight coil in her chest had loosened to nothing, or when her body stopped bracing for the next jolt. But here, in this stretch of stillness, she could feel herself breathing steadily. She could feel her heart beating to soak in the moment instead of working to keep her alive.

The porch creaked again as she shifted, but everything else stayed still. The world didn’t rush forward. Nobody screaming, no handlers, no cameras trying to catch her off-guard. Just the sun, the sound of a socket wrench clicking, and a pair of dogs convinced the world was theirs and will forever be.

She looked out across the field, the tree line in the distance hazy with heatlines, and it felt like time had paused long enough to let her breathe in it. Deeply. Like her lungs had finally remembered how to fully expand.

And in the middle of it all was Paige, a sweet beautiful angel that offered her nothing but kindness. A woman who for all she was only wanted to be kind to people, not a single part of her trying to be anything she wasn’t.

It was strange, how stillness could feel like so much motion when it settled in the right places. And here, on this porch, in this heat, with this view, she didn’t feel behind or ahead. She just felt right where she was.

…

Later that day the sun had climbed high enough to make the morning golden, offering warmth that didn’t quite feel like goodbye yet—but it was. Azzi could feel it in her chest, settling somewhere between her ribs and her heart as she stood next to the car, her fingers brushing lightly over Beau’s ears one last time while Stew leaned calmly against her legs. The dogs didn’t know she was leaving, they just knew she felt different.

Breakfast had been good. Too good as they talked for a few hours. Which made this part worse.

Paige had walked next to her toward the car and the tank top she had thrown on when Azzi said something about a distraction was now clinging to skin. The towel was still thrown casually over her shoulder like she wasn’t in a hurry for anything and Azzi wished, selfishly, that she wasn’t either.

Paige opened the driver side door for Azzi with that same respect she always carried. Azzi hesitated, her thumb hooked in the belt loop of the jeans she was still wearing…Paige’s jeans, loose at the hips.

Paige’s eyes dipped down, noticing how Azzi was toying with them and the corner of her mouth curved into a smile. “Keep ’em,” she said. “They look better on you anyway.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, the sound too soft to be anything but genuine. She slipped into the driver’s seat and let her hands settle on the wheel for a second, not starting the car.

Paige leaned one hand against the open door frame, the sun catching in her hair. “It was nice meetin’ you, darlin’,” she said, easily. “Be safe out there. And try not to go knockin’ on too many farmhouses, alright? Everybody out here ain’t as charmin’ as I am.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, smiling despite the weight in her chest. “So you finally admit it.”

Paige grinned like she’d been waiting for that all weekend. “Guess I do.”

For a few heartbeats, they just looked at each other, the sunlight slipping between them like a silent message being scent from the universe.

Azzi tilted her head in confusion. “So...do we hug? Or…I don’t know what happens now?”

Paige’s grin turned fonder. “C’mere,” she said, already taking a step back so Azzi could get out of the car.

Azzi stepped out and into Paige’s arms like she’d been waiting to do it all weekend. Paige was warm, still a little sweaty from working on the car and surprisingly Azzi didn’t mind, too caught up in how strong her arms felt around her.

“Sorry,” Paige whispered near her ear. “I’m a little gross.”

Azzi didn’t pull away as she rested her face near Paige’s neck. “You just fixed my car. No need to apologize.”

They held there for a few seconds longer than they probably should have, but neither of them seemed in a rush to break it. When Azzi finally stepped back, Paige’s hand lingered lightly on her waist before falling away.

Azzi nodded once, slipping back into the car and closing the door, with her window down. “Thank you,” she said, and they both knew it meant more than just the car repair.

Paige nodded. “You ever find yourself headin’ back this way,” she said, “I’ll be around.”

Azzi started the engine, the familiar hum somehow feeling more like an intrusion now. She looked out the window at Paige, at the dogs, at the farmhouse still holding onto the morning like it wasn’t ready to let go either.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. Her hand moved to the gear shift. But she didn’t put it in drive.

Paige caught the hesitation and leaned down a little, resting her forearm against the open window. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Azzi glanced down at her lap, then back up. She was unsure for a second, until something steadied in her. The worst Paige could say was no and for some reason in her chest Azzi didn’t feel like she would.

“I don’t want this to be the end of whatever this is,” Azzi said honestly. “I haven’t seen you use it once this weekend, but maybe I could get your number?”

Paige’s grin grew, and her eyes sparkled a little bit. “I was hopin’ you’d ask.”

Azzi unlocked her phone and handed it to Paige. She typed her number in and then handed it back back to Azzi without saving a name, leaving it blank.

“Figure you can name me whatever suits me,” Paige said with a bashful shrug. “Farmer girl, dog wrangler, that sweaty woman who fixed your car...”

Azzi laughed softly, her cheeks feeling a little warm as she typed something in and hit save before locking the phone and putting it down.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

Azzi smiled at Paige sweetly. “You’ll just have to text me and find out.”

That earned her a shake of the head and a grin from Paige as she stepped back. “Be safe out there, beautiful,” she said again, quieter this time. “I know the city roads ain’t as kind to you as this one.”

Azzi looked to memorize this moment. The curve of Paige’s jaw in the sun, the towel still looped over her shoulder, her boots planted in the dirt like she’d been born to be connected to the earth.

“Thank you Paige,” was the only thing Azzi could offer back, the words hinting at everything she couldn’t quite say.

Then slowly she eased the car down the makeshift driveway. Paige stood where she was letting her eyes track the car until she couldn’t.

At the same time Azzi checked the rearview mirror once. Then again and Paige was still there, still watching her drive away.

Azzi looked through the mirror until the farmhouse slipped out of view, and she had no choice but to keep going forward, the sound of the engine a little less harsh now, softened by the memory of something good behind her and something better waiting for her.

[billysgirllol]

“i’d ask ‘em to play games with me, because i think that’d be a fun way to engage. make sure we have a party.” lucy gray grins, thinking she’s got it ALL figured out. “billy bonney, how am i supposed to be takin’ this conversation seriously without laughing,” as she’s already doing in between her words, “when you say fart filled sleepin’ bag.” another laugh, head tilting back as it does when she’s just filled with too much giddiness. “but yeah…” actually, that’ll DO it, reminded of pat’s vile trick today. “that makes me feel weird, knowin’ now how innocent he played it off too— it’s really like he can convince you he wasn’t doing it, billy,” her voice takes on a serious tone now, a hint of fear even curling around the soft way she speaks. “and it’s overall gross thinkin’ on it.” he was putting his hands on her body intentionally. makes her heart drop in her stomach but then anger settles in it, a fire starts to grow then revenge rears it’s head— what could she do? mind gets to pondering furiously. a snake, she bets. she bets she could find a harmless one and stick it DOWN his fart filled sleeping bag early in the morning… she ain’t one to just let things go after an injustice has been served. “wish we had the camper all to ourselves.” lucy gray frowns, wishing none of the smelly guys were there and they could have the rv or a rv all to their selves. “i’d love that a million times over, you could be him, but— you also can’t. cause then i’d be mad, if i can’t be your ariel.” doe eyes roll at just thinking of some girl other than her acting along aside HER prince eric. “best night?” brows lift, eyes softening in surprise, heart doing more flips as their eyes meet.

“yeah,” her eyes drop back to his shoulders, the cool metal of her B necklace laying back against her chest when she raises up a little making her realize it’s there, wishing she could do all kinds of crazy things to his shoulders, “those are some good lookin’ shoulders.” she blurts, then laughs to herself because she’s embarrassed. cheeks becoming inflamed at even THINKING of said crazy things… which causes her to scrub his head faster when alerted to how heated her down below feels, swirling all around until every inch of his head has been covered. what a crime, to continually fantasize about your best guy friend. she silently scolds herself because WHY does she always end up doing that? but then again… dreamy eyes drifting to the starry sky, right hand scrubbing his hair at a slower pace now, left hand touching the necklace on her chest, how can she refrain? when he irritates her and makes her mad, but he also makes her mad… he’s the love of her life since he saved her on his fence, every time he looks at her with his sweet and beautiful eyes, when his hand randomly comes up and strokes her cheek, when he’s a taylor swift song and she’s wearing his initial around her neck, when he’s crazily protective of her, all of that makes her insanely in love with him and she can’t help it just travels in between her legs. it’s so romantic, the way emotions and feelings are crafted to fuel a desire to make love to someone. if this isn’t all just a heat of a moment thing, a plan that her body is just trying to trick her just to reproduce, and she still wakes up tomorrow wanting to trust in him again because right now she trusts in neither— one day she is gonna marry him and drag him back to a moonlit lake, but actually act on kissing him.

“mhm, sure will. i think a late night talk show would be fun.” lucy gray responds, feeling like a hairstylist having chitchat with her client. “they are, they definitely are, i agree. a group of girls is vastly different than a group of guys. which is funny, how that all came to be.” she muses, laughing that billy notices it too. girls feel safer and more peaceful and better smelling to be around and then guys are less inviting feeling, smell bad and can’t really have an overall pleasant time because there’s too much testosterone and always someone is either flirting or being a dog in some other kind of way. “course i like them a lot, i love them. and remember? little ole me always said you were a prince, because of your curls. first thing i noticed about you.” she reminisces, retelling her favorite story for the hundredth time to him. but she doesn’t mind, she loves any chance getting to tell it over again. “why? you havin’ fun?” playing innocent, shyly dipping down some more when he turns around. her heart exploding like fireworks when his affectionate hand reaches up to stroke her cheek, it’s so darling and so sweet. nothin’ is more swoon inducing than that. it’s like he’s trying to make her fall into his arms and start attacking him in kisses… well, he’s certainly not makin’ it easy for her. a laugh sounds from her at him saying he’s getting BAPTIZED, lucy gray plugging his ears for him when he goes under before letting go once he comes back up. “alright, great job.” she grabs her shampoo next, loading her palm with some blend of coconut and vanilla organic curly hair oriented shampoo then taking both palms and spreading it over his locks. fingers scrubbing deep into his roots, moving from the top of his head to the sides.

[oikawaisincrisis]

Built on sandcastles ~ D.S.

Pairing: Daichi Sawamura x Suga’s sister!Reader

Summary: He’s always been your brother’s best friend, he’s always been there from sandcastles to high-school crushes. But somewhere along the way, he became so much more.

CW (content warning): Reader is Suga’s little sister (a year younger than him and Daichi), jealous Daichi, very slightly angst, mutual pining, mentions of a physical fight, not much more this is 99% tooth rotting fluff.

AN: Hi guys! So here’s the second instalment on the childhood series I talked about making on my last Atsumu work. Since Daichi is going last on my medieval AU masterlist (a crime in my opinion) I thought about making this to post something for me and the other 5 Daichi’s fans out there! 🫵🏻 English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry if there’s any mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

Sandcastles (Ages 4 and 5)

The playground was loud with the kind of wild, half-screamed laughter only kids could get away with. Metal clanged, sneakers pounded on the concrete, and a ball thudded against the fence before bouncing away unnoticed. You sat by yourself in the sandbox, a little island of quiet in a world moving too fast around you.

Sugawara’s friends were over again, he was already in first grade, and that made him cool. Too cool, apparently, to let his baby sister join their soccer game. You didn’t mind, not really. You were only four, and four-year-olds were apparently not old enough to keep up.

So you dug into the dry sand with your tiny plastic shovel, determined not to cry even though your throat felt tight. You’d been trying to build a castle, but it kept falling apart, slumping into sad piles like your mood.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

The voice made you look up. A boy with round cheeks, sun-warmed skin, and messy dark hair stood just outside the sandbox, a soccer ball tucked under one arm. You blinked at him. He wasn’t your brother, but you’d seen him around. He was always with Koushi.

“I’m not.” You said, lips wobbling even though you were trying to sound tough.

He tilted his head. “You kind of are.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re mean.”

“I’m Daichi.” He corrected instead, then stepped into the sandbox like he belonged there. “Can I help?”

You stared at him for a long second, then nodded slowly. His smile was wide and toothy, and you didn’t know it yet, but that smile would become one of your favorite things in the world.

“I’m building a castle.” You explained seriously, gesturing to the sad pile in front of you.

Daichi sat cross-legged beside you and squinted down at it. “It looks more like a mountain.”

You pouted.

“Okay, okay! Castle. Right.” He started scooping up handfuls of sand and packing them into lumpy towers. They were terrible, worse than yours and he kept knocking them over with his elbows. But he made you laugh.

When he managed to accidentally collapse one of your towers for the third time, he dropped his chin into his hands and sighed dramatically. “I’m really bad at this.”

“You’re terrible.” You agreed through a giggle, and that only made him grin harder.

“You know what would make it better?” He asked suddenly. “A moat. Castles always have moats.”

Together, you spent the next twenty minutes digging a crooked, shallow circle around your “castle” Daichi got sand in his socks and down the back of his shirt. You both ended up dirty and sun-warmed and happy.

When Koushi came running over to tell Daichi you were going home soon, you felt a little pang in your chest.

“Bye!” You said, waving your sandy hand.

“Bye!” He said, then paused. “You build really good castles.”

Your face lit up.

That was the very first time Daichi Sawamura made your heart feel a little bit bigger.

——————————————————————————

Skinned knees (ages 6 and 7)

“TAG! You’re it!”

“No fair, I wasn’t ready!”

Daichi bolted across the grass, arms pumping, sneakers kicking up dirt. He was fast, always had been, but the older kids had longer legs, and that meant he had to try harder to keep up. He liked that. It made him feel strong. Grown-up.

Until, of course, he didn’t see the root sticking up in the grass. His foot caught. His body pitched forward, and he hit the ground hard.

“DAICHI!” Koushi yelled.

“I’m fine!” He called back instantly, sitting up fast even though his knees burned and stung. His palms were scraped too, small pebbles sticking to the torn skin. It hurt.

But boys didn’t cry, right?

Still, his lip was trembling a little as he brushed at his knee. There was blood. Not a lot, but enough to make his stomach feel weird. He looked up and saw Sugawara running toward him, panic written all over his face.

And then he saw you, a small blur of pink and pigtails breaking into a run across the grass, your little shoes thudding hard. Daichi quickly looked down again.

“Daichi!” You called, breathless by the time you dropped to your knees beside him. “You’re bleeding!”

“‘M okay.” He mumbled.

But you were already digging into the tiny pink Hello Kitty pouch you carried everywhere. Out came a tissue, slightly crumpled but clean, and a bandaid decorated with sparkly stars.

You dabbed carefully at his knee, tongue peeking out in concentration. “You’re not okay.” You said matter-of-factly. “But it’s okay to cry, you know.”

He looked at you, wide-eyed.

“You’re allowed to cry.” You repeated gently, and then, without warning, you blew softly on his scraped knee.

Daichi blinked fast. He didn’t cry, not really, but his shoulders dropped, the tight knot in his chest loosening just a bit.

You peeled the bandaid and smoothed it over the cut with gentle fingers.

“There!” You said beaming up at him. “All better.”

And he looked at you like you’d just fixed the world.

——————————————————————————

The recital (ages 10 and 11)

Your heart was beating too fast.

You stood just off-stage, fingers twitching with nerves. The recital hall was bigger than you remembered. The polished black piano sat center stage like a challenge, and the rows of folding chairs were filled with strangers. Parents. Teachers. Judges.

Not your parents, though.

They wanted to come. They really did. But Koushi had a fever over 102, and your mom couldn’t leave his side. Your dad stayed too, and though you told them it was okay, your voice had cracked on the word.

You knew it wasn’t their fault but your stomach still twisted with disappointment as your name was called.

The walk to the piano felt miles long. You sat on the bench, placed your hands on the keys, and took a shaky breath.

You started to play. The first few notes were hesitant, your fingers stumbling, but muscle memory took over. You got lost in the melody, pouring your heart into the piece you’d practiced for weeks. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours. When the final note faded, there was polite applause.

You stood, bowed, and left the stage with your hands trembling. Your throat burned. You weren’t going to cry, not here, not in front of everyone but it was close.

You stepped out into the hallway, wiping at your eyes before they could spill over.

“Hey.”

You jumped.

Daichi stood there, awkward in a button-up shirt that didn’t fit him quite right and jeans a little too long. His hair was combed for once. He held a crumpled bouquet of flowers, yellow daisies and baby’s breath tied together with a string.

Your mouth dropped open. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Koushi said you had your recital. Your parents couldn’t come, so I… figured someone should.”

Your hands curled around the bouquet automatically. “You came?”

“I was a little late.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I saw the whole thing. You were amazing.”

You blinked fast. “I messed up at the start.”

“But you kept going. And you didn’t run offstage crying or throw the piano stool or anything. So, yeah. Amazing.”

You laughed, half-choked and half-sniffled. “That’s a bit dumb.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But I brought flowers.”

You stared at the yellow petals, heart warm and aching. The hallway was quiet now, just the two of you. You didn’t say anything for a moment. “Thank you.”

Daichi looked at you, softer than usual. “Anytime.”

And somehow you knew he meant it.

——————————————————————————

Fever (ages 11 and 12)

It was supposed to be just a quick errand.

Koushi was stuck finishing an assignment, and Daichi had come home from the overnight school camp sick, like really sick. Fever, sore throat, barely-talking kind of sick. His mom called in to say he’d be home for at least two days. And with the teachers sending over homework, someone had to drop it off.

So, Koushi looked at you. "Please?"

You grumbled a little, but truthfully? You didn’t mind.

You arrived at the Sawamuras’ place after school, your backpack heavier than usual and the plastic folder of assignments crumpling slightly in your grip. Daichi’s mom answered the door, soft-eyed and frazzled, thanking you a little too many times as she let you in.

“He’s upstairs.” She said. “Been sleeping most of the day, but maybe hearing a friend’s voice will help.”

You didn’t correct her. You weren’t sure what to call it friendship didn’t feel like enough anymore. But it was easier that way. Koushi surely was Daichi’s friend but you weren’t exactly sure what you were to him.

Daichi’s room was warm and dim when you pushed the door open gently.

He looked… awful. His face was flushed, dark hair stuck to his forehead, mouth slightly parted as he breathed raggedly through a stuffed-up nose. A cold cloth lay half-slid off his head, and the blanket was tangled around his legs.

You set your bag down quietly and crossed over to the bed. “Hey.” You whispered. “It’s me.”

No response.

You bit your lip, then climbed into the chair by his bedside. You picked up the fallen cloth and stood to re-wet it from the bowl on the nightstand, wringing it out and gently placing it back across his forehead.

Still nothing.

You sighed, then leaned your chin into your hand and began to talk. About school. About your teachers. About how Koushi nearly got detention for talking back to the gym coach. You told him about the vending machine that swallowed your money and about how your lunch had tasted weird but not bad, and how the clouds looked like mashed potatoes that day.

At some point, you looked down and realized he’d turned his face slightly toward your voice.

You reached for his hand. It was warm too warm, but he didn’t let go.

You stayed there, fingers wrapped around his and words spilling quietly into the air. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until Daichi muttered something under his breath.

You froze.

“What was that?”

He twitched slightly. A soft, strained sound left him. “...’m sorry…”

You frowned, leaning closer. “Daichi?”

His eyes stayed closed, breath shallow. Then, barely above a whisper,your name. Just your name, drifting out like an anchor in a fever dream. Your heart climbed right into your throat.

“I’m here.” You whispered back instinctively. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t reply again. But his hand never let go and you swore he held on tighter for a moment.

——————————————————————————

The quiet thread (quiet moments over the years)

You weren’t quite sure when it started to feel like something more.

There wasn’t a single moment, but a series of them, threaded together like tiny lights on a string, warm and blinking and easy to miss unless you really looked.

At his matches, you were always in the front row. Screaming his name when he served, clapping until your palms stung. You learned the game slowly, enough to keep up. Enough to see the way his eyes found you first when he landed a good spike. Always you.

At movie nights with the team, he always saved you a seat. Never said it outright, but it was always there, the spot beside him, the bowl of popcorn between you, the way he’d tilt the box of juice toward you first before taking one himself.

Once, Nishinoya tried to take your usual seat as a joke. Daichi didn’t even say anything, just gave him a look. That was all it took.

Noya grinned. “Okay, okay, got it. ‘Princess’ seat.’”

You rolled your eyes.

Daichi didn’t say a word.

But he smiled when you sat beside him anyway.

On rainy days, he’d offer his umbrella before you could ask. “You can give it back tomorrow.” He’d say, rubbing the back of his neck while the rain soaked his shoulders. You gave it back the next day every time. And somehow… it always smelled like him after.

When your cat died, he walked three blocks to your house even though it was a school night. Said he brought homework from Koushi but he never opened the folder. He just sat with you, quiet, legs crossed on your bedroom floor as you cried. When he finally left that night, your pillow smelled like his hoodie.

There was nothing romantic about it. Not yet. It wasn’t flirting. It was more. It was trust, built soft and slow. It was knowing that you could fall asleep in the middle of a movie night and wake up with a blanket over your shoulders and Daichi’s jacket folded beneath your head. It was brushing hands accidentally in the popcorn bowl and not pulling away. It was watching him laugh and not knowing why it made your chest ache.

It was all the things neither of you had words for. Not yet, but something was coming.

And somewhere in the space between childhood and whatever came next, the two of you had become each other’s safest place.

——————————————————————————

What it feels like (ages 15 and 16)

You never knew that watching someone get confessed to could hurt.

It was spring, and the hallways smelled like too many flowers and teenage hope. First-years were already rushing to get their chocolates ready for Valentine’s Day, and second-years were just starting to get bold with handwritten letters and awkward hallway meetups.

Daichi was tall and broad-shouldered by then Captain material, dependable and easy to talk to, with a smile that made even the teachers melt.

You saw it happen again and again: a girl standing with her hands clenched around a ribbon-tied box, red-cheeked and trembling. And Daichi, polite as ever, bowing his head with that apologetic smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I’m really sorry. Thank you, though.”

And the girl would wilt a little, whisper it was okay, then rush away.

He never accepted. Not once.

And you didn’t know why it twisted your stomach the way it did. Why your heart sped up every time someone even looked at him like that. Why you caught yourself searching his face for a reaction he never gave. Why part of you felt strangely relieved when he turned them all down.

It made no sense. He wasn’t yours. He never had been. Still, every time he smiled at someone else, even just to say “no”, something inside you clenched like a fist.

You didn’t have a word for it back then. But it lived in you, quiet and constant. A dull, aching gravity.

——————————————————————————

The fight (ages 16 and 17)

It started with a name you’d gotten tired of hearing. Kento Takagi. He was a second-year, he was tall, annoying, way too smug. The first time he asked you out, you were polite. The second time, you were firm.

The third time, you ignored him completely. By the sixth time, you were one deep breath away from shoving your school shoe directly into his face.

You were standing just outside the school gates, trying to pack your books into your bag, when he approached again. “Come on, just one date.” He said, reaching for your wrist when you turned away. “You’re not even giving me a chance-”

“Let go.” You snapped.

That’s when you heard the sharp voice from behind you.

“She said let go.”

You turned. Sugawara got there first, stepping between you and Kento like a calm wall of sunshine and thinly veiled menace. “You’ve asked her enough times. She’s not interested. Take the hint.”

You could’ve hugged him.

But it was Daichi who arrived seconds later, face unreadable, steps deliberate.

Kento scoffed. “Seriously? You’ve got two bodyguards now?”

And that was when he grabbed your arm again. That was his mistake.

Daichi shoved between you before you could react, his hand closing around Kento’s wrist like steel. “Are you deaf?” His voice low and cold, “She told you to let go.”

Kento sneered. “What’s it to you? You her boyfriend or something?”

It happened too fast. Daichi’s fist swung clean and hard - crack - straight into Kento’s jaw. The other boy stumbled backward, clutching his face, spitting curses and blood.

“DAICHI!” Sugawara shouted.

Your heart dropped. “What- ?!”

And then the teachers were there, and everything blurred, raised voices, hands pulling them apart, Kento wailing about “assault” and Daichi just standing there, jaw clenched, breathing hard, knuckles bleeding.

——————————————————————————

The walk home (later that day)

Daichi got detention. Of course he did.

One week. After school. Report filed, parents notified.

You waited for him anyway.

You sat on the stone steps just outside the gym, watching the sun dip low behind the school roof. You weren’t sure if he’d even want you there after what happened, but your legs stayed glued to the steps.

He came out just as the light started to fade.

“Hey.” You said.

He paused. “You waited?”

“Duh.” You muttered, standing. “Who else is gonna yell at you for punching a guy like an idiot?”

A smile tugged at his mouth, tired and faint. He didn’t say anything else.

You walked side by side in silence for a while, the wind tugging at your sleeves, leaves skittering across the sidewalk. His hand hovered just a few inches from yours, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of it.

You didn’t move away.

When you finally reached your street, you caught the way he flexed his fingers, bruised and red, still split at the knuckles.

“Come here.” You said quietly, turning into your driveway instead. “Let me clean that.”

He didn’t argue. You sat him down at the kitchen counter and pulled out the first aid box. He sat obediently, arm resting on the table, watching as you opened the kit with practiced hands.

The light in the kitchen was soft, gold and humming. You dipped a cotton ball into antiseptic, glancing at him before pressing it gently to the raw skin. “This is probably going to sting.”

“I’ve had worse.” He muttered.

You didn’t ask when. You didn’t like thinking about him getting hurt. You worked slowly, carefully, dabbing at the scrapes and cuts, the silence between you thick with things unsaid.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You said finally, voice too soft. “I could’ve handled it.”

Daichi didn’t look away from you. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Your chest tightened. “Still…”

He shook his head slightly. “I don’t care if I got detention. I’d do it again.”

Your fingers paused over the edge of a bandage. The weight of the moment pressed between you. You wrapped the gauze slowly, smoothing it flat over his knuckles. Your hands lingered on his, thumbs grazing gently across his skin.

He wasn’t looking away. Neither were you. You could feel his breath, short and uneven. His hand turned slightly, palm brushing yours.

“Daichi…” You whispered.

His eyes dropped to your lips. Your heart stopped. He leaned in-

-and then pulled back, sharp and sudden.

His chair scraped softly against the tile. “Thanks.” He said, voice too stiff. “For… patching me up.”

You sat frozen, heart pounding, mouth still parted like a question. He didn’t look at you again as he stood to leave.

And just like that, the moment passed, too big, too heavy, too much for two people still pretending they didn’t already belong to each other.

——————————————————————————

Realization (ages 16 and 17)

You didn’t realize it all at once.

It crept in slowly, quietly, like a song you’d heard too many times to really hear until one day, it cracked you wide open.

It was in the way he laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that made your stomach flutter.

It was the way he always noticed when something was off. The way he handed you your favorite drink without being asked. The way he texted you before every exam: You’ve got this. I believe in you.

It was the way he looked at you after matches, chest still heaving, sweat dripping down his temple but his eyes always found you in the crowd first. Always you.

It was in the small things. Because that’s where Daichi always lived.

And one night, alone in your room, scrolling through the blurry picture Suga had taken of you and Daichi at the last team festival, him smiling wide, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, you felt it all at once.

You loved him.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It just was. And it hurt. Because he had never said anything. He had pulled away from you that night with bruised knuckles and trembling silence. And despite everything you thought you saw in his eyes, he had never crossed the line.

Not once.

So maybe… he really did just see you as Koushi’s little sister. Someone he’d always protected. Someone who had always been around. Familiar. Comfortable.

You told yourself it was fine. That you understood. But the ache in your chest said otherwise.

——————————————————————————

The confession (and it’s not his)

His name was Riku Yamamoto.

He was sweet. Polite. Sat next to you in art class and smelled like peppermint and clean laundry. He made you laugh with his bad puns, and once stayed behind to help you carry paints back to the storage room.

And then one day, after class, heart in his hands, he confessed.

You blinked at him for a long second. “Wait, me?”

Riku flushed. “Yeah. I know it’s kind of sudden, and you probably don’t see me that way, but I just… I thought I’d try. One date. That’s all I’m asking.”

You hesitated. Then you said yes. Not because you didn’t love Daichi. But because he didn’t love you back and, maybe, if someone else looked at you like that, like you were the one they’d been hoping for, maybe it would be enough to forget the feeling of being invisible to the only boy who had ever mattered.

Daichi didn’t find out from you. He found out from Koushi.

It was after practice, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, everyone sprawled out in the gym, sweat and laughter hanging thick in the air. Koushi was chatting absentmindedly about weekend plans, tossing his water bottle from hand to hand.

“Yeah, I think [Y/N]’s got a date with that Yamamoto kid.” He said casually, wiping his forehead.

Daichi froze. “What?”

Koushi looked up. “Huh? Oh, Riku. You know, from Class 2-C? She said he asked her out and she figured, why not.”

The air shifted. Daichi’s grip on his towel tightened.

“Oh.” He said, flat and hollow.

Koushi paused, brows furrowing. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Daichi lied. “Fine.”

But he wasn’t. Something cold and sick settled deep in his chest, and it didn’t move.

You didn’t hear from him for two days. No texts. No calls. Not even a glance when you passed in the hallway. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But by the second day, your chest was too tight to ignore it anymore.

You cornered him after practice, outside the locker room, where the hallway was dim and empty.

“Daichi.” You said, breathless. “Why are you avoiding me?”

He turned, slowly, sweat still clinging to his hairline. “I’m not.”

“You are. You haven’t talked to me in two days.”

He shrugged, expression unreadable. “Been busy.”

“With what? Pretending I don’t exist?”

He flinched,just barely, but you caught it.

“You’re mad.” You said. “Why?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then what is it?”

He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!” Your voice cracked. “Just say it, Daichi! If you’re upset, then say it! Why have you been avoiding me since Koushi told you that I was going on a date?!”

And then it hit like thunder, loud and raw, shoving out of him before he could stop it. “Because I- ”

But he stopped.

Your breath hitched. “Because you what?”

Daichi stared at you, chest rising and falling. And then- Nothing. Silence. He looked down, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

He reached for you instinctively. “Wait- ”

You stepped back. “No.” You said. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to get jealous and act like you care and then say nothing.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“I’ve spent years loving you, Daichi.” You whispered. “And I thought… maybe you felt something too. But you never said anything. You just left me hanging. And now I finally say yes to someone else, and now you care?”

He looked shattered.

You shook your head, blinking hard. “I’m not doing this anymore.” You said as you turned and walked away.

Daichi stood frozen in the hallway long after you were gone, gutted and ghost-silent, realizing too late that maybe the biggest mistake he’d ever made was thinking silence would keep you safe.

——————————————————————————

The fallout (ages 16 and 17)

Daichi was a mess.

He went through practice like a ghost, movements tight, eyes distant. He forgot to bring his lunch two days in a row. He barely spoke unless someone asked him a direct question. When he did speak, it was flat, empty, like someone else had taken up residence in his chest.

He still couldn’t believe it. He’d hurt you. You, the one person he’d sworn to never hurt. And he’d done it not with his fists, not with his voice, but with his silence. It was almost worse.

“Okay, I’ve had enough.” Sugawara said, finally slamming his bento box down during lunch break.

Daichi blinked across the bench. “Huh?”

“You’re miserable. [Y/N]’s miserable. Everyone within a 10-meter radius of you two is miserable. And I’m tired of being the only emotionally functioning person in this hellhole.”

“I- ” Daichi started.

“No. Shut up and listen to me.”

Sugawara leaned forward, voice dropping low, expression dead serious.

“I’ve known you my whole life. You’ve been my best friend since we were basically in diapers. And I knew. I knew you were in love with her before you did.”

Daichi stared, color draining from his face.

“You used to look at her like she was the whole damn world. Still do, honestly. But the second someone else looked at her that way? You freaked. You got scared. And instead of saying something, you broke her heart.”

Daichi swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to- ”

“I know.” Sugawara said gently. “That’s the problem.”

A beat of silence.

Then Suga sighed, raking a hand through his hair before adding with brutal softness, “You’re my best friend, Daichi. I trust you. But if you make her cry again…” He leaned in, all warmth gone. “I’ll make sure you never have kids.”

Daichi choked. “Jesus- ”

“I mean it.”

“I know, that’s what makes it worse.”

“Now go fix it.” Suga said, softening again. “Before someone else does.”

——————————————————————————

Not him

Riku was kind. He held your hand when you let him. He smiled when he looked at you. He paid attention. He didn’t try to be anything other than himself. He was… safe

But he wasn’t Daichi. He didn’t notice the way you only ever half-laughed. He didn’t know that you hated sour candy but kept a pack in your bag because Daichi liked it.

He didn’t know that the piano pieces you played the most were the ones Daichi had once said made him feel like flying.

And it wasn’t fair to either of you.

So one quiet afternoon after class, you sat on the bleachers behind the school and looked at Riku’s warm, patient face and whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled, sad but understanding. “I figured.”

“No hard feelings?”

He shook his head. “You don’t forget someone like him. I wouldn’t want to compete with that either.”

You laughed, choked and wet and when he hugged you goodbye, you didn’t cry. Because the only person who could make you cry like that… was the one who already had.

——————————————————————————

The doorstep

It was three days after you ended things with Riku when the knock came at your door. You opened it and froze.

Daichi stood there on your porch, rain misting through his hair, his hoodie clinging slightly to his shoulders like he’d run here even though the walk wasn’t far.

His eyes were wide. Nervous. He looked wrecked.

“Hey….” He said, breathless. “Can I… talk to you?”

You nodded, heart pounding. He stepped in, water dripping from his sleeves. He didn’t sit. Just stood there, shifting like he couldn’t figure out how to stand still.

“I heard you broke up with Riku.”

You blinked. “How- ?”

“Suga.” He admitted. Of course.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “If you came to say I shouldn’t have- ”

“No.” He said immediately, almost desperately. “No. That’s not why I came.” He inhaled like it hurt. “I came because I should’ve said something. A long time ago. And I’m scared if I don’t say it now, I’ll never get another chance.”

You froze. He looked at you then, all soft vulnerability and breaking open.

“I’ve been in love with you since I was eight and you made me those stupid flower crowns at the park.” He said, voice cracking. “I didn’t even know what that meant back then, I just knew that when you smiled at me, I felt like the sun was coming up inside my chest.”

Your breath caught.

“You’ve always been more than just Suga’s little sister to me. You’ve been my best friend, my safe place, my home. And I was an idiot for thinking that staying quiet was somehow protecting you. I thought if I kept things the same, if I stayed in that ‘safe’ space, you’d never leave. But I hurt you instead.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe.

He shifted, eyes wide and panicked. “I- I don’t know if you can forgive me. I get it if you’re done. I just- ” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just had to tell you. Because I meant it. Every time I looked at you I couldn’t pull my eyes away because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I didn’t know how to say it then, but I do now, and- ”

“Daichi.” You whispered.

He froze mid-ramble. “What- ?”

“Just shut up.” You stepped forward and kissed him.

Soft. Slow. Certain. And he melted.

Your hands slid up to cup his jaw, his cheeks cold from the rain. His fingers trembled as they touched your waist, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you smiled.

“Welcome home.” You whispered.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob at once and held you like he’d never let go again.

Later that night, curled up beside him on the couch, the soft glow of the TV washing over your skin, Daichi whispered. “I was so scared you’d moved on.”

“I tried.” You murmured into his shoulder. “Didn’t work.”

He chuckled. “Good.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “What about Suga?”

“I already got the threat.” He said, deadpan. “Something about not having kids?”

You grinned. “Sounds like him.”

Daichi leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Worth it.”

You sighed into his chest. It had taken you years but you were here now. No more almosts. No more silence. Just the two of you, finally.

—————————————————————————

When Suga finds out

The moment you told Koushi, you were terrified. Not because you thought he’d be mad. You knew your brother, he’d probably suspected it for years.

But because Daichi, the captain of Karasuno’s volleyball team, defender of justice and protector of your heart, had gone completely pale.

“Okay, okay.” You whispered, gripping his hand. “He’s not going to kill you.”

“I don’t know.” Daichi muttered. “He did threaten to neuter me.”

“Okay, valid.”

So naturally, when you finally told him one evening after dinner, it went exactly as expected and also, somehow, worse.

You sat him down in the living room. Daichi looked like he was preparing for a firing squad. You reached for his hand and took a deep breath.

“Koushi.” You said gently. “We have something to tell you.”

He blinked.

Daichi cleared his throat. “I… I’m dating your sister.”

A beat. Koushi saw the opportunity of his life and he was going to milk it. His eyes narrowed, slowly, like a cat sensing prey.

“My best friend.” He said. “My lifelong best friend.”

Daichi nodded, bracing. “Yes.”

“My sister.” Koushi added. “Who I have known since she was a literal embryo.”

“Correct.”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Betrayal. My blood. My captain. You’ve conspired under my very nose!”

“Oh my god.” You groaned. “Koushi, please.”

“I leave you two alone for five seconds and suddenly there’s hand holding in my house? Kissing under my roof?”

Daichi was already hiding behind a throw pillow. But then Koushi dropped the act, grinning so wide it made your eyes sting.

“Took you long enough.” He said, eyes kind. “God. You’ve been making heart eyes at each other since grade school.”

You blinked. “You’re not… mad?”

“Please.” He scoffed. “You think I’d have let just anyone get close to you like that? I’ve been waiting for you idiots to figure it out.”

You exhaled, relief slumping your shoulders.

Then he added with a smirk, “But I swear, if I walk in on you making out, I will bleach my eyeballs.”

He did in in fact, end up walking in on you making out.

To be fair, you thought he was out with the team. And Daichi thought the coast was clear.

So when he kissed you against the kitchen counter, slow and thorough you tugged at the hem of his shirt, and he whispered something that made your knees weak-

“OH MY GOD- ”

You both leapt apart like guilty teenagers caught red-handed.

Koushi’s face was scarlet. “I eat there! The counter!”

Daichi was already halfway behind the fridge door.

You covered your face. “Koushi, we weren’t- ”

“You had your tongue in his soul, [Y/N]!”

“Koushi!”

Daichi wheezed. “I’m sorry-”

“You’re dead to me, Sawamura! Dead!”

——————————————————————————

Graduation day (ages 17 and 18)

Karasuno’s gym was buzzing with laughter and soft music, the crowd a sea of uniforms and proud parents. You were practically vibrating with excitement, your camera hanging from your neck, phone fully charged.

You spotted them immediately.

Daichi, sharp in his black gakuran, shoulders broad, smile wide and Koushi, looking radiant as ever, waving his arms dramatically from a distance.

You ran toward them and threw your arms around Daichi first, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “You did it!”

He laughed, wrapping you up tight. “We did it.”

You pulled back only to be immediately seized by your brother.

“Betrayed.” Koushi said, loud and overdramatic. “I’m also graduating, and yet you run to him first? My own kin? Have you no shame?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “You’ll live.”

“Will I?”

“You got three flower bouquets, and I saw someone slip you their number.”

“Okay, I’ll live.”

Daichi chuckled, eyes fond as he watched the two of you bicker. Then he slipped his hand into yours, just like he always had. Only now, it meant something.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. You didn’t say it, but he felt it anyway. I’m proud of you.

That night, you sat together on the roof of Daichi’s house, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the stars just starting to peek out. He was quiet beside you, his hand warm over yours.

“So….” You said softly. “What now?”

He smiled. “Police academy starts in a few weeks.”

You nodded. “You’re going to be amazing.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got one more year.” You said. “And then… music school, maybe. I want to teach. Or compose. Maybe both.”

He looked at you like the stars were in your skin.

“I’ll be cheering for you.” He said.

You glanced sideways. “Long-distance okay with you?”

“Only if you promise to send me songs.” He said. “And let me visit you on weekends.”

“Deal.”

You were quiet for a while, the breeze soft around you.

Then Daichi added, voice barely above a whisper. “I want a future with you, you know.”

You looked at him, heart stuttering.

“Not just dating. I mean… life. You. Me. Someday.” He kissed your temple. “I already wasted years of our lives because I was too scared to say something, I plan on spending the rest with you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Good.” You whispered, squeezing his hand. “Because I do too.”

He leaned in, kissed you slow and sweet and everything, the years of near misses, quiet heartbreak, ache and waiting,clicked into place.

Taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

[sapchat]

Who I think would say ‘I love you’ first in the 141 (including Nik cause I’m a whore for that man)

Let’s start with Price, he’s a little grizzled, older but also emotionally constipated. Like a grandparent with their kid but not their grandkid. Little rough around the edges. In his early days, when a lieutenant he’d probably be the first. It’d be a romantic affair, likely after a date, whilst sitting on the couch afterwards with a nightcap…. It’s sweet. But now there’s at least two(2) divorces. And he’s a captain. With men to protect, many who’ve died, some who haven’t.

Now however, it’s you. Said likely without fanfare. Either laying in bed after he’s come back home, or just before he leaves when you drop him at the fence gate. He’s learned that whilst he knows he loves you, he should wait, give it time to make sure you both know that’s what it is. But you know…. And for now…. He’ll learn to accept it until he’s ready to actually say it as well…

Now I’m going in order of rank here, which means it Simon next. Little Ghost. And whilst I love the ‘ghost doesn’t verbally tell you he loves you he shows it’ propaganda, I can’t picture it. This is a man in his late 30s. He’s been to hell and back. He’s seen his family be ripped apart, taped back together then shredded. He says ‘I love you’ first. He knows how it feels to leave words unspoken. To live with regret of not saying something when he should have. And honestly? It’s probably pretty sudden. Now I don’t think Simon will go head first into a relationship without knowing the other. You two knew each other before toeing the line of dating, and when it comes time for him or you to ask the other out. He knows he loves you.

He’s not gonna say it the minute y’all start dating but it’ll be like maybe a week or so in. Quiet, in bed… either facing each other nose to nose, or with you draped over him his hand trailing up and down your arm. It’s said with hesitance but with full devotion behind it. Because he does love you. And he wants you to know he loves you… just in case.

Soap is next. (I’m a firm believer that soap is probably a year or three older than Gaz.) Soap believes in love at first sight. If he could he would’ve told you he loved you the minute your eyes met. Whether that be a grocery store, or when you shove your foot so far into his dick/nuts during sparing. He’s an all in or all out type of guy.

And when he meets someone he enjoys the company of, finds them funny, he’s attractive to them? He’s all in. I feel like he’s definitely the type to think ‘I love you’ after the first date, but he actually says it after the third date….

Gaz! He seems pretty down to earth. He’s learned to get his hands dirty after being with Price and the team. You both say it basically at the same time. It’s quite funny actually! It’s the 5th date, you’ve been official for like half a year (man those deployments he does sucks…), it’s laying on the floor recovering from the biggest food coma you both have ever suffered, it’s quiet, a fireplace video playing on the TV because “nothing beats a Yule log love” the two of you starring at the ceiling when you look at each other, a knowing glint in the others eye with a goofy smile.

He’s simple, he’s sweet. And I feel he’d be the perfect partner he’d keep away from the military life.

Nikolai. I feel like Nikolai’s a toss up… he’s definitely like Price, has maybe one divorce under his belt… or at least a fake divorce or broken hearted fiancé from when he was in the military. What I do know is that he says ‘I love you’ in a silent way without saying ‘I love you’… but it’s definitely after you’ve said it.

It’s said maybe about 5-6 months in, said after something dangerous happened, for either him or you, you’re laying in bed together, fingers tracing down his nose… when you say it, just a little whisper has his eyes close… and in response he tells you his name. His real name—and whilst it isn’t those three words, it’s something meaningful, for now that’s enough….

Kate, Kate Laswell is hard to get a read on I feel. Which is weird because she has more screen time than Nik I’m pretty sure. Kate loves you. Really she does… but she doesn’t really say it. She loves you more through actions than words, she says it in the way flowers or groceries will show up while she’s away, or how when she does come home she always has some sort of gift. Like the expensive vase that came from Africa, or the century old bottle of alcohol that still sits in the rack in the kitchen, yet to be open.

The words are spoken at times, usually said instead of ‘sorry’, but are said nonetheless. It’s something that will cause fights, and will lead to her actually telling you to make up for it. But she’s your wife, and she’s a little emotionally constipated… but she loves you all the same.

[theotherrookie]

"Yeah, it's fun!" Erica replied cheerfully. She liked Bill and the idea of having an extra father figure while hers was missing sounded nice enough. "Well, that works. You're about the same age as Fae's dad too. I bet she'll find that funny."

If Erica's enthusiasm was evident, Willow was staring Bill up and down. Veronica had her own way of dealing with people and was easy to get used to, but she was otherwise unfamiliar with the concept of having a parental figure. She supposed that meant the possibility of doing activities together.

"Are you...any good at fencing?" she finally asked.

An attempt was being made while Erica really couldn't bring herself to like what she was being told.

"Well, that's sad." It was unlikely she'd be watching that musical any time soon.

Rook watched at the way both Lucien and Russell were reacting to her misadventures with a skeptic look on her face.

"Ah yes, it becomes a problem only when I have to suffer." she huffed, "I'm counting on that. And maybe someday I'll show you how to make olive bread."

"That sounds nice. Put some chocolate syrup on it if you can!" Erica suggested, "Yeah! You're going to enjoy it more now."

Despite everything, it couldn't be denied that they were doing their best not to think about what might have been. They could have lost Russell and most likely someone else as well. They had to celebrate that.

"Tropical is nice too!" Erica added.

"Indeed. Although I think I'll go with mint myself." Veronica said, before nodding, "Yes. It was invented last time Edmund incredibly got bored of brewing and decided to give it a try. He wanted to make it rum flavored, but I dissuaded him."

A change for the better, the pirate later admitted. The crew enjoyed it and it was somewhat popular at the shop as well.

Rook chuckled, "You bet it's a reference!"

"I'll have to come back too. It'd be nice to bring some of that stuff to my bosses." Erica said.

But as it looked like all orders had been placed, the ghosts headed off to prepare them swiftly. Veronica then took a seat. Rook did the same, taking the time to adjust and lean back before taking her helmet off.

"Well, guys, we did it. It's time to get started on fixing up the club and make it into the giant middle finger to the hunters it deserves to be!" She chuckled, "I usually don't like poking them but hell, we deserve to be petty. And then, you're all invited to my place for dinner."

Willow nodded again. It was nice to see Antonio being eager to fool around as well. Things had certainly changed for the better and it seemed they would only continue to do so for their own entertainment.

"The two of you are like night and day." the cyborg noted humorously.

"That's the fun part." Rook said, chuckling at the exchange, "I finally have a dad worth being around. You bet I'm going to take advantage of that."

"We quite literally don't have an alternative." Willow pointed out.

Erica nodded. They were definitely short on parents compared to siblings. Her expression shifted to a deep frown as Simon started listing the weirdest names she had ever heard. It was safe to say she much of a fan.

"I don't like Cats. It looks weird." And that was something coming from her.

"Maybe." Rook said, "Yes, Russell. I'm only into garlic bread and things that came out of an oven. I don't care to see Lucien's Arc de triomphe again."

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "When did that happen?"

"When you invited me over to play Oblivion for ten hours and suddenly forgot you had guests over when you went to get changed so we could go grab a bite."

Lucien hid behind the list as he gained a few shades of red. Rook grinned, most satisfied with the reaction.

"I'll have the one from last time– Lemon and mint chocolate with those licorice sticks. And for Erica there's the strawberry cup. What about you, Willow?"

"I'd like the same combination you're having, except with chocolate as well, if possible."

"Of course. With extra sprinkles on top?" The look Rook received confirmed the question was completely unnecessary.

"They are!" Erica said, before she turned to poke the drone. "What are you having, Simon?"

She hoped it'd be something nice. It would have been sad if he had a boring snack on top of being all the way over at his place.

"Nice pick, Leofric. That's about it, then. Do you want something too, mum?"

"I think I'll have the ghost option." Veronica replied, before hovering closer to Bill, "It's made for those of us who don't have the stomach for regular food."

"It comes in three flavors– Raspberry, lemonade and green!" Rook said.

"At worst, you can keep the little umbrella." Veronica added.

[therogueflame]

Me Rehúso

hi lmfao,

here is my first ever joaquin torres x reader i have been wanting to write him for such a long time and lowkey knew i was never gonna get a request for him and like idk i just love him and i love danny ramirez like so much okay bye this is so long and i actually edited it before posting and me rehuso has been on repeat i dont speak a lick of spanish i did my best i love you all sm sm sm sm sm

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

WC: 8.0k

Summary: It was just a drink. Just catching up. Just a little too late to call it nothing.

Warnings: 18+, soft smut, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving, bc danny joaquin is a munch) hurt/comfort, angst, yearning, exes to something, unresolved tension, literally who can resist a man in uniform especially when he looks like THAT?

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

It’s been a while since you were back in D.C., long enough that the city feels both familiar and hollow. The air still clings the same way in summer, heavy and wet and full of car exhaust and carryout, and your body still remembers how to move through it without thinking. Your favorite coffee place is now a nail salon. Your old apartment has new curtains in the window. Everything’s a little different, just enough to remind you that you’re not supposed to be here.

You told yourself it was just a work trip. Nothing more. The kind of thing that comes with a company-paid hotel and a packed schedule and no time for nostalgia. In and out. A few handshakes, a few slide decks, then gone. That was the plan. But then Carla texted. Just a backyard thing, she said. Nothing fancy. Some old friends, some new ones, grill’s at six. You almost said no. You typed out the whole excuse before deleting it. Then you said sure. Maybe. Let me see how I feel.

You didn’t ask who’d be there. You didn’t have to.

Now the sun’s starting to dip and you’re still standing in front of the mirror in your hotel bathroom, brushing your fingers through your hair like it’ll make a difference. You’ve changed twice. You’re not dressed up, not really, but you still keep looking at yourself like you’re trying to find a version of you that won’t care if he shows up.

It ended quietly, the two of you. No real goodbye. Just a slow fade, a handful of unanswered texts, and too much space that neither of you tried hard enough to close. Maybe you were scared. Maybe he was. Maybe you thought you were doing him a favor. You told yourself if you let it go, he’d be free to move on. You told yourself it was kind.

But then the wrong song comes on in an Uber, or someone laughs like he used to, and the kindness feels like a lie. You still think about texting him sometimes. Just to see. Just to know.

You don’t know if he’ll be there tonight. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he is.

The Uber drops you two houses too early and you walk the rest of the way just to shake off the nerves. You tell yourself it’s because you need the steps, that you want to smell the jasmine creeping up the fences, not because your stomach’s doing that thing where it folds in on itself every time you think about seeing him again.

Carla’s backyard is already alive when you push open the side gate. Laughter spilling over the fence. A bluetooth speaker tucked into the windowsill playing something rhythmic and low. You step in and it’s like falling into an old dream—plastic cups, half-melted ice in coolers, the smoke of something charred and probably edible curling up into the trees. You recognize a few faces. You smile like it’s easy.

Carla pulls you into a hug almost immediately, smelling like sunscreen and perfume, a drink in one hand and her phone in the other. She says you look good. Says she missed you. Says she’s glad you came. She doesn’t mention Joaquin, which means she’s definitely thinking about it. You don’t ask. You just smile and say thanks and let yourself be folded into the scene.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks where you’ve been hiding. You give vague answers. Keep it light. You stay by the edge of things, near the folding table with the snacks and the half-full bottle of tequila. You sip slowly and pretend you’re not listening for his voice. You’re fine. You’re just here for a little while. You’re not hoping for anything.

It’s easy to pretend when he isn’t there.

For now, you settle into the kind of easy conversation that doesn’t ask too much. You laugh when someone tells a bad joke. You flip through the playlist on your phone when the music hiccups. You don’t check the gate. You don’t look toward the street. You’re not waiting.

Except you are. Obviously you are.

You hear him before you see him.

Just a burst of conversation over the music, his voice cutting through in that same warm, slightly-too-loud way. There’s a laugh, too, familiar and unfiltered, like nothing’s changed, like he’s still the kind of person who laughs with his whole chest and doesn’t care who hears it.

Your spine locks. You don’t even think—just set your cup down and slip through the sliding door into the house like you’re looking for something, like you had any reason to be inside at all.

You find the bathroom at the end of the hall and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the sink. The light overhead hums a little. The faucet drips once. Twice. Your reflection doesn’t look panicked, but your chest feels tight in that old way it used to, back when things were still fragile and good and you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You don’t know what you thought would happen. That he wouldn’t come? That you could handle it if he did? You breathe in. Out. Again.

There’s a little window cracked above the mirror, and the sounds of the party filter in through the screen—muffled chatter, a cheer over something, the tail end of a beat you half-recognize. You think you hear his voice again, but it’s hard to tell. You don’t know what he looks like right now. You don’t know if he’s alone. You don’t know if he’s happy.

You press your fingertips to your lips. They’re dry. You should leave. You should walk out the front door and call another ride and go back to your hotel and tell Carla you weren’t feeling well. That it was nice to see everyone. That it had nothing to do with him. But you don’t.

Instead, you run cold water over your hands. You shake them off. You adjust yourself in the mirror, like that’s going to fix anything. You open the bathroom door and step back into the hallway, heartbeat loud in your ears. The house is empty, quiet in that way people’s homes get when everyone’s outside. You linger by the kitchen counter for a second, pretending to look for a napkin or something else stupid and delaying. Your hands feel weird. Too cold. Too warm. You’re not thinking, just moving.

The sliding door is half-open when you return to the backyard. You step through without looking, eyes on the ground, on the uneven concrete, on anything but what’s ahead of you. The sounds of the party rush back in all at once—music, laughter, someone yelling about overcooked burgers. You take one deep breath, steady and careful, and look up.

And he’s right there. Close. Too close. You barely register it before your shoulder brushes his chest and you jolt back a step, instinctively.

“Shit—sorry,” you say.

He blinks, startled. Then his eyes focus on you, and something flickers across his face. Recognition. Surprise. Something else behind it that you can’t name.

You haven’t seen him in six months but it still hits you like a punch how easy it is to remember everything about him in half a second. His curls are longer. He’s tanner. His shirt fits like it always did, too well. And his eyes—those eyes—are still just as warm and dangerous and annoyingly kind.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He beats you to it.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful.

There’s a plastic cup in his hand and a backwards snapback on his head and he looks so much like the last summer you spent together it makes your stomach twist.

You nod once, shallow. “Hey.”

A beat passes. Then another. He doesn’t smile like he used to.  You step aside to let him through. He steps in the same direction. You both pause.

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny.

“Sorry,” you say again, quieter.

He just shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”

But you are. Not just for bumping into him. For all of it. 

You move to step around him again but he doesn’t quite move and you both end up doing that dumb side-to-side shuffle that makes you want to crawl into the grass and disappear. His hand brushes your arm and he pulls it back like it burned him.

“Wow,” he says. “We’re still great at this.”

You huff out something that might be a laugh. “Some things never change.”

He nods, a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Like my ability to embarrass myself instantly.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Pretty sure that was me.”

He makes a face like he’s weighing it out. “Okay, yeah, but I leaned into it with the whole—” He gestures vaguely, reenacting the world’s worst sidestep. “You know. That.”

You almost smile. He looks the same and not the same, older in a way you can’t quite define. Tired around the edges. But his voice is still warm and clumsy in the way you remember, like every word came out just a little faster than he meant it to.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say finally.

“Yeah, me neither. Carla sent me like three texts with a lot of emojis. Felt like a trap but I came anyway.” He takes a sip from his cup, then adds, “Did not realize I was walking into a... potential ex reunion arc.”

You glance down at your shoes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says too quickly. “It’s cool. I mean, I— I’m cool. Are you cool? You look... like you’re doing good.”

You look up. He’s watching you too closely, but when you meet his eyes, he glances away like he got caught.

“I’m fine,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs. “Still breathing. Still bad at parties. Still get sunburned even if I wear SPF 50, which feels like a personal attack from the sun. So. Yeah. Nothing new.”

You snort, and his eyes flick back to yours like he wants to hold onto the sound.

Another beat passes. He shifts his weight. You can tell he doesn’t know whether to keep talking or bail.

“So,” he says, tilting his cup a little. “You just visiting?”

You nod. “Work thing.”

“Ah.” He nods too, like that’s a safe word. “Short trip?”

“Four days.”

“That’s... not long.”

“Nope.”

Silence again. Not cold, just full.

He taps the side of his cup. “Cool. Well. I’ll, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the grill. “Go stand somewhere else and say more dumb things over there now.”

You nod, but don’t move.

He takes a step back, then pauses. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already turning.

You stay where you are for a minute after he walks away, half-wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Your hand finds your drink again. The condensation soaks into your palm and gives you something to focus on. He’s good at that, still — coming in like a wave and leaving you standing in the shallows, blinking at the water in your lungs.

The party goes on. Carla brings out skewers and people cheer like she just cured a disease. The music skips to something poppy and too fast. You sink into a patch of lawn chair conversation about travel plans and bad dates, your laugh coming a beat late every time. It’s not that you’re not present. It’s just that you know exactly where he is.

You don’t look for him, not really. But your eyes still flick to the side yard when the wind shifts. You still notice when someone tosses a beer in his direction. You still feel it when he laughs again across the lawn — quieter this time, like he’s trying not to be obvious.

He doesn’t come back over, but he doesn’t stay far either. At one point, he ends up helping someone carry drinks from the kitchen and passes right behind you. You feel the shape of him before you see him, tall and warm and barely there. You don’t turn, but your skin lights up anyway.

A while later, Carla corners you with her signature third-drink grin and a plastic cup of mystery juice.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, and it sounds a little too loaded.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s nice. Really.”

She hums, unconvinced. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She glances across the yard. You don’t follow her gaze.

“Right,” she says. “Well. If you’re not fine later, extra tequila’s under the table.”

Someone pulls her away before she can say anything else. You take a sip of your drink and immediately regret it. It tastes like melted candy and mistakes.

The sun sinks a little lower. The bugs start to swarm the citronella candles. There’s a soft hum of maybe-it’s-time-to-go from a few corners of the yard, but no one’s actually moving. You think about leaving. You also think about staying. You think about the way he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to smile or break. You think about that little pause before he walked away.

You don’t notice the memory at first. It just edges in under your skin, like heat from the sun you didn’t realize was still there. It’s the smell of the grill and citronella, the sound of someone laughing in a way that’s too full, too familiar, too much like then. You blink, and you’re not in Carla’s backyard anymore.

You’re back in his apartment. The lights are off except for the one over the stove, casting this soft yellow wash across the living room. It’s too warm, too quiet. The kind of quiet that’s only possible when you know someone down to their breathing.

He’s on the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn next to him. You’re stretched out behind him, sideways on the couch, one leg draped over his shoulder, the other tucked under you. He’s warm against your thigh and keeps muttering that your toes are freezing.

“You look cozy,” he said, with that dopey half-smile that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time.

“This is my tired hoodie.”

“You should be tired more often, then.”

He reached up and grabbed your ankle, pulling it into his lap like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You remember that something was playing on the tv, but not what it was. You remember his fingers absentmindedly tracing the bone of your shin while he half-watched it, more focused on whatever quiet thought was drifting through his head. You remember the shape of his knuckles, the scratch of his callus when he ran his hand along the top of your foot. You remember not needing to fill the silence.

He said, “Don’t go next weekend,” voice soft, a little joking, like it wasn’t a request.

You said, “I have to,” like it didn’t cost you anything.

He nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to guilt you or convince you or say anything dramatic. Just tilted his head back against your leg, looking up at you upside down, hair flopped over his forehead, cheeks pink from whatever he was drinking.

You said, “It’s just a trip.”

He said, “Right.”

Then he pulled your foot into his chest, pressed a kiss to your ankle like it was a habit, like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. But he hadn’t. That was the first time.

You remember feeling it in your throat. That awful, beautiful ache. Like if you opened your mouth, something would spill out you couldn’t take back. But you didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Later, you’d press your face into his neck, and he’d whisper something that wasn’t quite Spanish, wasn’t quite words, and you’d fall asleep wondering if maybe it could be this easy forever. But it wasn’t.

The next weekend, you got on the plane. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But that was the last night that felt simple. That was the last time you let him hold you without guilt.

The memory lingers longer than it should. You feel it settle like heat behind your ribs. When you blink again, you’re back at the cookout, standing off to the side while someone fiddles with the speaker and two people argue about salsa. You’ve been staring at your drink for too long.

Across the yard, Joaquin’s still perched on the edge of the deck. He’s talking to someone but not really looking at them, like his brain’s somewhere else entirely. Like maybe it’s still in that apartment too.

He glances up. Your eyes meet.  Neither of you looks away this time.

It happens gradually. The party thins out—people trickle off in twos and threes, hugging Carla goodbye, grabbing last slices of watermelon or half-frozen drinks from the cooler. The sky fades into that soft blue-gray that means the streetlights will flicker on soon. Someone starts collecting trash bags, and someone else is curled up in a chair scrolling through their phone with the dazed expression of someone who’s emotionally tapped out.

You drift toward the steps of the deck at some point without thinking. The music’s low now, something mellow. Joaquin’s nearby again, close enough to feel, but he doesn’t say anything.. Just stands beside you in a kind of companionable silence, the two of you watching someone struggle to relight a citronella candle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Eventually, he speaks. Quietly. “I forgot how weird parties get when they start ending.”

You hum. “Everything smells like charcoal and sweat and regret.”

“That’s the real summer scent,” he says, grinning. “Should bottle it.”

You finally look at him. His hair’s a little messier now. There’s a smudge of something—maybe dirt, maybe barbecue sauce—near the collar of his shirt. His cup’s empty. He’s rolling it between his palms like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You tilt your head. “You always this awkward or is it just me?”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I’m always awkward. You’re just the one I can’t pretend around.”

You don’t answer right away. He shifts beside you, then gestures vaguely toward the house.

“You heading out soon?” he asks. “Or...?”

You shrug. “Hotel’s not far. I’ll probably order bad room service and pass out.”

“Solid plan.”

You glance at him. “You?”

He shrugs too. “Thought about going home. Then I remembered I live alone and my fridge is sad.”

You smile, tired but real. “So what’re you gonna do instead?”

He hesitates, just a second too long. Then—

“I mean... if you wanted...” He clears his throat. Starts again. “We could grab a drink or something. Like... like old friends catching up. No pressure.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At ten thirty at night?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “The best friend catch-up hour. You know. When the truth comes out and everything tastes like cheap whiskey.”

You study him, and he looks nervous in that familiar way he used to get right before saying something too honest. You can tell he’s trying to play it off like nothing. You can also tell it isn’t nothing. You take a breath.

“I’m at the Selwyn,” you say.

He perks up, like he didn’t expect that to work. “Oh, they have a bar, right?”

You nod. “Until midnight.”

He smiles, bright and crooked. “Plenty of time for bad decisions.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re just catching up.”

“Right,” he says, bumping your shoulder gently as you both turn toward the gate. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

“I’ll drive you,” he says before you can even open the app. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t used to sit in his passenger seat with your bare feet on the dash, arguing over playlists and sharing fries out of a greasy paper bag. His keys are already in his hand.

You hesitate, just a second too long. “Sure,” you say.

He grins, trying to play it cool. “Besides, I cleaned my car recently. Well. I threw out the empty protein bar wrappers. Same difference.”

You follow him down the driveway. His car is exactly the same—black Honda, scuffed on the side, faintly dented from something he once swore wasn’t his fault. You slide into the passenger seat and feel your body instinctively relax into old muscle memory. The door shuts. The quiet settles in.

Then he starts the engine. And the universe laughs in your face.

The first few notes hit—clean, unmistakable, loud enough to be cruel.

Me Rehúso.

Your heart jumps into your throat. His hand freezes halfway to the volume knob. His thumb hovers like he’s going to skip it. He doesn’t. You stare out the window.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to be dramatic,” he mumbles.

You keep your voice even. “Didn’t say you were.”

The song keeps playing. You don’t speak. Neither of you move to turn it off.

That chorus hits like a sucker punch. ”Me rehúso a darte un último beso,” I refuse to give you one last kiss... The kind of lyric that would’ve made you both laugh six months ago. Now it just sits there in the air, crackling. He drums his fingers against the wheel, trying to be casual. You sit stiff in your seat and wonder if he feels it too—that pull in your chest like something snapping back into place and tearing a little as it does. You wonder if he skipped this song on purpose for weeks after you left.

By the time it fades, neither of you has said a word. But it’s louder than anything either of you could’ve said out loud. Joaquin clears his throat, glancing sideways like he wants to break the silence.

“Well,” he says, aiming for levity. “That wasn’t emotionally catastrophic or anything.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh. “Your playlist’s still ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it slaps, unfortunately.”

You fall into silence again. This one is easier. Not light, but... familiar. Like slipping back into clothes you’d left behind, still warm from the last time you wore them. The drive isn’t long, but it feels like a hundred miles and no time at all. When he pulls into the parking lot of your hotel, he parks without asking. Turns the key. Lets the quiet settle again.

“You sure you’re up for this?” you ask, your hand on the door handle.

He shrugs. “Only panicking a little.”

You look at him. He looks at you. That same crooked grin.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He nods. “Catching up. Strictly platonic.”

“Totally.”

The Selwyn’s lobby is quiet, sleek in that generic boutique hotel way. Modern art you don’t understand on the walls. A bowl of apples no one’s touched. The bar’s tucked just off to the right, low-lit and mostly empty, a few couples nursing nightcaps and a lone businessman half-asleep over a bourbon. You lead the way without speaking.

He follows, hands shoved in his pockets, doing that nervous scan of the room like he’s checking for exits but not planning to use them. You pick a booth near the back. Leather seat, warm lamp overhead. It’s too intimate to be neutral. Neither of you moves to sit across from the other. You both slide into the same side, a little too close. Neither of you comments on it.

The bartender comes over, eyes flicking between you both like he’s trying to figure out what kind of night this is.

“Two whiskeys,” Joaquin says, before you can answer. Then he glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod. “Perfect.”

The moment he walks away, Joaquin exhales like he’s been holding it in since the car. “Well. Here we are.”

You smile. “Just two old friends. At a hotel. At eleven o’clock at night.”

He grins. “Nothing suspicious about that.”

You both look straight ahead for a second, not speaking. The tension has shifted—it’s quieter now. Less sharp. More like gravity.

“I missed this,” he says eventually.

You turn to him. “What part?”

He shrugs. “All of it. You. Talking. Sitting next to you and saying dumb shit until you laugh.”

You look down at your hands. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me again.”

“I didn’t either.”

You glance up.

“I was pissed,” he says, not hiding it. “You just disappeared. No warning. Just—gone. I didn’t know if I did something or if it was just easier that way for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you say. “I just didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

He nods. “Yeah. Well. Guess we’re both great at that.”

The drinks arrive. You each take one, clink glasses without ceremony.

“To bad decisions,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. “This is a bad decision?”

He smirks. “I think it might be.”

You both drink.

The whiskey burns a little. Just enough.

You settle into the silence again, but this one’s warmer. You can feel the heat of his thigh pressed against yours. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you.

“I thought about texting you,” he says, voice lower now.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to be a maybe.”

That lands. It sinks in and sits heavy in your stomach. You set your glass down. Turn toward him fully.

“We were never a maybe.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Like he’s trying not to hope and failing miserably at it. “Okay,” he says softly. “So what are we now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your knee bumps his, and you leave it there.

He glances at your mouth, just for a second. It’s quick, but you both notice.

The second drink comes faster than the first. Neither of you says anything, but the meaning is clear. Just one more. Just an excuse to keep sitting here a little longer.

The bar’s quiet around you, some indie playlist humming overhead, glasses clinking behind the counter, but none of it really registers. It’s just the booth, the shared warmth between you, and the way the whiskey makes your skin feel too soft for your bones.

You’re both leaned in now, legs angled toward each other. His arm is stretched behind you across the booth, not quite touching you but close enough to feel. His knee keeps bumping yours. It’s not accidental anymore.

He’s talking with his hands. Always has. One of them knocks his glass a little too hard and he mutters a low “shit” before catching it. You laugh and he grins, sheepish.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a little drunk,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Little?”

“Tipsy,” he corrects, lifting his hand in mock defense. “Buzzed. Whiskey-charmed. Still within the range of plausible deniability.”

You tip your glass toward him. “Sure.”

“You?”

You sip. “Comfortably reckless.”

He laughs, and it’s that real laugh, the one that fills his chest. The one you haven’t heard in too long. He tips his head back, curls falling over his forehead, and for a second you forget how to breathe.

“You always did drink whiskey too fast,” you say.

“You always stole mine when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. He goes quiet, eyes settling on you with a different kind of focus now. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer, smaller.

“I remember that,” he says. “All of it.”

You don’t move. The air between you is tight.

“You used to do this thing,” he continues, “where you’d swirl the ice in my glass with your finger and act like it wasn’t the most distracting thing in the world.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“You definitely did. And it worked. Every time.”

You lean in a little, just enough to make him feel it. “You’re easy to distract.”

“I was in love with you,” he says, too fast, too loose.

It lands between you like a dropped glass.

He blinks. “Shit. That sounded cooler in my head.”

You swallow. “Was?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down at the table. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You didn’t give me a lot of space to keep saying it.”

You look at him, really look. He’s flushed from the whiskey, eyes a little glassy, but his expression is wide open. Honest in the way only tipsy people get when they’ve been waiting too long to say something. You don’t reach for your glass this time. You reach for his hand. You brush your fingers over the back of it, slow. Gentle. He doesn’t pull away.

“You know,” you say, “I still think about that night. The one before I left.”

His eyes flick to yours. “The peanut butter dinner?”

“The one where you kissed my ankle like it meant something.”

“It did.”

“I know.”

The silence now is thick. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full. He turns his hand over beneath yours, lets your fingers slide together. His palm is warm and steady.

“So,” he says, barely above a whisper. “What are we doing right now?”

You shake your head, half-laughing, half-something else. “Catching up, remember?”

He leans in, slow and careful. His shoulder brushes yours. His voice is right at your ear now.

“This doesn’t feel like catching up.”

You don’t pull away. You press your leg against his under the table. You feel his breath stutter.

“It’s not,” you say.

He shifts toward you, hand tightening in yours. There’s a question in his eyes. You could stop this. You could pull back.

You’re so close you can feel the moment tipping forward. One more second and his mouth will be on yours. You know exactly how it’ll feel — warm and familiar, a little clumsy, a little desperate. You want it. God, you want it. But it’s too much, too fast, too easy to fall back into something that once shattered you so quietly it didn’t even make a sound.

You pull your hand away. Slow. Gentle.

He freezes. You don’t look at him right away. You take a breath instead. Your voice is soft when it comes.

“I can’t.”

It’s not sharp. It’s not final. It’s just honest.

His face shifts — not hurt, exactly. Just something quieter. A flicker of understanding. Maybe disappointment. Maybe relief. Maybe both.

He nods, slowly. “Okay.”

You glance around the bar like you’ve just remembered where you are. The lights feel too low. The space too small.

“I should go up,” you say.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You stand, and he follows without question. Neither of you says much as you cross the lobby. You’re sobering up, not from the drinks but from the tension, from the weight of how close you came to doing something you wouldn’t be able to take back.

The elevator ride is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin, thick with all the things you didn’t say downstairs and the weight of the moment you pulled away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just nodded, like he understood. But you can feel him beside you now — his body still turned slightly toward yours, hands in his pockets like they’re keeping him grounded.

You reach your floor and step into the hallway, carpet soft under your shoes, air humming faintly with recycled chill. You walk ahead, both of you a little unsteady, a little too aware of each other. He stays close but doesn’t touch you. Not once.

When you stop outside your door, you turn toward him and smile, barely.

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”

“Old habits,” he says.

There’s a pause. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. You know that move. You remember him doing it when he wasn’t sure if he should kiss you that first time. He looked just like this. Nervous. Hopeful. A little in over his head.

And still, you don’t move.

“I should go in,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You probably should.”

You look at him.

He looks at you.

It’s nothing and everything all at once. That ache that’s been stretching all night tightens until you can’t take it anymore.

And then you kiss him. You don’t think. You just lean in and grab the front of his jacket and pull him down to you and his mouth meets yours like it’s still been waiting this whole time. It’s not soft. It’s not neat. It’s relief. All heat and breath and too much all at once, like if you stop it’ll disappear again. His hands find your waist and you stumble back into the door. He laughs against your mouth, breathless.

“You said you couldn’t.”

“I lied,” you murmur, kissing him again.

It’s messy. Familiar. A little dizzying. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw like he forgot what your skin felt like. Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, tugging him closer, closer.

He breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, “Tell me to go.”

You don’t. You just kiss him harder.

He makes this low sound against your mouth that you remember too well, and suddenly you're fumbling with the keycard, trying to get the door open while he's still kissing you, his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. The card reader beeps angrily. You try again, breathless, and he's laughing into your neck.

"You're shaking," he says, not teasing. Just noticing.

"Shut up," you breathe, and the door finally gives.

You stumble backward into the room, pulling him with you. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the sudden quiet. The only light comes from the city through the window, casting everything in amber and shadow. You can see his face now, flushed and a little stunned, like he can't quite believe this is happening either.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice rough.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you step closer, close enough that your chest brushes his, and reach up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip. His eyes flutter closed at the touch.

"I missed you," you whisper. "I missed this."

He opens his eyes, searching your face in the dim light. "I never stopped missing you."

This time when you kiss him, it's slower. Deeper. Like you're both trying to memorize something you lost. His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, and you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Fast. Unsteady. Like yours.

You walk him backward toward the bed, lips still locked, hands roaming over familiar territory that feels both foreign and like coming home. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sits down hard, pulling you with him so you're straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. His hands find your hips, steadying you, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.

"God," he breathes, looking up at you like he's seeing something he thought he'd lost forever. "You're so beautiful."

You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the way his breath catches when you bite his lower lip gently. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, and you arch into his touch.

His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, hovering there in silent question. You nod against his mouth, and he slowly pulls it down, the sound cutting through the quiet room. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your spine. You shiver, and he pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

"We don't have to—"

You press your finger to his lips. "I want to."

The words hang between you, heavy with meaning beyond this moment. You're not just talking about tonight. You both know it.

He kisses your fingertip, then your palm, then your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel something unravel inside you—that tight knot of regret and longing you've been carrying for months.

Your dress slips from your shoulders, and his breath catches. His hands are reverent as they trace your skin, like he's relearning a map he once knew by heart. You tug at his shirt, impatient now, and he helps you pull it over his head. His chest is familiar—that same constellation of freckles, that same scar near his collarbone from when he fell off his bike at twelve. You touch it, remembering the story he told you once, laughing in bed on a Sunday morning.

"You remember?" he asks, watching your fingers.

"Everything," you whisper.

He pulls you closer, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat, and you close your eyes against the rush of sensation. It's too much and not enough all at once. His hands slide up your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, and you laugh softly against his hair.

"Still got it," he murmurs, grinning against your skin.

"Some skills never fade," you whisper back, and then his mouth is on your breast and you can't think anymore, just feel—his tongue, his teeth, the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against you.

You rock against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and his hands tighten on your hips. There's an urgency building between you now, months of distance collapsing into this single point of contact. He flips you suddenly, pressing you into the mattress, his weight a welcome anchor. His lips trace a path down your stomach, and you arch up, wanting more, wanting everything.

"Joaquin," you breathe, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"Otra vez," he whispers.

You say his name once more, quieter this time, like a secret you’re not ready to share with the world. His eyes fall shut as though he’s holding the sound within himself, letting it resonate in the hollow spaces where loneliness used to cling. As his hands find their way to the waistband of your underwear, they tremble, a delicate dance of anticipation and reverence. You lift your hips slightly, a silent invitation for him to continue, to explore uncharted territories that still remember the map of his touch. The fabric is gone in a heartbeat, lost somewhere in the chaos of desire that swirls around you both.

His lips trace a slow pilgrimage along your skin, starting at the curve of your hip bone before journeying inward to the sensitive haven of your inner thigh. Each kiss is deliberate, an act of devotion that speaks volumes louder than words ever could. You’re quivering beneath him now, every nerve alive with sensation, and your hands clutch the hotel sheets as though grounding yourself against an oncoming storm.

When his mouth finally finds its destination, it’s like a homecoming. You arch off the bed with a breathy gasp that breaks through the room’s stillness and wraps itself around you both. He moves with an intimate knowledge of you, every motion recalling memories of nights past when only the moon bore witness to passion unfolding between whispered promises and dreams half-spoken.

The rhythm he adopts is one learned long ago but never forgotten, seamless in its execution as though no time has passed since last he worshipped at this altar. His touch is gentle yet insistent—the perfect paradox—exactly as you need it. Your fingers entwine into his hair once more for anchor and connection both; he hums against you—a low sound that vibrates through your core and ignites every part of you all over again.

The sense of nearing completion builds inside you rapidly—too rapidly—as if months apart have condensed into this singular moment of intensity threatening to spill over without warning. Waves crest within your belly, hot and urgent in their sweep toward release.

"Wait," you breathe out urgently, yet soft enough not to break what threads hold this tapestry together just yet. Tugging at his shoulders slightly with desperate urgency tinged by longing unspoken but always present there beneath everything else clouding these precious moments shared tonight after too long apart. "Come here."

He kisses his way back up your body, mouth finding yours again. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you dizzy with want. Your hands fumble with his belt, and he helps you, kicking off his jeans until there's nothing between you but skin and heat and six months of longing. He hovers above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at your face like he's searching for something.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You nod, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. "More than okay."

In the soft shadows of the room, he enters you, and you both exhale sharply, as though surfacing from the depths of an ocean where breath had been a distant memory. The sensation is one of rediscovery, a familiar yet long-forgotten dance. Stillness enfolds you as he pauses, his forehead resting gently against yours. You can feel the ragged ebb and flow of his breath matching your own. This dance—this intimate choreography—is etched into your bodies, even if time and distance tried to erase it from your minds.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you draw him deeper into the space that feels both foreign and unmistakably home. His groan reverberates through the stillness, your name a sacred chant murmured against the warmth of your neck. His movements begin in slow, deliberate strokes, each one held with the weight of potential farewells lingering in unspoken words. It’s cautious yet intense—a savoring of moments that feel fleeting.

Your fingers dig into the solid expanse of his shoulders, an encouragement driven by urgency that pulses under your skin. As he hones his rhythm, it transforms gradually—a measured tempo building to something more urgent and alive. The room captures the symphony created by your intermingled breaths and soft exclamations of pleasure; tender whispers punctuate every shared heartbeat.

“Mírame.” he murmurs softly, and you oblige by opening your eyes. What you find in his gaze transcends physical intimacy—a vulnerability laid bare beneath the depth of those dark irises. There’s something exchanged between you in that shared look; a silent acknowledgment binding hearts entwined not just by touch but by something deeper—a promise unspoken yet understood.

As he moves within you with growing intensity, everything coalesces into a crescendo orchestrated by longing rekindled after months apart. This moment stretches beyond time—each motion weaving threads back together until they form one seamless tapestry, rich with color and meaning.

You unravel beneath him then, as pleasure overwhelms your senses like waves crashing upon the shore—leaving you trembling in its aftermath—a mosaic remade anew with each crescendo reached. It's only heartbeats later that he too succumbs; whispers woven with devotion spill from his lips—your name uttered like prayerful benediction—as he collapses against you under comforting weight rather than burdened heaviness reminding once distant souls they are home again.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your breathing gradually slowing, his heart pounding against yours. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you press your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—soap and something distinctly warm that you could never quite name but always recognized. 

The sheets are tangled beneath you and one of your legs is still hooked loosely around his, the weight of him grounding you in a way nothing else ever really has. He shifts just enough to ease some of the pressure from your ribs, but he doesn’t pull away. He just rests his forehead against your temple and exhales, long and shaky.

You could fall asleep like this. You think maybe you will. His fingers keep moving, slow and aimless, brushing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it all over again. Your name leaves his lips again, softer now, like it doesn’t have to be anything more than sound.

You whisper, “You okay?”

He nods. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Yeah. I just… missed this.”

You close your eyes. That ache settles in your chest again, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp. He missed you. You missed him. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.

You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, sleep-soft and open in that way only Joaquin can be when he’s let his guard down completely. You brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

That’s it. No big promises. No next steps.

He nods again, relief flickering through his features so fast it almost doesn’t register. Then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone—slow, tender, like punctuation. He pulls the blanket up over both of you and shifts to lie beside you properly, one arm curling beneath your neck, the other resting across your stomach. You curl into him like you never left.

Outside, the city keeps humming, but in here it’s still.

Eventually, his breathing evens out. You listen to it until yours matches. He’s heavy against you, solid and warm, and you feel the weight of everything that just passed between you start to settle. You let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment.

Sleep takes you slowly. Quietly. With him still holding you.

You wake before the sun’s fully up, the room washed in a soft, blue-grey hush. For a second, you don’t know what stirred you—until Joaquin shifts beside you, mumbling something half-asleep into the pillow. His leg slides against yours, warm and lazy, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck like he never left it.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Your hair’s in my mouth,” he mumbles, voice gravelly and ridiculous.

You laugh, quiet and raspy. “You drooled on my arm.”

He lifts his head, barely squinting at you with a slow, stupid grin. “Worth it.”

You hum, brushing your fingertips along his side. His skin is warm, soft in places and still humming with leftover heat. You could stay like this for hours, wrapped up in his breath and that dopey smile, but he glances at the clock and winces.

“I have to go soon,” he says, voice soft. “Work.”

You nod, even though you want to pretend this room doesn’t exist outside of this moment. He leans in and kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw. Then your mouth—slow, unhurried, like he’s still not ready to leave either.

When he finally pulls back, he gives you this look. Gentle. Unspoken.

He doesn’t say thank you, or I’ll call you, or what happens now?

He just says, “You made last night feel like home again.”

And somehow, that’s the thing that gets you. You swallow around the ache building in your throat and try to smile. He kisses you one more time, then slips out of bed and pulls his shirt back on in the grey morning light. You stay where you are, curled in warm sheets, watching him tie his shoes with one knee on the floor like he’s done this in a hundred quiet mornings—only he hasn’t. Not like this. Not since you left.

He glances over his shoulder before opening the door. “Sleep a little more,” he says. “I’ll see you.”

You nod. He doesn’t push it further. He just gives you one last, crooked smile and slips out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him. And you’re left sitting up in bed, hair a mess, covers pooled around your waist, staring at the door like it might open again.

You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t scare you.

[ac1dmeow]

we need to talk about the fact that Jinx is probably an adrenaline junkie

yes tf she is and i stand by it. this can all go for both arcane and modern!au.

it’s a mix of that chase of adrenaline, and undeniable recklessness that jinx has that makes her have little to no fear. she’s risking getting caught by the law just so she can commit petty and ridiculous crimes such as graffiti/defacing, trespassing, vandalism… arson. all of which she would 100% do if she hates you. if you make her mad enough, she’ll sneak onto your property and deface the whole front of the house with crude drawings and words. and you’d know for certain it’s her when you catch the habitual abstract monkey face left behind in the very middle of her self proclaimed masterpiece.

she trespasses into abandoned places as well. whether it’s a house, a building or a park.

she loves the amusement parks.

she always brushes off the idea of getting caught by authorities because, “no comes around here anyway.” “it’s ‘abandoned’, remember? what use do they have wasting their time coming out here?” as she’s hopping the fence. and with all the time she has and the lack of public eyes to tattletale, she’ll do whatever the hell she wants and reek all the havoc she desires. she’ll fiddle with one of the ride’s machinery with those mechanical skills of hers just to make it work again so you can ride it over and over until you vomit.

whenever i see those people who do parkour across buildings, or climb up the massive cranes in their cities at night, i’m reminded of jinx and how she’d 1000% do the same. she’s fast and agile, she can sneak up a construction sight or get to the rooftop of a building and mange to stay hidden in the shadows as sneaky as a black back.

she just loves being high up! that wavering unsteady feeling she gets in her bones as she looks down at the view below, and sees just how small everything is from afar. all of the tiny moving dots of people and traveling vehicles out and about on their day lost in their own worlds. she thrives off of that.

don’t give the girl fireworks, she abuses that shit so bad. she’ll set off so many at once that it’ll alarm the next city over. it’s the loud explosive sounds and bright colourful lights that get her veins pumping with exuberance. lighting the ridiculously dangerous ones where you have to immediately run away and hide gives her a thrill like no other. and she always hopes to see homemade ones “malfunction” and explode at ground level before zooming up in the air while turning the sky back to daylight. you hear the girl cackling with a wicked smile on her face while hiding in a little corner, sparks flying everywhere like a war of fire broke out.

i feel like even more could be said and elaborated on but this is all i got for now. peace y’all ✌️

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @i-doutt-it @beth-isnt-home @darylandbethfanforever9 @brianna-merlim @pumpkinkpieandtomato @smashleywow @imadisneyprincessiswear @clementineslawyer @pandaofsilentdeath @dixonsbridexx @deerdaryl @imadisneyprincessiswear @staley83 @zombayyyyy @death-in-a-tar0t-card @straw--b3rry @capricxnt @dixonsstinkysock

-------------------------------------------

TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, fluff, walkers (Zombies) the Governor, Angstttttt so much angst.

A/N: it's gonna hurt

Part 21

Between Brothers - Part 22

The night air was thick with humidity and the ever-present stench of decay that seemed to cling to everything these days. Merle sat perched on the guard tower, his prosthetic resting on a rifle while his good hand worked at whittling another piece of wood—not another deer this time, but something simpler, just to keep his fingers busy. The metal of his prosthetic caught the moonlight, a constant reminder of what this world had cost him.

Below in the yard, a few walkers pressed against the fence, their low moans creating a symphony of death that had become as familiar as breathing. Merle barely glanced at them anymore—they were just background noise, like crickets used to be before the world went to hell.

"Ugly sons of bitches, ain't they?" Merle called down to where Daryl was making his rounds, crossbow slung across his shoulder. "That one there looks like my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Henderson. Always knew that bitch was dead inside."

Daryl's boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the base of the tower. "Yeah, well, least she can't give ya detention now," he muttered, his voice carrying that familiar rasp that came from years of cigarettes and not enough talking.

"Hell, baby brother, way I see it, we're all in detention now. Life sentence in the shittiest school ever built." Merle's laugh was rough, like gravel in a blender. "But hey, at least the cafeteria food can't get any worse."

Daryl started climbing the ladder, his movements careful and practiced. When he reached the top, he settled himself against the opposite wall, far enough to give Merle space but close enough to talk without raising their voices. The brothers had learned to read each other's moods over the years, and tonight felt different somehow.

"Quiet tonight," Daryl observed, adjusting his crossbow across his knees.

"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts. You know how this shit goes—quiet now means we're gonna be knee-deep in walker guts tomorrow." Merle's knife worked steadily at the wood, carving away thin slivers. "Speakin' of which, you remember that time we went huntin' up near Dawsonville and you got your ass stuck in that bog?"

"Wasn't stuck," Daryl grumbled, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Jus'... takin' a'break."

"Takin' a break, my ass. You were sinkin' like a stone, cryin' like a little girl. 'Merle, help me! Merle, I'm gonna die!' Christ, you were maybe twelve years old, all knees and elbows and pure panic."

"I was ten," Daryl corrected, his drawl thick with memory. "An' I wasn't cryin'. Was just... concerned 'bout the situation."

"Concerned about the situation," Merle repeated, his voice mockingly refined. "Well, ain't you just the philosopher. Point is, I hauled your scrawny ass outta there, didn't I? Got myself covered in that nasty-ass swamp water and probably caught three different diseases, but I got you out."

The memory hung between them for a moment, one of the few good ones from a childhood full of bad memories. Daryl picked at the wood planking with his thumbnail, a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken.

"'Member what I told ya that day?" Merle continued, his voice losing some of its usual edge. "After we got ya cleaned up and back to solid ground?"

"Mmm," Daryl said quietly, looking through his hair.

"No matter what kind of shit storm we're in, no matter how deep the bog gets, we watch each other's backs. That ain't changed, baby brother. Not ever."

Daryl nodded, but something in Merle's tone made him look up sharply. There was an intensity there, a weight to the words that went beyond simple brotherly bonding.

"'Course it ain't," Daryl said carefully. "W'you talkin' 'bout?"

Merle was quiet for a moment, his knife pausing in its work. Down in the yard, one of the walkers let out a particularly pitiful moan, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted—one of the few sounds from the old world that remained unchanged.

"Just thinkin' about things, is all. About how things can change real quick in this world. One minute you're here, next minute you're walker chow." He resumed his carving, not looking at Daryl. "Makes a man think about what he's leavin' behind."

"Y'ain't goin' nowhere," Daryl said firmly.

"We got a good thing here, don't get me wrong. But it ain't gonna last forever. Nothin' good ever does, not for people like us." Merle's laugh was bitter now.

"Dixons. We're survivors, baby brother, but we ain't lucky. Never have been. We fight and we scrape and we make it through by the skin of our teeth, but eventually..." Merle shrugged. "Eventually everybody's number comes up."

Daryl was quiet for a long moment, processing the unusual melancholy in his brother's voice. Merle wasn't typically one for philosophical discussions, especially not about mortality.

Usually, he covered any serious thoughts with crude jokes or unnecessary violence.

"S'what's this really about?" Daryl asked. "You bit ?"

"Nah, I'm fine as frog's hair. Just... thinkin' about the future is all. About what happens if one of us don't make it." Merle's prosthetic clicked against the rifle as he adjusted his position. "You know that lil doe of ours?"

Daryl's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "W'about her?"

"She's good people, ain't she? Sweet little thing, always tryin' to help everybody, always got a kind word even for a piece of shit like me." Merle's voice had gone soft, almost reverent. "Reminds me of them deer we used to see up in the mountains. You know the ones—all graceful and careful, but strong as hell underneath."

Daryl nodded chewing on his lower lip. He'd made the same comparison himself, though he'd never said it out loud.

"Girlie's got too much faith in people, too much trust. That's gonna get her killed someday if she ain't careful." Merle's knife had stopped moving entirely now, his attention focused entirely on his baby brother. "She needs somebody who understands how ugly this world can get, somebody who can keep her safe without breakin' that light inside her."

"Merle—"

"I'm just sayin', if somethin' were to happen to me, you'd make sure she was okay, right? You'd watch out for her?"

There it was—the real question, wrapped up in hypotheticals and careful phrasing. Daryl felt something cold settle in his stomach, something he couldn't quite name.

"'Course," he said slowly. "Nothin's gonna happen to ya. W'both gonna watch out for her."

"Yeah, well, humor me. Say somethin' did happen. Say I got bit, or took a bullet, or just had a really bad day. You'd make sure she was okay? You'd make sure she knew that... that she mattered?"

Daryl studied his brother's profile in the moonlight. Merle's jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the horizon, but there was something vulnerable in his posture that Daryl recognized from childhood—the way Merle used to look when their father was on a particularly bad bender and they were trying to figure out how to avoid the worst of it.

"She'd matter to you," Daryl said, not quite a question.

"She matters to everybody. Hell, even Carol's taken a shine to her, and you know how picky that woman is about who she lets into her circle." Merle's laugh was forced. "Just... if somethin' happened, you'd make sure she didn't blame herself, right? Make sure she knew it wasn't her fault?"

"Why would she blame herself?"

"People do that, especially people like her. They think if they'd just been better, or faster, or smarter, they could've saved everybody. Could've made the difference." Merle's voice was rough now, heavy with something that might have been regret. "Don't want her carryin' that weight around. Girl's got enough to worry about."

Daryl was quiet for a long moment, listening to the night sounds—the distant moans of walkers, the creak of the fence, the whisper of wind through the trees. Finally, he spoke.

"Y'plannin' somethin' stupid?"

"When am I not plannin' on doin' somethin' stupid?" Merle's grin was sharp in the moonlight. "But nah, baby brother. Just want to know that if the worst happens, you got my back. That you'll take care of the people who matter."

"I got you" Daryl said simply. "Always"

"Good. That's... that's good." Merle resumed his carving, but his movements were less steady now. "You know, she asked me about my carvin' the other day. Said she liked the little deer I made."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Said it reminded her of somethin' from home, before all this shit started. Some story her grandmother used to tell her about forest spirits or some such nonsense." Merle's smile was genuine this time. "Got this look in her eyes when she talked about it, all soft and far away. Made me think maybe there's still some magic left in this world after all."

"Maybe."

"Maybe." Merle was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, you just remember what I said. About lookin' after her. About makin' sure she knows she matters."

Daryl made a noise low in his throat, one Merle knew was a agreement, not a dismissal.

"Good. Now, you want to hear about the time I convinced Bobby Jenkins that his woman was cheatin' on him with a scarecrow?"

And just like that, the moment passed. Merle launched into another outrageous story, his voice carrying across the night air with its usual crude enthusiasm.

But Daryl continued to watch his brother's face, noting the careful way Merle avoided his eyes, the slight tremor in his good hand as he worked at the wood.

The pre-dawn darkness wrapped around the prison like a shroud, thick and heavy with the promise of another scorching Georgia day. In the quiet of the prison, most everyone was still lost in whatever dreams they could manage in this hellish world.

But Merle Dixon couldn't sleep—hadn't been able to for days now, you were curled up beside him on the thin mattress, your face pressed against his chest, fitting against him like you'd been made for this exact spot.

The blanket—his blanket, the one he'd quietly made sure you had the warmest of—was pulled up to your chin, and your breathing was soft and even in that space between sleep and waking.

Look at her, Merle thought, his good hand resting carefully on your hip, feeling the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. Prettiest damn thing in this whole godforsaken world, and she's here with me. How the hell did I get so lucky?

Your hair was mussed from sleep, catching what little light filtered through the barred window, and there was a peaceful expression on your face that made something in Merle's chest tighten painfully.

He'd memorized every detail of your face over the months—the way your nose wrinkled when you laughed, how your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the little scar from some childhood accident you'd told him about.

"Mmm," you murmured, still mostly asleep, pressing against him slightly. "You're warm."

"Always am, sugar," Merle replied softly, his voice carrying none of its usual harsh edge. "Like a damn furnace, ain't I?"

You made a small sound of agreement, your hand finding his where it rested on your hip, fingers intertwining with his. The gesture was so natural, so trusting, that Merle felt his throat tighten.

After everything, after all the shit I've done, all the ways I've fucked up, she still trusts me enough to sleep next to me.

"Can't sleep again?" you asked, your voice thick with drowsiness but tinged with concern. You always worried when he couldn't sleep, always tried to help in your gentle way.

"Nah, just enjoyin' the view," Merle said, attempting his usual crude humor. "Got me a real nice piece of ass pressed up against me. What red-blooded American male would waste time sleepin'?"

You scoffed softly, the sound he'd grown to love more than any music. "You're incorrigible."

"That's a mighty big word for this time of mornin', sugar. You sure you ain't still dreamin'?"

"Positive. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with you." But there was affection in your voice, the kind of fond exasperation that came from months of putting up with his particular brand of charm.

Merle's chest rumbled with quiet laughter. "Lucky you. Most girlies would kill for the privilege of wakin' up next to all this." He gestured to himself with his prosthetic, the metal catching a glint of moonlight.

"Most girls have better sense than I do, apparently."

"Damn right they do. You got terrible taste in men, lil doe. Absolutely terrible."

The nickname rolled off his tongue like honey, sweet and deliberate. He'd started calling you that months ago, back when you were still skittish around walkers, still jumped every time they came close. Now it felt like a prayer, something sacred between just the two of you.

My little doe, he thought, pressing his face into your hair and breathing in the scent of the cheap shampoo you'd found on the last supply run. My beautiful, perfect, too-good-for-this-world little doe.

"You know," you said quietly, your voice growing more serious, "I never properly thanked you."

"Thanked me? For what, sugar? My sparkling personality? My devastatingly good looks? My charming way with words?"

"For Atlanta. For the rooftop." Your voice was barely above a whisper now. "For not letting me jump."

The words hit Merle like a physical blow. Atlanta. The rooftop. The day he'd lost his hand but gained something infinitely more precious—the knowledge that you'd risk everything to save him. The day he'd realized that maybe, just maybe, there was still something worth fighting for in this world.

Hell, lil-doe you saved me, he thought, the memory playing out in his mind like a film reel. Could've run, could've saved herself, but she stayed. But she got me outta there when any sane person would've left me to rot.

"Hell, You're the one who saved my worthless ass." he said, his voice rougher than usual.

"We saved each other," you corrected, your fingers tightening around his. "That's what we do."

What we do. The words echoed in his mind, and Merle felt something break inside his chest. Because after today ... after today, you'd be safe, and Daryl would take care of you the way Merle never could.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and warm, and Merle felt the weight of everything he'd never said pressing down on him. All the words he'd swallowed, all the feelings he'd buried under crude jokes and casual cruelty.

He'd spent so long being afraid—afraid of rejection, afraid of tainting you, afraid of admitting that a Dixon man was capable of love.

But time was running out, and some things needed to be said, even if you'd never fully remember them.

"You know what I love about you?" he murmured, his voice so soft it was barely audible.

"My stunning intelligence? My wit?" you teased sleepily, but there was something in your tone that suggested you knew this was different, that something had shifted in the air between you.

"Your heart," he said simply. "Your big, beautiful, stupid heart that still believes in good things. Still believes in people, even when they don't deserve it."

His good hand moved from your hip to your face, fingers tracing the line of your jaw with reverent gentleness. You made a soft sound, leaning into his touch, and Merle felt his resolve crumble a little more.

Look at her, he thought desperately. Look how she trusts me. How she lets me touch her like this. How did I get so goddamn lucky?

"Merle, you being wer-" you whispered, and his name on your lips sounded like absolution.

"Shh," he murmured cutting you off, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Just let me... let me look at you for a minute."

In the dim light, your face was perfect—soft and peaceful and so beautiful it hurt to look at. Merle traced every feature with his fingertips, memorizing the feel of your skin, the way you sighed when he touched you. His thumb ghosted over your lips.

She's half asleep, he told himself. She won't remember this tomorrow. Won't remember how pathetic I'm bein', how weak.

But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. This wasn't weakness—this was the strongest thing he'd ever done. This was love, pure and simple, and it was killing him.

"You know what else I love about you?" he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The way you hum when you're workin'. The way you scrunch up your nose when you're concentratin'. The way you always save the best bits of food for everybody else. The way you look at me like I'm worth somethin'."

Your eyes flicked open, for less then a few seconds, meeting his in the darkness. They were soft and unfocused with sleep, but there was something there—a question, maybe, or a recognition that this moment was different from all the others.

"What's wrong?" you slurred, your voice thick as sleep pulled you under again.

"Nothin's wrong, lil doe. Everything's perfect. You're perfect." His hand cupped your face, thumb stroking across your cheek. "I just... I need you to know somethin'."

"Mmm." You hummed noncommittally.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. The words were there, burning in his throat, but they felt too big, too important. How do you tell someone that they saved your soul? How do you explain that you'd burn down the world to keep them safe?

Just say it you pussy, he told himself. Just once, say it like you mean it.

"I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of everything he'd never been able to say.

I love you so goddamn much it scares me. Love the way you laugh, love the way you cry over dead flowers, love the way you make me want to be better than I am. Love you more than I ever thought possible, he thought watching your chest rise and fall peacefully.

You nodded slightly, and for a moment, Merle thought you might be fully awake, might remember this. But then you sank back into that dreamy half-sleep, a small smile playing at your lips.

"Mmm, Yea Love you too, you big sook" you murmured, the words slurred with drowsiness.

She loves me, Merle thought, his heart breaking and soaring at the same time. Maybe not the same way, but it's enough, more then I deserve.

He leaned down then, pressing his lips to yours in the softest kiss he'd ever given. It was gentle and reverent, a goodbye disguised as a caress. You sighed into his mouth, and for a moment, Merle let himself believe that this moment could last forever.

When he pulled back, your eyes were still closed, that peaceful expression on your face. He watched you for a long moment, drinking in every detail, trying to burn this image into his memory.

This is it, he thought. This is as close to heaven as a Dixon'll ever get.

Slowly, carefully, he began to untangle himself from you. Your face scrunched up in protest as he moved away, and you made a small sound of complaint that nearly broke his resolve.

"Shh," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Just gotta get up, lil-doe. You go back to sleep for me."

He eased himself off the mattress, his movements careful and quiet. From his pocket, he pulled out the small wooden carving he'd finished the night before—not a deer this time, but a small heart, smooth and perfect.

She'll understand, he told himself as he placed it on the small table beside the bed where you'd see it when you woke up.

Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Eventually she'll understand why.

He stood there for a moment, looking down at you, memorizing this last image of peace. Your hair spread across the pillow, one hand reaching out to where he'd been lying, searching for him even in sleep.

I'm sorry, he thought, the words he couldn't say aloud. I'm sorry I can't be the man you deserve. I'm sorry I can't stay. I'm sorry I'm too much of a coward to tell you the truth when you're awake.

But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't about cowardice. It was about love—the kind of love that put someone else's safety above your own happiness. The kind of love that made the hard choices, even when they destroyed you.

She'll be safe, he told himself as he turned away from the bed. Daryl will take care of her. He's a good man, better than me. He'll give her the life she deserves.

The thought should have comforted him, but instead, it felt like a knife twisting in his chest. He paused at the door, looking back one last time at the girl who'd saved him in every way that mattered.

"Goodbye, lil doe," he whispered, so quietly that even he barely heard it. "I love you. I love you so goddamn much."

Then he was gone, slipping through the prison corridors like a ghost, leaving behind the only good thing he'd ever found in this world. Behind him, you stirred slightly in your sleep, your hand closing around empty air where he'd been, and somewhere in your dreams, you whispered his name.

The wooden heart sat on the table, a silent testament to a love that would never be, and in the growing light of dawn, it cast a shadow that looked almost like two people embracing, holding each other tight against the darkness of the world.

[yourreddancer]

HEARTLESS: Republican Rep. Tim Burchett says he's voting to gut Medicaid because sick and disabled Americans should "get off their ass and get a job."

Tennessee voters, are you paying attention?

In Tennessee, approximately 1.6 million people are covered by Medicaid, also known as TennCare. This represents about 19% of the state's total population, according to KFF. While the majority of enrollees are children and adults, the state spends a larger portion of its Medicaid budget on the elderly and people with disabilities, according to KFF.

Save the video for a campaign ad in 2026

Tell me what job the nursing home residents are going to get.

He was never on the fence on this bill, they were always a yes! Remember that when these Republicans are up for running again and VOTE them OUT!

Working people get help from medicaid to help the sick with medicine & treatments. These people have health insurance but some insurances don't/want pay.

Having a job doesn’t guarantee health insurance. There are tight-ass employers who make sure they don’t have to provide it by hiring only part-time, or it’s too expensive for the employee to sign up for it.

What job can a 70 year old with rheumatoid arthritis and balance issues do? Who would hire a 70-year-old?

Notice to Democrats….run this video on a loop at midterms.

"Walmart is a top employer of Medicaid beneficiaries in many states. A study by the Government Accountability Office found that a large portion of Walmart employees were on Medicaid and SNAP.

from FB

Char Generaux

"You've made your choice, MAGA faithful, and now comes the reckoning you never bothered to imagine.

The policies you cheered from the sidelines take on a different complexion when they land on your doorstep, when the theoretical becomes brutally personal.

You celebrated the promise of economic nationalism without considering that tariffs increase your grocery bills. You applauded immigration crackdowns without recognizing that your community's agricultural economy depends on the very workers being deported.

You endorsed authoritarian power without grasping that authoritarians eventually turn on everyone, including their most devoted supporters.

The tragedy isn't just your miscalculation, it's your willful blindness to history's clearest lessons.

Every populist strongman begins by promising to punish "them" while protecting "us", yet the distinction inevitably collapses under the weight of absolute power.

The machinery of oppression, once constructed, operates with its own inexorable logic. You believed that you were exempt from the consequences, that your loyalty will serve as permanent immunity. But Power recognizes no such bargains.

The same forces you unleashed to devastate your perceived enemies will ultimately consume you with equal indifference.

The bitter irony is that you'll likely blame everyone except yourself when the reality you created becomes unbearable.

But by then, the institution that might have protected you will be long gone, dismantled by your own enthusiastic applause."

HIDDEN IN PAGES 300-500 OF HIS BILL GIVES HIM THE AUTHORITY TO INTERFERE WITH VOTES AND SERVE A THIRD TERM OR MORE!!

YOU PEOPLE CRIED "USELESSLY" ABOUT BENEFITS!... THAT'S THE ABSOLUTE LEAST OF YOUR PROBLEMS!!

AND YOU THOUGHT the recent staged and fake arguments with MUSK put him on your side - deflection!...

Soooo, only the POOR and VETERANS commit fraud??... no RICH?? No POLITICIANS? The RICH are the only HONEST and "GOD FEARING" on earth??

[dashxero]

Carmen Sandiego Redesign Project: Members of VILE

Over a week ago, I redesigned Carmen Sandiego because of a conversation I'd had at lunch. This past week, I'd gone about redesigning other members of VILE. These are my thoughts on each:

Carmen Sandiego:

When redesigning Carmen, I wanted her to look "actiony." I had to try really hard not to make her sexy. I did away with her trench coat in favor of a tek poncho, and figured that giving her a catsuit would add to the action-appeal I was going for. I gave the catsuit ninja toes to imply a swiftness of movement.

The Carmen Sandiego I'm envisioning here is not new to the game, but not quite heavily seasoned. Probably a few years out from having left ACME Detective Agency. Not quite at the level of stealing monuments, cities, and entire islands, but she's getting there.

Patty & Gren Larceny:

Redesigning Patty Larceny helped me figure out the ethos behind VILE in this head-fiction I've allowed to abscond with me. The members of VILE are all in it for the love of the game.

In doing research, I discovered that Patty was always a youngster (but back when I was a kid, I thought she was grown). Here, I decided to stick with that. I wanted to make a character whose first heist was the theft of her daddy's credit card, and she was never punished or scolded for doing so. Probably looks up to Carmen as a role model.

I imagine her as being a kleptomaniac proficient in sleight of hand - easily able to steal smallish objects. Likely a master of diversion tactics - which is where her dog, Gren, would come in. Patty carries Gren on her coat (it's faux fur - she has a conscience). Well, Patty probably carries everything in her coat. If she got hit or took a tumble, everything she'd stolen would likely fall out like Sonic's rings.

Vic The Slick:

Right away, I knew that I wanted to make Vic the Slick a bishonen. When blocking out the face, I noticed that he resembled Prince - so I leaned into it. Prince is the original bishonen after all. My mission was to make Vic the Slick fuckable. And I knew I succeeded when my moderator came into the stream while I was working on him, and said, "Oh, he can get it."

When designing Vic, I leaned into a couple of things I'd only tried in thumbnails for a client or two, but clients never really dug - for example, the high-waisted skinny slacks-turtle neck combo. I did away with his original color scheme in favor of something a little more modern. in order to add the "used car salesman vibes" back into the character, I gave him gold chains.

I imagine this Vic the Slick as VILE's fence and HUMINT specialist. A smooth talker. If there were a fight scene, he'd probably be scrambling around trying to get help from the other members of the crew.

Eartha Brute:

I think the most drastic changes I've made to any member of VILE has to be what I've done with Eartha Brute. I've essentially reimagined her as a former pro wrestler - likely a heel - who got sick of constantly having to "do the job" and was never pushed or given a title shot. She wears the prize of her first heist on her waist.

It was important to me that I retained some semblance of her original color scheme - the pink of her costume and the green highlights in her hair.

When designing her tattoo, I was initially worried because tattoo design isn't really my forte. But in this instance, it just kind of flowed.

I imagine Eartha as the muscle - someone you call in when something or someone big has to be moved. In my mind, she travels kind of like the Hulk. By leaping large distances.

Robo-Crook:

Robo-Crook, in this head-fiction, was a former mobster who was caught stealing/embezzling from his boss and operation, and nearly perished as a result. Science was able to save him? He uses his second chance at life to continue stealing whatever he can. For the love of the game.

Robo-Crook's accessories and pinstripe panels were things he probably requested to make him feel like he was dressed sharp and presentable.

I imagine he functions as the old wise member of the group who is also a tech specialist.

I also threw them all together to see if they fit. And they do. There. It's all out of my head. I can move on and continue my sculpt of Anura.

[xonceuponafuckxx]

Killian was keeping an eye on Andrew, still wary about trusting him after the other day. He knew that Andrew wasn't so broken down that he wasn't still trying to escape. It was far too recent after his last attempt for him to trust it. That was why he had a plan. He'd taken Andrew here specifically for the privacy. There was plenty of space to properly train his new pet.

He let Andrew wander for an hour, whistling and snapping to get him to come over. "Come, pet." Killian gently pet his hair and his skin, kissing his forehead lightly as he removed the gag. "Show me what a good boy you are..." He grabbed a toy from beside his chair, tossing it a few feet away. "Go on, play. We can do fetch for a while and then you can lie down." Killian kept his throws short, slowly growing in length until he was halfway across the yard.

He played the recording from the speaker he'd planted on the other side of the fence, making it sound like someone was asking if anyone was home because they had a flat tire. Killian needed a safe environment to test Andrew, so he was using cheap actors to record audio for his little tests. No matter what Andrew did or said, there was nobody to rescue him.

Andrew didn’t even notice how he leaned his body and head towards the other man when he pet him or comforted him. It did make him feel a little better after being touch starved all night. He nods, wondering how much he would be told to speak, but at least he seemed to have the option now in comparison to the last time he tried to speak.

Andrew waited patiently at the floor in his spot as he watched the other man move around the kitchen. He was too unsure to speak again, wondering if the order that had been given was for that specific question only. So he stayed silent as he watched a bowl be filled for him then placed on the floor. Andrew knew what the order was before being told. He carefully leaned down, eating as best as he could. It wasn’t that the eating part was difficult, he more disliked the food all over his face. It was more the fact he had to lean up slightly to swallow properly or without excessive strain when he did it for too long.

Taking a bit of a break as he took little gasps for air from eating, he knew that tone. So, Andrew obliged and nodding, wiggling his ass back and forth and feeling a shudder almost go down his spine as he felt the tip of the tail from the plug hit his ass cheeks as he moved. He looked up begging to the man.

[joelalorian]

The Dog Days of Starting Over - Part Three

Joel Miller x f!reader | WC: 2295 |18+ MDNI | masterlist

Summary: Joel is hit with the loneliness of an empty nest when Sarah goes overseas for college. Her solution? Adopt a dog. That may just change Joel's life.

Series Tags/Warnings: 18+ mdni. Empty nester Joel. Loneliness and sadness. Humor. Cursing. Dog park shenanigans. Awkward flirting. Socialization for dog and human. Probably more to come. Slow burn to start.

Series Masterlist

Part Two

Part Three

Joel pulled into the gravel parking lot by the town’s dog park, Central Bark, just as the afternoon sun dipped behind the trees. Walter sat upright in the passenger seat, eyes narrowed, his tail giving a single contemplative thump. Joel leaned forward, his arms draped over the steering wheel as he eyed the fenced-in green space through the windshield.

The dog park looked deceptively peaceful at first glance. A wide expanse of greenery spread out before them, dotted with trees, benches, three canopy-covered picnic tables, and people who all looked like they belonged to some unwritten club that involved collapsible water bowls and Chuck-its.

Why did he suddenly feel like he was about to walk onto a battlefield he hadn’t trained for?

“Alright, bud,” he muttered after watching that deceptive peace turn into the true chaos unfolding inside the boundaries of that chain-link fence. “Looks like we got a golden retriever over there peeing on every surface that can’t move, a poodle in a stroller – what the fuck? – and several lab mixes doing parkour off the benches.”

Walter turned his head to meet Joel’s gaze and uttered an unimpressed huff.

“And the humans…” Joel squinted at them, brows drawing together as he observed the interesting characters he could make out near the front of the park. One woman carried a baby on one hip and yelled at any dog that tried to jump up to sniff the child. A dude in joggers and a man bun was doing fucking yoga on a shady spot of grass with his dog. A few men stood in a circle, chatting and tossing tennis balls for their dogs to fetch. And scattered along the benches and picnic tables were a few people making conversation or reading.

Was he ready for this?

Not really.

Walter didn’t look ready either.

They sat there another minute, the engine humming quietly. Joel’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his mind ran in circles. This was stupid. He didn’t belong here. Not with these dog yoga people. Not with their perfect lives and matching water bottles. What could he possibly have in common with any of them?

But Sarah told him he needed to ‘get out there’. She’d said it with that voice that he always found it hard to say no to. She usually paired it with those big puppy dog eyes. He’d do anything for that girl.

Joel killed the engine and reached for the leash with a sigh. “Let’s just walk the perimeter. In and out. Call it recon, if you will. No mingling. We don’t even have to make eye contact.”

Walter let out a dramatic huff and slowly stood, giving a full-body shake like he was preparing for combat. As Joel clipped the leash to his collar, he caught the dog giving him an encouraging side eye.

“If anyone tries to talk to me about gluten-free dog biscuits or goin’ vegan, I’m throwin’ you in the car and we’re goin’ for steak tacos.”

Walter snorted.

Together, they stepped out of the truck and made their way to the entrance. Walter trotted toward the gate with surprising enthusiasm, tail wagging with interest as they slipped through the first gate of the entryway. Before Joel could unhook the lead and open the second gate, dogs rushed toward them, barking and whining, eager to meet the fresh meat.

Walter looked up at Joel doubtfully.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Joel grumbled. “This wasn’t my idea. I was perfectly fine not being barked at by strangers.”

The beagle yawned, snapping his jaws closed impatiently.

“This is gonna suck.” Joel eased the gate open, pushing the pack of dogs back to allow Walter and him in. Walter trotted in like he owned the place, silently snarling at any dog that tried to sniff his butt without his permission. When he reached the first patch of grass, he lifted his leg and peed on one of the dog’s heads when it refused to stop its butt sniffing. The other dogs skittered off, as if they were reconsidering their life choices.

“Thatta boy,” Joel said approvingly with a low chuckle. “Keep that same energy.”

An older woman doused in too much perfume and a bedazzled visor marched over, the tiny dog tucked under one arm resembling a furry baguette. “Excuse me! Is your dog fixed? Does he have all his shots?”

Joel blinked. “Is he what now?”

“Neutered. Altered. Snipped. Vaccines. You know, things responsible dog owners do for their dogs?”

Walter picked that moment to dramatically flop onto the grass and roll onto his back, as if to show the impertinent woman his lack of balls. Joel didn’t bother hiding a chuckle.

“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s all squared away. See for yourself.” He pointed down to Walter’s demonstration and turned to walk away.

“Good,” the woman nodded curtly. “Some of us actually care about maintaining the vibe.”

Vibe? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask questions, but judging by the woman’s outfit, Joel didn’t want any part of it. He continued walking, Walter quickly following.

“Don’t pay any mind to Ruth,” a sweet-sounding voice caught his attention as he and Walter headed toward the fence line. He turned to find a pair of pretty eyes and a kind smile focused on him. “She’s a bit of a handful, but she means well.”

“Handful is right. Not sure she should be part of the welcoming committee. Her demeanor is off puttin’’.” That earned a little burst of laughter from you.

“Yeah, probably not,” you concurred.

Joel’s eyes flicked over you, then away before he was caught. He liked your style – jeans, a tee shirt, and hiking boots. Simple, real. Pretty and kind. It caught him off guard, finding someone like that in a place with so many… interesting characters. Before he could think of anything remotely charming or witty to say, salvation came in the form of a buzz from his phone.

“’Scuse me, ma’am.” You flashed another smile as he stepped back toward the fence and answered the phone.

“Hi, Babygirl.”

“Cheers, Dad,” Sarah greeted, her voice chipper. “Are you at the dog park, or did you chicken out and take Walter to the pub instead?”

He snorted. “If I had a choice, I’d be three beers deep by now. But someone didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Oi, don’t be a numpty. Walter needs to mingle. You both do.”

“What the hell’s a numpty?”

Sarah laughed fondly. “It’s a term they use on this side of the pond, mate. It means a stupid or silly person. I learned it from my roommate.”

“Mate? Numpty? Cheers? You forget how to speak American already?” Joel teased. He loved hearing the happiness in her voice, even when she was giving her old man a hard time. “We’re mingling. Real social. We’ve already judged, and been judged by, no less than three people and six dogs, thank you very much.”

She laughed. “Sounds like you’re both thriving.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “It’s… a little weird. Everyone here’s got these weird ass routines. There’s this dog wearing booties, and another one with a bandana that says ‘Plant-Based Pup.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

“Probably that their owners are insufferable,” Sarah replied dryly. “You’ll get the hang of it, Dad. Just keep going. And maybe wear something that doesn’t scream, ‘I hate fun’.”

Joel looked down at his dark gray t-shirt, jeans, and work boots. “This is my happy outfit.”

“Sure. More like jeans and work boots are your armor.” There was such fondness in her voice that Joel’s heart melted into a puddle. “Alright, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a lecture in postcolonial ethics, and my professor wears sweaters with elbow patches unironically. I need to prepare emotionally.”

“You are such a weirdo. Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad. And tell Walter he’s a good boy.”

“Nah, it’ll just go straight to his head.”

When he hung up, Joel turned to find a brindle pit bull sitting on Walter, treating him like a throne. Walter wore an expression of long-suffering irritation and let out a low snarl at the violent offender.

“You okay there, buddy?” Joel called, trudging across the grass, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.

Walter huffed, thoroughly unamused.

Joel reached for the pit bull’s collar, noting the studded bones along the aged leather. “Alright, your majesty. Time to abdicate.”

The other dog gave a lazy yawn before sauntering off without protest, leaving behind a deeply offended beagle. Joel looked down at Walter. “Think we’ve had enough socializin’ for one day?”

Walter stood, shook himself off dramatically, and headed for the gate without a backward glance. Joel followed with a hearty chuckle. “Yeah. Me, too.”

As they made their way toward the exit, weaving around abandoned tennis balls and dodging the random pile of dog shit, a rogue golden doodle barreled past, tongue lolling and paws flying in a blur. It clipped Joel at the knee, damn near sending him to the ground.

“Jesus Christ!” he cursed, stumbling sideways into the fence. The chain-link gave a metallic rattle when he caught himself.

“Sorry!” someone called from across the field. “She gets the zoomies when she sees handsome older men.”

Joel wasn’t sure how to process that sentence, so he just kept walking. This place was so strange.

At the gate, he spotted you again, crouched to reattach your dog’s leash. You looked up at the sound of Joel’s approach, offering a friendly nod and bright smile.

“Did Walter survive his first visit?”

Joel huffed, eyeing Walter’s sulky posture and dirty-dusted belly. “Barely. He got sat on like a beanbag. Decided to end on a high note.”

You laughed, standing to your full height and brushing your hands on your jeans, little blades of grass tumbled to the ground. “Could’ve been worse. Last week, a husky stole my protein bar and then peed on my shoes. Dog park diplomacy is brutal.”

“Certainly seems like it,” he chuckled. “You always come here in the late afternoon?”

Your head tilted thoughtfully, the fading sunlight catching your eyes in a way that left Joel a little speechless.

“Sometimes. I prefer the mornings, especially on the weekends. Better crowd at that time.” You led the way through the first gate, holding it open for Joel and Walter to pass through before moving to the second gate. “This late afternoon crowd is a bit pretentious for my liking.”

Joel found himself grinning with genuine ease, something he thought might have to do with you. Walter leaned into his leg with the sagging weight of a lazy toddler, glancing sideways at your petite husky mix, who sat patiently at your feet.

She had one brown eye and one blue, and a gaze that could see right through to one’s soul. The daisy-print collar around her neck popped brightly against her silver-white and brown coat.

“What’s her name?” Joel nodded toward your dog in an attempt to keep the conversation going.

“Penelope,” you said fondly. “She loves to run. And she’s real damnjudgmental – judges people who wear Crocs and drink foam lattes and a million other things.” Your laugh was as pretty as you were, and Joel tried not to visibly react to the warmth it stirred in his chest. “Seems to like you guys though.”

He looked down at Walter. “You hear that, buddy? Sounds like we found your twin.”

Walter sneezed in response, causing you to laugh again. Joel felt certain the pleasant sound would linger in his ears for hours like a song he didn’t want to forget.

“Well, I hope you two come back. Definitely try the weekend mornings, it’s usually much less chaotic.”

Joel hesitated, thumb hooking into his front pocket, then gave a small nod. The idea of seeing you again made him almost eager to return. Almost. “We just might.”

“See you around then.” You offered a small wave, leash in hand, as you and Penelope turned to find your car. Joel watched you walk away, telling himself he wasn’t checking you out, but… yeah, he totally was. He was having a hard time telling if you were being flirtatious or just friendly. He wasn’t good at this shit. Always missed the context clues.

Walter snorted, drawing his attention away from your retreating form. The dog eyed him like he knew exactly what type of thoughts rolled through Joel’s mind.

“What? Don’t look at me like that.”

The beagle turned and headed for the truck without waiting, tail wagging in slow semi-circles as he dragged Joel along with him. Once they were back in the cab, Joel buckled his seatbelt and glanced over at Walter, already halfway into his post-park coma. His head lolled against the door, lips fluttering slightly in the breeze from the open window.

Before pulling away, Joel took out his phone and shot a quick text to Sarah.

Joel: Survived. Barely. Walter got sat on. I may have been flirted with? Not sure. Outta practice and this dog park is a hellscape.

Sarah’s reply came within seconds.

Sarah: Omg a WOMAN??? Did she have teeth? Was she breathing? Did YOU remember to breathe??? How are you alive right now?

Joel rolled his eyes and sent one final text before shoving the phone into the empty cupholder.

Joel: Haha you lil shit.

Walter shifted in his seat with a soft, sleepy groan. Joel reached over and scratched behind his floppy ear. He stared out at the horizon for a beat, taking in the vibrant colors of the setting sun, and turned the key in the ignition.

“We’ll come back Saturday morning, yeah?”

Joel took Walter’s silence as a yes.

tbc

Part Four

taglist: @milla-frenchy, @noisynightmarepoetry, @bunnymami13, @lillaydee, @missladym1981 @therewastherewas @joelmillerpascal @baronessvonglitter @ashleyfilm

[cilleatandserve]

ᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

Masterlist

Summary: After seperated lovers are conveniently and temporarily single, the flame reignites. Although it was extinguished for a reason.

Warnings: Cheating, Smut(unprotected p in v), Death, Yearning, Rejection

A/N: Feels a bit rushed but nonetheless hope it’s interesting!

London, England.

February 20th 1914

Do you want the truth? Grief is like spilled glitter. When it first spills, it’s everywhere, an overwhelming mess. But as you clean it up, it seems less intense, though every now and then, you still find remnants, sparkling reminders. Grief is love with nowhere to go, and it has defined the last three months of your life.

Your husband passed away from influenza that December. His recovery depended on rest, but that rest was tragically short-lived. His death was anything but peaceful, a term you resist applying to it. It has debilitated you, and your income is dwindling in this unforgiving economy. Rain pours heavily as you stare out the window of the cold house he left behind. You've always hated winter, despite England's persistent chill. Your breath slows, matching the rhythm of raindrops tracing paths on the glass. For a moment, your memory pulls you back to the summer of '03, to your adolescence.

Everything comes and goes in waves. The landscape remains unchanged: the cornfields, the cows, the flies, the constant coughing. The musky air fills the rows, permeating everything, even through the ash-infested vents from distant fires. It eats away at the bark of trees, just as this grief eats away at the last vestiges of happiness clinging to your bones. The other night, wrapped in crisp sheets, you clenched your body, imagining yourself as an embryo in your mother's womb. It was the only source of warmth and comfort capable of lulling you to sleep. But now, you see sheep grazing on green pastures outside the window. You hope they have water. Sometimes, you imagine being reincarnated as one of them, jumping over the low wire fences to freedom. You wonder how far you could get before a human catches you, tames you, and brings you back to their living painting—a life to observe as they wash dishes, smeared with the mother's milk they stole from you.

But it's not all darkness and despair. There are moments of hope. You wonder if, in the future, you’ll look back and think that these miles of cornfields, these anguished breaths, these forced smiles, these fleeting moments of calm, were all worth it. You don't know exactly where you're supposed to be. A hollow thought takes control, leaving you adrift in uncertainty.

Birmingham, England

June 13th, 1899

You and Ada were thick as thieves, partners in crime with a shared love for chaos. The days were a canvas for your pranks, each one more elaborate and ridiculous than the last. You’d spend hours whispering plans, giggling over the potential mayhem you were about to unleash.

But then there was Thomas. He moved with a quiet authority that made the air around him shift. While you and Ada reveled in your youthful antics, he seemed to carry the weight of the world in his eyes. His gaze alone was enough to make you freeze, a stark reminder that there were consequences to your actions.

Despite the undercurrent of respect, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear. Thomas was a force to be reckoned with, a man who demanded order in a world that often felt like it was spiraling out of control. You knew that crossing him would be a mistake, and yet, the thrill of pushing boundaries often outweighed your better judgment.

December 2nd, 1906

The thought of Thomas still makes your heart skip a beat. It's funny, isn't it? How someone who once seemed so distant and intimidating could become your secret confidant, your stolen moments of peace. It all started so innocently, a shared glance here, a lingering touch there. Before you knew it, you were both caught in a whirlwind of unspoken desires, drawn together by an invisible force that neither of you could resist.

You smile as the memories flood back, the clandestine meetings, the hushed whispers in the dark. The beach in winter, your sanctuary, the waves crashing against the shore like a symphony of secrets. The water, crystal clear, reflecting the raw emotions that swirled within you. Thomas, his eyes softened, his touch gentle, a stark contrast to the stoic figure you once knew.

Sixteen, young, and reckless, you dove headfirst into a love that was as pure as it was forbidden. There were no labels, no expectations, just two souls connecting on a level that transcended words. You built a world of your own, a haven where you could be vulnerable, where you could be yourselves, away from the judging eyes of the world. It was a love born in the shadows, fueled by passion and secrecy, a love that would forever be etched in your heart.

London, England

April 8th, 1919

Spring flowers bloom, a sight you could easily grow accustomed to as you gaze out the same familiar window. It was once obscured by relentless rain and a disheartening absence of sun, but now, it frames a scene of renewal, painting your world in vibrant hues. You check your mailbox, a routine task that has become almost meditative, only to find a letter—an invitation to a wedding. Interesting, you think, a wry smile playing on your lips, considering how few people you've allowed into your life since your husband's passing.

Wariness creeps in as you open the letter, discovering it's an invitation to Thomas Shelby's wedding. Your heart skips a beat, momentarily ceasing its rhythm as you read the rest of the letter. The words blur, however, as your mind fixates on the sender's name, replaying old memories. You and Thomas had drifted apart naturally, a gradual fading of contact, yet you had somehow underestimated your significance in his life to warrant such an invitation.

Ignoring the letter seems like the easiest course of action, a silent declaration of your unsuitability for a wedding you're convinced will be both awkward and dull. It would be so simple to let it gather dust, to pretend it never arrived, and to continue living in the quiet solitude you've grown accustomed to.

September 28th 1919

Weeks turn into months, each day blurring into the next with a monotonous rhythm, and no letters break the silence. It's surprising, really, how a tiny, almost forgotten fragment of your life has now ballooned into a significant part of everyone else's narrative. Thomas has become quite infamous, his name whispered with a mix of awe and apprehension, but you find yourself resolutely uninterested in those affairs. Or anyone's, for that matter. Your world has shrunk, the boundaries defined by your own solitude.

Yet, even within your self-imposed isolation, news finds a way in. You didn't need to receive any formal correspondence to learn of Thomas's wife's death—Grace Burgess. A beautiful girl, she was, young and full of life, now tragically cut short. The news casts a shadow, a somber reminder of the fragility of happiness.

You can no longer ignore the situation, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on you. The right thing to do, the only thing that aligns with your sense of decency, is to send your condolences. It's a moral obligation you can't sidestep, a bridge you must cross despite the lingering discomfort. You resolve to travel as soon as possible, compelled by a sense of duty, perhaps a flicker of lingering affection, and a deep-seated need to offer solace in the face of profound loss.

Birmingham, England

October 5th, 1919

The train ride stretches on, yet the journey seems to pass in a blur, your mind teeming with a torrent of thoughts. Thomas never coped well with grief; you witnessed it firsthand with the loss of his mother and father. You can only imagine the depths of sorrow he must be navigating now. Uncertainty gnaws at you, though, as you're unsure of where you stand with him, especially considering the complexities of his love life. It's not as if you parted on bad terms, but time and distance have created a chasm between you.

Upon arriving at Birmingham station, you make your way toward his house, guided by directions from a helpful passerby and a diligent driver. You knock on the imposing wooden door, and to your surprise, Thomas answers almost immediately, as if he had been passing by. His face is etched with fatigue, a mirror of the weariness you remember seeing in your own eyes back in 1914. Though he betrays no outward surprise at your presence, he wordlessly ushers you inside.

“Thomas, I'm very sorry about your loss," you murmur, settling into a chair as he urges you to remove your coat and accept a cup of tea.

He appears to be simmering with anger, though he restrains it in your presence. First impressions after a long time, but you've aged gracefully, still retaining a youthful glow. He's not sure he can say the same for himself. A wave of guilt washes over him, a recognition of his failure to offer support during your partner's passing—a partner he never approved of. Perhaps that's why he kept his distance.

"Not your fault," he says quietly, but the words ring hollow. He knows, deep down, that it was his fault, or at least he strongly believes it to be.

“I'm here when you need me. I always have been," you reassure him, though the sincerity of your claim is undermined by your absence over the past decade.

"You came all the way down to Birmingham, huh?" he joked through the dark. You both knew he kept track of your location, though neither of you mentioned it. You looked too much like Grace for him to stay calm. Or maybe Grace looked like you. He definitely had a type: beautiful, intelligent women.

"Yes, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding. I, uh," you stammered, trying to come up with an excuse through the sudden brain fog. He spoke before you could embarrass yourself further.

"That's fine. How long are you here for?" he asked curiously, changing the topic from his grievance.

"Just the weekend," you answered as you fiddled with the handle of your mug. It had been a while since you two had talked, and he was very different. The stoic Tommy you were once afraid of was back. It was as if he had never left, just temporarily gone. You didn't expect the spark to return instantly, though you noticed he never stopped looking at you. And not in a normal way, but with an intimidating gaze. The kind of look someone uses when they want to devour you whole.

Before you could say anything else, he reached across the small space between you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb stroked your skin as he leaned in, his eyes never leaving yours. The world seemed to fade away as his lips met yours. It wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss; it was full of pent-up longing and a raw intensity that sent shivers down your spine. His lips moved against yours with a possessive hunger, and you found yourself responding in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepened, a silent conversation of unspoken desires and unresolved feelings.

October 6th, 1919

The morning sun sliced through the heavy velvet curtains of Tommy's bedroom, painting stripes of gold across the unfamiliar landscape of dark wood and sharp angles. You stirred, a groan escaping your lips as you stretched, every muscle protesting the unfamiliar mattress. Your eyelids fluttered open, and the hazy memories of the night before crashed down on you like a tidal wave. Tommy's face was mere inches from yours, his dark hair a chaotic mess against the crisp white pillowcase. He looked younger in sleep, almost vulnerable, but the lines etched around his eyes hinted at the battles he fought even in his dreams.

Panic seized you, a cold fist clenching around your heart. How could you have been so reckless? The intensity of his gaze, the desperation in his touch, the way he made you feel like the only woman in the world - it had all been a carefully constructed illusion, a temporary escape from the harsh realities of your life. You had allowed yourself to be seduced by the ghost of a past that could never be resurrected, a dangerous game with a man who would always prioritize his own ambition over your happiness. The vulnerability of the moment, the allure of what once was, had clouded your judgment, leading you down a path you knew was fraught with peril.

A wave of nausea washed over you as you slipped out of bed, your movements as silent as a shadow. The opulent room, once a symbol of Tommy's power and success, now felt like a gilded cage, trapping you in a web of your own making. You gathered your clothes from the floor, your fingers fumbling with the buttons as you dressed quickly, desperate to erase any trace of your presence. Tommy stirred beside you, a low groan rumbling in his chest, but he didn't wake. You hesitated for a moment, a flicker of tenderness warring with the overwhelming sense of regret. But you knew that lingering would only prolong the inevitable, dragging you deeper into a cycle of heartache and disappointment. With a final, lingering look at the sleeping figure in the bed, you turned and fled, leaving behind the wreckage of a night you knew you would forever regret. As you walked away, a profound sense of loss settled over you, mingled with a fierce determination to reclaim your life and forge a future free from the intoxicating grip of Tommy Shelby. This wasn't the way forward, you reminded yourself. You couldn't allow yourself to be consumed by a love that was ultimately destructive. You had to prioritize your own well-being, even if it meant leaving a part of yourself behind, forever buried in the shadows of Small Heath.

London, England.

November 7th, 1919

Tom was distraught concerning your absence in his room, the emptiness echoing around him like a haunting melody. You were the one person he had ever allowed himself to be vulnerable with, and now you had left him, just like always. It was a familiar pattern, one that traced back to your teenage years when he had poured out his heart to you, only to watch you walk away time and time again. Months passed, and he tried desperately to erase the memory of you, battling his grief over Grace, who had always been a constant in his life. His love-deprived mind spiraled into a dark place, and in a moment of reckless determination, he found himself on the first train to London, propelled by a desperate need to confront the ghost of what you two once shared.

Arriving at the location scribbled on a note from one of his men, he knocked on the door, his heart pounding in his chest. When the door swung open, it revealed you, shrouded in darkness, already ready for bed. The sight of you sent a rush of emotions through him, and before he could fully grasp the gravity of the moment, he blurted out,

“Will you marry me, Y/N?” The plea hung in the air, thick with desperation. It was clear this was not the ideal cycle, and you felt a wave of indignation wash over you. It felt profoundly disrespectful to both Grace and your husband, despite the prolonged time you had spent single.

Your initial surprise quickly faded, replaced by a rising tide of anger. How could he think this was the answer? But Tom continued, his voice trembling as he almost begged,

“Please tell me not to go. We’ve been here long before. I’ll always be yours. I can feel you with me like I did before. I'll wait here tomorrow, outside your door. Like I did in December, when you held me close.” He paused between each sentence, his vulnerability laid bare before you, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all a mirage. He would never be something serious, and deep down, you knew you wouldn’t either. Fate had decided long before you met that this was not the path for you both, and as much as it pained you to admit it, you had to let him go once more.

Birmingham, London.

August 3rd, 1921

Almost two years had passed before he found someone to take your place. And this time, she would be at the wedding. You drive to Birmingham, a place you haven't visited in what feels like forever. Your red dress is a bold splash of color, standing out against the sea of beige suits. As you walk into the event, you can't help but scan the room, amusedly counting the familiar faces from Thomas's new life. You find a quiet corner and sit there throughout the ceremony.

After it ends, you're approached by Thomas and his wife—Lizzie, you believe. "Y/N. You came," he says, then adds, "You look beautiful." The nerve of him. You can see Lizzie is barely holding it together. But you just smile and offer your congratulations to them both. You don't seem as upset as he still is, and he seems as happy as he'll allow himself to be for you.

Later, as the wedding winds down, you find yourself on the balcony. Thomas comes out to smoke a cigarette, offering you one, but you decline. You quit a long time ago. "If you're in a good place, I won't mess with that," you say. You realize you can never truly get enough of him. No matter how much you try to escape, you always crave his presence and attention. You assume he feels the same, considering your frequent meetings over the years. His silence is broken by the tears forming in your eyes. How far have you fallen, chasing after a married man who could have been yours? "I need to leave," you say, turning to walk back into the crowded room and out to a taxi waiting outside. He follows for a moment, but gives up when Lizzie places her hand on his shoulder, not even bothering to ask who you are or what you mean to him.

As the taxi pulled away, Y/N watched Thomas recede into the background, his figure framed by the warm glow of the wedding venue. The tears she had fought back on the balcony finally streamed down her face, each drop a testament to the years of unresolved feelings and unspoken words. The city lights blurred through the taxi window, mirroring the confusion and regret swirling within her. She couldn't shake the image of Lizzie's hand on Thomas's shoulder, a silent claim that echoed the life Y/N had once envisioned for herself.

The weight of her decision to leave Birmingham years ago pressed down on her. She had sought freedom and a new identity, but in doing so, she had inadvertently created a void that Thomas had filled with someone else. The red dress, once a symbol of her boldness, now felt like a costume, a desperate attempt to recapture a moment in time that was forever lost. As the taxi navigated through the city streets, Y/N realized that her craving for Thomas's presence was not just about him, but about the life she had left behind and the person she had once been.

Back at the wedding, He watched the taxi disappear into the night, a sense of finality washing over him. Lizzie's touch was a grounding force, a reminder of the life he had chosen and the commitment he had made. Yet, Y/N's unexpected appearance had stirred up dormant emotions, a bittersweet reminder of what could have been. As he turned back to rejoin the celebration, he carried with him the weight of unspoken words and the knowledge that some connections, no matter how profound, are destined to remain unresolved.

August 5th, 1921

As you settle into the flat you booked just for this wedding, the plush armchair feels like a mocking embrace. The London skyline glimmers outside the window, indifferent to the turmoil in your thoughts. You replay the wedding in your mind, the champagne flutes, the forced smiles, and then your abrupt departure. "What a waste," you mutter, the words hanging heavy in the sterile air of the temporary apartment.

Suddenly, a knock echoes through the hallway, jolting you from your reverie. You open the door to find Thomas standing there, his eyes mirroring a mix of longing and regret. Before you can speak, he pulls you into a passionate kiss, a desperate plea for something more. "I can't keep pretending, can you?" he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "Let me come in, let's talk."

Inside, the air crackles with unspoken desires and forbidden possibilities. "What are we doing, Thomas?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. He steps closer, his hand gently tracing the curve of your face. "I want us to be more than friends," he confesses, his gaze intense. And in that moment, the boundaries blur, and you both step into the dangerous territory of an affair, fully aware of the consequences that await.

You don't hesitate, grabbing Thomas by the collar of his expensive suit and pulling him into the flat. The urgency is a tangible thing, a force pulling you both forward. You stumble slightly, kicking the door shut with your heel before pushing him gently towards the bed. The mattress feels thin beneath him, the sheets crisp and cool against his back.

He looks up at you, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and anticipation. You lean down, your lips meeting his in a kiss that's both desperate and tender. His hands begin to wander, exploring the curve of your waist, the small of your back. A thrill courses through you, a heady mix of guilt and excitement.

Breaking the kiss, you settle onto his hips, straddling him. The weight of your body presses him further into the mattress. With a practiced move, you lift your dress, the fabric sliding easily over your skin. Thank god you chose something simple, not one of those layered monstrosities that would take forever to get off. The air thickens with unspoken desires, the promise of something forbidden hanging heavy between you.

He sets your panties aside before unbuttoning and taking his cock out. With a few strokes, it hardens and is positioned below your hips. With a groan and a swift push, his cock sinks into your hole. As deep as possible as your hips meet his. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, you move your hips against his slowly before his hands help you speed up. Your hips move up and sink down, your legs spreading and feet curling with each movement. He groans and his head rests back. He remembers suddenly why he loved you so much. No one else felt like this.

What does this mean for you both? Is this a fleeting, one-time encounter, or the start of a prolonged affair? As the high begins to fade, worry creeps in, clouding your thoughts with possibilities. He had just come inside you. Had he used protection, one of those new latex condoms? The thought of a child in this economy, in your current situation, sends a shiver down your spine. Half of you is completely opposed to the idea, but the other half is strangely enamored. You imagine a child that looks just like him, with his temper, his energy, running around causing chaos. It's a cliché, isn't it? One touch, and you're already wrapped around his finger. You need to get yourself together.

Get yourself together.

[cmgmikealson]

Guys lando went to go over to the fans waiting at the fence to say hi and show of the trophy someone jumped in front of lando to get on the pitwall and he then fell and since lando was right behind him literally fell on lando making lando get hit in the face with the trophy cause he was holding it!!! I hope he is okay!!!

This is what I’m talking about 👇🏻👇🏻

[sweetonsin]

- where he found me -

A DBF! Joel Miller fanfic. NO OUTBREAK AU!!

CW: SMUT

WC: 2.9K

CHAPTER FIVE- TETHERED.

hehe feeling evil for this one. enjoy! <3

Joel’s been at the house almost every day now.

It started with the fence. One of the posts had rotted straight through, and your dad—never one to admit his knees aren’t what they used to be—mentioned it over a beer one night. Joel offered to help without hesitation.

That was two weeks ago.

Since then, it’s been one thing after another. A loose gutter. A busted hose line. A drawer that keeps sticking in the kitchen. You’re not stupid. You know your dad’s grateful for the help, but Joel’s not here for the handyman work.

He’s here for you.

And you’ve done nothing to stop it.

You step into the kitchen with your pulse in your ears. You grab two beers from the fridge, ignoring how your hands shake as you twist the caps off. Through the screen door, you catch a glimpse of them—your dad with a wrench in hand, Joel beside him in a white t-shirt soaked with sweat, sleeves hugging those arms.

He sees you first.

A soft smile flickers across his face.

Not smug. Not teasing. Just… soft.

And that’s somehow worse.

You press the bottles into your dad’s hand and murmur something about folding laundry. Joel’s gaze follows you the whole time, tracking every shift in your body like he’s memorizing the curve of you under your t-shirt.

Later, when the sun’s dipped and the cicadas sing loud and low, your phone buzzes.

Joel: You looked at me like you forgot how I taste.

Should I remind you?

You bite your lip, pacing your bedroom in Joel’s flannel like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

You: You can’t just look at me like that. Not with him standing right there.

You make it hard to breathe.

Joel: I’ll be soft next time.

Make you forget he’s even there.

And he is soft.

Over the next few days, you find new ways to be close without getting caught:

A brush of his fingers when he passes you a glass.

A whispered “hey, sweetheart” when your dad turns away.

A stolen moment behind the shed, where he catches your jaw and kisses you breathless—just once, just long enough to feel it all again.

He texts you late at night. Never dirty. Just wanting. Warm words like hands on your hips.

Joel: You get home safe today?

Joel: Dreamt of you last night. Miss you, Delilah.

You should be ashamed. You should end it.

But you don’t.

You lie to your dad—say you’re going for a walk when you’re really slipping next door. You sit on Joel’s porch swing while he leans against the rail, close enough to feel the heat of him but not close enough to touch.

Until you crack.

Until you're on your knees in front of him in the dark, or bent over his kitchen counter while the TV hums loud in the background to cover your moans.

But between all the need, there’s this:

A moment in his truck, parked behind a gas station, where he cups your face and says, “You’re not just some girl I’m fuckin’. You know that, right?”

And you can’t even answer. Because yes, you know.

But no—you can't let yourself believe it.

———

You feel sick lying to your dad. Again.

It isn’t even a good lie.

“Some girls from college texted,” you mumble as you slide your phone into your pocket. “Thought I’d go grab a drink or something.”

Your dad lifts a brow from his spot on the porch, tools still scattered at his feet. “You sure you’re up for that, hon?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Think it’s time I got out.”

He nods, clearly relieved. “Proud of you.”

And that—that—makes it worse. You wave, backpedal to the car, shut the door before your face can betray you.

Because you’re not going out with friends. Those ‘girls from college’ don't exist.

You’re not headed to a bar.

You’re headed to him.

The road stretches long and empty beneath your tires, dust curling up behind you in the late afternoon sun. It’s all farmland and fences out here, telephone poles leaning like weary ghosts.

You spot his truck before you even round the last bend.

Parked beneath a scraggly live oak tree, engine off, windows rolled down. He’s leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose. He straightens the second he sees you pull up, something hungry flickering across his face.

You cut the engine and sit there for a second.

Your hands are clammy on the steering wheel.

Because this isn’t just a hookup anymore. This isn’t just heat and breathless touches. This is Joel asking to see you alone. Not in a house. Not in the dark. But out here, in the daylight.

Like it might mean something.

You step out slowly, dress fluttering around your thighs in the breeze. His eyes drag down your body in a way that makes your knees feel useless.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice thick. “You wearin’ that just for me, darlin’?”

You nod, your voice caught in your throat.

He walks toward you. Slow. Deliberate.

His hand brushes your hip, then catches the hem of your dress between his fingers, lifting it just slightly.

The sun is low enough now that the heat isn’t suffocating, just clinging—heavy and slow. Joel lifts you onto the hood of the truck with a warm palm against your waist, like he’s done it a hundred times before. You let your legs dangle off the edge, bare thighs brushing metal still warm from the day.

He cracks open a soda from the cooler in the bed, handing it to you with a crooked smile and a wink. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

You take a sip. The sweetness fizzles against your tongue.

“I almost didn’t,” you admit. “Lied to my dad.”

Joel leans beside you, his knee nudging yours. “I figured.”

Silence drapes itself over the truck like a blanket. The cicadas rise and fall in the trees beyond the field, a constant drone that sounds like summer and endings. The wind moves through the tall grass, rippling gold and green like a dream.

“I like it out here,” you murmur, watching the horizon instead of him. “Feels like nothing can find me.”

Joel hums. “Sometimes I come out here just to think. Or not think.”

You glance over. He’s got that faraway look again, the one that makes you wonder just how much he’s carrying and how long it’s been since anyone helped him hold it.

“You do that a lot?” you ask. “Not thinking?”

He smirks, eyes still on the field. “Not when you’re around, no.”

Your stomach flips. You want to laugh, or maybe cry.

Instead, you offer him the soda. He drinks from the same side you did.

“You ever think this is... stupid?” you ask softly. “Us.”

Joel doesn’t answer at first. His thumb brushes your bare knee, warm and calloused. “Every damn day.”

“And you’re still here.”

His jaw flexes. “So are you.”

You look at him then. Really look. And it hits you all over again—how impossible this is. How good he is to you, in his quiet, stubborn way. How his presence makes the world tilt just enough to breathe again.

“I know this can’t last,” you whisper.

Joel’s thumb presses just a little harder into your skin. “Don’t mean I won’t take every second you give me.”

Your breath catches. The ache in your chest grows sharp, tangled.

He leans in, slow, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. And when he finally kisses you fully, it’s gentle, reverent.

Not hunger. Not lust.

Longing.

You kiss him back like you’re trying to carve the shape of him into your memory.

Because somewhere, deep down, you know you'll have to let go.

You lean back on your elbows, the cool curve of the hood pressing into your spine as you tilt your head toward the sky. The evening clouds are stretched thin, painted in soft pinks and bruised purples. A dusky kind of quiet settles over everything, the kind that makes you feel like the world’s holding its breath.

Joel stays close beside you, one arm behind you on the truck, the other resting on his knee. The side of his body brushes yours, just enough to feel solid. Steady.

You point upward, tracing the sky with your finger.

“That one looks like a dog,” you say.

He squints. “Looks like a boot to me.”

You huff a soft laugh. “You just have no imagination.”

“Mm,” he murmurs, glancing down at you. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re the one who sees what you wanna see.”

You turn your head, meet his eyes.

“Maybe I am.”

A beat passes. The cicadas drone on. The sky shifts.

You turn back to the clouds. “Can I ask you something?”

Joel leans his head back with a sigh, the lines at his temples catching the light. “You’re gonna anyway.”

You smile a little. “Fair.”

You hesitate, then ask, “Where’d you grow up?”

“Corpus Christi. Lived there till I was twenty.”

“What made you leave?”

He pauses, then says simply, “Life.”

You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. You don’t press. You just nod.

A moment later, he says, “Had a brother out there. Still do, I guess. We don’t talk much. Not after—well. Not important.”

His fingers tap lightly on the hood. He looks like he might stop there, but then adds, “Got a daughter, too.”

You turn sharply toward him, startled. You felt like that's something he should've mentioned, maybe.

“Her name’s Sarah,” he says softly, eyes on the horizon.

You shift beside him, sitting up a little straighter. The wind curls through your hair and Joel doesn’t look at you when he speaks, eyes still fixed on the tree line.

“She’s 28. Lives out in San Diego. Works with kids—special education.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a softness in his voice you’ve never heard before. “She’s somethin’ else. Real smart. Too good for the likes of me.”

You’re quiet a moment. “You don’t talk like that. You’re—”

“Delilah.” He cuts you off gently. “I did the best I could with her. But there were years I wasn’t a good man. She turned out right in spite of me.”

Joel goes quiet for a long time after he mentions Sarah.

His thumb traces lazy circles on your knee like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sky is bleeding into dusk.

You don’t press. But eventually, you whisper, “Can I ask what happened? To her mom?”

Joel exhales, like the question pulls something sharp out of him. He nods, barely.

“Left both of ‘s.” he says, voice low and dry. “Fast. Unfair. Sarah was just a baby.”

You look at him, really look—at the tension in his jaw, the shadow behind his eyes. He’s not telling you everything, but you can see how hard it is to even say that much.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Joel’s lips press into a tight line. He doesn’t respond at first. You wonder if he heard you.

“She was kind,” he says finally. “Stubborn, smart. Used to sing while she cooked. Never off key. Sarah got that from her.”

There’s a pause.

“She—” his voice catches and he swallows thickly, looking away. “She loved better than I knew how to deserve at the time.”

You feel something lurch in your chest.

And for a second, you’re angry.

Not at him. Not really.

But at the way life carved him into someone who lived whole chapters before you were even old enough to read. You’re here, sitting in a dress you wore just for him, your knees touching, your heart open—and it hits you all at once that you don’t know any of him, not really.

He has a daughter. A ex wife. A past too heavy for you to carry.

And you—you’re just some girl he touched in a truck.

Your throat closes up. You turn your face to the field, blinking fast.

Joel must sense it. His hand slips from your knee.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect that.”

He doesn’t speak.

So you do.

“My mom died,” you say quietly. “Almost a year ago.” You choke back your voice cracking. “Thats what I was so upset about— in the kitchen that day.”

Joel turns toward you. You keep your eyes on the darkening field.

“It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. She just kept getting smaller. Didn't hardly recognize her at the end..”

Joel doesn’t say anything. But his hand finds yours again. His fingers are warm and steady.

“I didn’t know how to help,” you say. “I was at school. Pretending things were normal.”

Joel’s thumb rubs over your knuckles. “That’s grief, darlin’. Doesn’t hit the way you expect.”

You nod. Your throat feels raw.

You don’t know what this is—this thing between you and Joel. What it means. It’s not just sex, but it’s not love, either. And you hate yourself for thinking it could be.

“I didn’t even know you had a daughter,” you say suddenly, voice tighter now. “That night in the truck—when you had me half-naked and shaking—I didn’t know you had a whole life before me.”

Joel’s jaw ticks.

“You didn’t ask.”

Your heart stumbles. “I shouldn’t have to ask, Joel.”

Silence.

You wrap your arms around yourself, staring out at the field like it might answer the ache in your chest.

“If I were older,” you whisper, “do you think this would feel different?”

Joel doesn’t answer.

But you already know.

You pull your arms tighter around yourself, feeling the weight of everything settle deep in your bones.

You want this. You want him.

But you know it can’t work.

Joel has a daughter—twenty-eight years old, older than you are half a decade. A whole life you weren’t even part of until now.

You hate that you care. Hate that the first person to make you feel anything since your mom died is the man who should be a stranger. Who should be a neighbor— just your dad's friend.

Your chest tightens like your ribs might crack.

You look at him—his tired eyes, the way his jaw clenches—and you realize the truth.

This can’t be.

Not for you.

Not for him.

Not for the mess it will leave behind.

You stand abruptly, dress rustling. Joel’s hand reaches for yours but you pull away.

“I—I can’t,” you say, voice barely steady. “This has to stop.”

He blinks, surprised. “Delilah—”

“No.” You shake your head, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “You’ve got a life I’ll never fit into. A past I can’t compete with. And I’m not—” you choke on the words—“not the person you need.”

“Delilah, wait,” he says, voice low but urgent.

You pull your arm back, breath hitching. “No, Joel. I have to go.”

You don’t look back.

You walk to your car, every step heavier than the last, feeling the ache of what you’re leaving behind—wanting it, hating it, needing to let it go.

The night swallows you whole.

The hum of the engine is the only sound keeping you tethered to the here and now.

Streetlights blur into long streaks across the windshield as you navigate the quiet roads, each mile pulling you farther away from Joel — and closer to the crushing weight settling in your chest.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white.

This shouldn’t have happened.

A one-night stand. Just a reckless escape. Nothing more.

But your heart won’t listen.

It’s tangled up in his touch, his voice, the way he looked at you like you mattered — like you weren’t just some girl passing through his life.

You hate that you feel this way. Hate that you want more from a man with a past so heavy it threatens to swallow you whole.

You blink back the tears burning behind your eyes and force your gaze back on the road.

It should’ve been simple. Clean. Forgotten by morning.

But now it’s not.

Your body remembers the way his hands felt — rough and tender all at once — the way his mouth found yours in the dark, claiming you without shame.

Your mind races with what-ifs and maybes you’re too scared to say out loud.

What if things had been different? What if you’d met before the loss, before the walls around your heart grew so high?

What if you were someone else — older, stronger, less broken?

The ache deepens.

You’re tethered to Joel in ways you don’t understand and don’t want to admit.

You swallow hard, biting your lip until it bleeds a little, a small, painful reminder that you’re still here — still alive.

But every mile you drive feels like a thread pulling tighter, threatening to snap.

Because you know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

And yet — you’re terrified you’ll never be able to let him go.

[funtomconfectionery]

lures you in with my ciel and raymond art so that you read the first chapter of my fanfic ouhhh ouuuhhhh

am

— 1 —

The streets were finally quiet as evening fell upon Covent Garden. Eight o’clock was the best time to wander — the street vendors tossed the birds the last of their scraps, and the rest of the tramps stowed themselves away in St. Giles ‘til nine. The kinder ones sent the kids out early, anyhow, and told them to find food before the whores came out. If you could muster the tears and a pitiful sentiment, a kind baker might hand out an unsellable heel of bread. If not, you might find yourself competing with the pigeons.

Raymond was content tonight. The weather was brisk yet forgiving, as early autumn often was, and the lamplighters had just started to make their rounds. An innkeeper lady had insisted upon washing his hair, and now, his black curls stuck up like sun-hungry vines. The Salvation Army charity kitchen he was walking back from was less busy at this hour, thankfully — the soup was ghastly, metallic and too oily, but it kept the ribs from knocking. He had eaten enough to carry him through his nightly scavenge. He needed more copper wire, he thought, so he’d duck behind the optician’s tonight and wait for the rag-and-bone men. Follow them about, maybe; they were always underfed and trembling, they’d not notice what they drop.

He slipped between the slight gap of a wrought iron fence and crouched in the narrow alley, where the glow of gas lamps could not reach him. The traitorous creak of his calipers was soft, and yet he flinched. No, that won’t do — he would have to remind himself before twilight to snatch a candle and wax the hinges. The overgrown verge reeked with the ferment of piss and gin, enough to sour even a beggar’s stomach. He winced, steadying himself into a comfortable kneel, staring out the gaps as the fortunate filtered out.

Tucked into his coat pocket was the shabby little twine-bound device. A stolen tin of rouge, emptied and repurposed, with copper mandibles protruding from the top. He had improvised it with a few Leclanché cells he’d found in a dust-yard, a broken telegraph coil, and a vinegar-soaked scrap ripped from his own shirt. When the switch on the side was flipped, the induction coil hummed awake, sending high-voltage shocks to the copper prongs. Done right, it’d produce enough electricity to stun a man solid for minutes. Truthfully, Raymond was so eager to use it that he’d forgotten what he’d come scavenging for. A quick buzz would only take him a minute, wouldn’t it?

The scratchy sound of scuffed worker’s boots against the granite setts slowly dulled to a quiet. Raymond must have been hiding there for five minutes. Or ten. Or twenty. It was hard to tell when curling up in alleyways was his sole pastime since his expulsion. In any case, the sky had already blackened. He slumped against the cold brick wall beside him, lids weary and young muscles sore. Just as sleep’s hungry mouth threatened to swallow him:

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

He stiffened at once, brows knit and blinking blearily. He peered back through the bars. A long, warm, flickering shadow. There walked a man, tall and dark and terribly thin, wearing what was presumably some sort of servant’s uniform. A perfumed lap cat kept by some corpulent Narcissus, he thought, with bulging pockets and a saucy temperament. Undoubtedly an easy mark. He found himself biting back a giddy giggle.

Raymond carefully unlatched the gate and positioned himself into a low split-stance, his braces mercifully quiet this time. He tracked the gentleman’s movements carefully. He had paused outside of a textile shop, and then he continued onward, his back turned to the alleyway. He allowed the distance between them to stretch five meters, in order to get a proper charge. He’d rigged the joints with loaded springs, affording him a jounce to sprint and tackle. He flipped the switch, priming them with tension, and waited three more seconds. Then, he lunged.

He drew the tin contraption from his pocket, and in the blink of an eye, it was in the man’s side, sparkling and lighting him blue. And yet, he remained upright and steady.

Before Raymond could gain his bearings, his head struck the ground with a crack that echoed, crushed under a gloved hand cold as stone. The other had already disarmed him, his wrist wrenched into his back tightly. His device was gone. Blood seeped from his scalp where the skin had split open. He hadn’t yet registered the pain; his sternum was far too busy feuding with the cobble, his breaths broken and whistling.

“How audacious,” the voice cut crisply. “and quite ingenious, I must confess. Though, your methodology leaves much to be desired.”

Raymond wriggled, peeking back at the man through his tangled hair. He didn’t say a word — wagging his tongue in such circumstances would most certainly end in his demise.

“Pray, what is your name, young man?”

Silence. A grunt — not of acknowledgement, but of pain.

“Do answer hastily, now. My master expects me home by ten, and he should be most displeased if I return tardy.”

“Get your hands off me, you damned nancy.”

“Charming. If you intend to waste my precious time, then,” The butler lifted Raymond by the collar as if he were naught but a disobedient kitten. “I shall bring you with me. He will find you a most diverting specimen.”