#lorraine rambles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

asthurn · 1 month ago

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oh, i love it so much! almost like a character analysis of lorraine day through adoration of someone that challenges her religious views and relationships. and since it was written in descriptive, lorraine talks about y/n with reverence or at least it comes off that way to me is so good specifically every time she compares them to maxine and bobby-lynne. also that pipeline of "do i want to be her or do i want to be with her?"

i’ll be watching you

pairing: lorraine day & female reader

summary: lorraine's quiet obsession with you grows as she battles her faith, her relationship, and feelings she can't control.

word count: 8.1k

warnings: religious topics & sins

The van rattled along the dusty Texas road, its engine coughing like it was on its last breath.

Lorraine sat near the back, the vibration of the bumpy ride jolting through the seat and up her spine. She kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap, gripping her bag as if holding onto it would somehow anchor her in this unfamiliar world.

RJ had promised this would be worth it—a once-in-a-lifetime chance to capture something "raw and authentic."

He hadn't mentioned the suffocating heat inside the van, the reek of cigarettes mingling with the sweet, sharp tang of cheap perfume, or the company she'd be keeping.

Maxine lounged near the front, legs sprawled out like she owned the place, while Bobby-Lynne leaned out the window, her laughter ringing out every few minutes, high and grating.

Lorraine stayed silent, a passenger on a trip she hadn't wanted to take, but one she'd been too weak to refuse.

When the van pulled over to pick you up, Lorraine didn't even glance toward the door. She had already decided what to think of you—another girl chasing the same shallow dream, as superficial and self-absorbed as the others.

The sound of your boots hitting the steps barely registered, and she kept her eyes fixed on the worn fabric of the seat in front of her.

Then you spoke.

"Hi, y'all."

Your voice wasn't what she expected—soft, warm, carrying only the faintest trace of a Southern drawl. Not like Bobby-Lynne's exaggerated twang or Maxine's clipped tone, but something quieter. Calmer. It made her look up despite herself.

The sun poured in through the open door behind you, outlining your figure in a soft glow. You stood there for a moment, a small smile on your lips, looking at each of them like you weren't the least bit intimidated.

Your presence didn't demand attention the way Maxine's did, nor did it clamor for approval like Bobby-Lynne's. Instead, it drew her in with something gentler—an understated confidence that felt entirely out of place in a van like this.

You climbed in, your movements unhurried, and as you found a spot across from her, you glanced over, catching her eye.

"I'm Y/N," you said, your voice cutting through the murmurs of conversation. "Nice to meet ya."

The smile you offered her wasn't forced or flirty, just... kind. She stared back, too startled to say anything, her lips parting as if to respond but nothing coming out.

She ducked her head quickly, pretending to adjust the strap of her bag, but the warmth of your gaze lingered long after you turned away.

The others quickly absorbed you into their noisy banter, asking questions, making jokes, but Lorraine barely noticed. Her attention kept flicking back to you, even when she told herself not to look.

Your voice was like a melody she couldn't ignore, the faint lilt of your accent weaving through the others'.

She watched the way your hands moved as you spoke, the way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, even the way you sat—relaxed but somehow poised, as if this cramped, overheated van was the last place you'd rather be, yet you'd decided to make the best of it.

You caught her staring once. She froze, her breath hitching as her heart kicked up an uneasy rhythm.

But instead of looking away or calling her out, you smiled. It was soft, almost shy, and for a moment she wondered if you thought the same of her as the others did: the silent preacher's daughter, too meek to say no, tagging along to remind everyone of sin.

She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much. The way you looked at her didn't feel like pity—not exactly. And yet, that one small smile was enough to send a ripple of something unfamiliar through her chest, something she didn't want to examine too closely.

You weren't like Maxine or Bobby-Lynne, not really. They were beautiful in loud, obvious ways, with their perfect hair and sharp smiles. You were different—beautiful in a way that didn't ask for attention, yet somehow demanded it all the same.

By the time the van pulled back onto the road, Lorraine found herself stealing glances at you whenever she thought no one would notice.

The ride was long, the road bumpy, and the sun relentless as it painted the horizon in hues of gold and orange. But all she could see was you—the way the light caught in your hair, the way your lips curved when you laughed.

It wasn't just that you were pretty. It was the way you carried yourself, the way you existed without apology or pretense.

Lorraine didn't understand it, but as the hours stretched on, she found herself watching you more than she'd watched anyone else in her life.

And when you smiled at her again—just a small, passing thing, like the flicker of a candle—she felt something crack open inside her, something that made her both want to run and never leave.

That was when it started.

Lorraine didn't know what it was—not at first. It wasn't like some sudden, earth-shattering realization, not the kind of thing you read about in stories where the world tilts sideways and everything changes.

It was slower than that, quieter. Like water seeping into cracks she hadn't noticed were there, filling spaces she didn't know existed until they were overflowing.

At first, it was just curiosity. That's what she told herself, anyway.

You were different—so different from anyone she'd ever met. You didn't talk like Maxine or Bobby-Lynne, who spoke like they always had something to prove. You didn't move like them either, didn't push yourself to the front of every room or dress like you wanted people to look at you. And yet, Lorraine couldn't stop looking.

It wasn't even conscious at first. Her eyes would drift toward you without permission, catching on the way your lips curved when you laughed or the way you'd tilt your head when you listened to someone speak, your expression soft and thoughtful.

She noticed the little things—how your nails were painted pale pink, already chipped at the edges, or how you smelled faintly like vanilla whenever you brushed past her in the cramped space.

She caught herself doing it more than once, lingering too long or looking away too quickly whenever you turned toward her. It made her stomach twist, a sharp, guilty thing that she couldn't ignore.

She told herself it wasn't what it seemed. She didn't want to look at you like that—not in the way Wayne looked at Maxine or Jackson looked at Bobby-Lynne. That wasn't her. It couldn't be her.

Not with everything she'd been taught.

Her father's voice echoed in her head more often than she cared to admit.

The eyes are the window to the soul. And sin begins with the eyes.

She tried to believe that was all it was—just looking. But even as the words circled in her mind, they rang hollow. Because it didn't feel like just looking.

It felt dangerous.

You were dangerous.

And yet, she couldn't stop.

The worst part was that you didn't make it any easier. You were nice to her—too nice. Friendly in a way that wasn't forced, wasn't mocking. You talked to her like you actually cared about her answers, not just because it was polite. You smiled at her even when she barely said two words in return.

You didn't look at her like everyone else did—the preacher's daughter, the tagalong who was only there to keep the group from falling into sin. The quiet one who'd be clutching a Bible and praying for their souls before the trip was over.

No, when you looked at her, it felt... different. Like you saw someone else entirely.

And maybe that's what scared her the most.

Because sometimes, when you smiled at her like that, she wondered if you saw the things she was too afraid to admit even to herself.

It felt wrong.

Of course, it felt wrong. How could it not?

You were a girl.

Her father's sermons flashed through her mind—fiery speeches about sin and damnation, about the unnatural urges that led people straight to hell. She could practically hear his voice, deep and unyielding, reminding her that God was always watching.

But sometimes, when she was watching, it didn't feel like sin.

It felt... inevitable.

Like it had always been there, buried deep beneath everything she thought she was, waiting for someone like you to dig it out and hold it up to the light.

And maybe that was what scared her most of all.

Because as much as she hated herself for it—hated the way her stomach tightened whenever you leaned too close or the way her chest ached whenever you smiled at her—she didn't want it to stop.

She didn't want to stop.

It wasn't just that it was wrong. It was that she was already with someone.

RJ wasn't perfect—not by any stretch. He was passionate about his work, sometimes to the point of obsession, and he had a way of talking over her without realizing it.

But he cared about her. She knew that. She'd seen it in the way he always held the van door open for her, how he remembered her coffee order without having to ask, how he talked about their future like it was set in stone.

And maybe it wasn't the kind of love that made her heart race or her hands tremble, but it was steady. Safe.

Or at least, it had been.

Lately, RJ's touch felt heavier than it used to. His hand on her back when he guided her into a room felt more like a weight than a comfort, and the way he looked at her—so expectant, so sure—made her chest tighten in all the wrong ways.

And the worst part? It wasn't just about her. It was about you.

Every time you walked into the room, she felt it—the way her pulse quickened, the way her eyes sought you out before she could stop them. She hated herself for it. For all of it.

She tried to tell herself it didn't matter. That it didn't mean anything. But it did.

Because no matter how much she wanted to deny it, she knew the truth.

It wasn't RJ's name she thought of when her head hit the pillow at night.

And she knew it wasn't fair. To him, to you, to herself. But fairness didn't seem to matter anymore. Not when she was trapped in this endless cycle of guilt and longing, watching as you moved through her world like you belonged in it while she felt more out of place than ever.

She couldn't even look at RJ sometimes. Not without feeling like he could see it all—like he knew.

She felt like she was betraying him every time you smiled at her, every time your hand brushed against hers, every time you laughed and her stomach twisted in ways it never had before.

But it wasn't just about RJ. It was about everything. Her family, her faith, the expectations she'd carried on her shoulders her entire life.

She wasn't supposed to feel this way.

Not about you.

Not about anyone.

But she did.

And no matter how many times she told herself to stop, no matter how many prayers she whispered into the dark, it didn't go away.

If anything, it only got worse.

Because you were always there. Smiling, laughing, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, looking at her like she was normal when she felt anything but.

And the more she tried to resist it, the more she felt like she was drowning.

It was impossible not to watch you.

You had a way of commanding attention without even trying, an effortless magnetism that drew her eyes like a moth to a flame. She told herself it was innocent at first—just casual glances, nothing more. But casual turned into frequent, and frequent turned into constant.

Every breath you took seemed to pull her in deeper, every move you made felt like it was meant for her.

She noticed everything. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when the summer breeze caught it, the soft drumming of your fingers against your knee when you thought no one was looking. The curve of your jaw. The faint flush of your cheeks when you laughed. It wasn't just attraction—it was fixation, pure and simple.

And the worst part? You didn't even know.

You had a habit of walking just ahead of the group, confident and carefree in a way that left her breathless.

The sun lit up your hair like a halo, and she hated how much she noticed, how much it mattered. Her gaze followed you without permission, tracing the way you moved, the slight sway of your hips as you climbed the steps into the house or stretched your arms over your head after a long ride.

She tried to look away. Tried to focus on anything else. But it was like you'd taken up permanent residence in her mind, always lingering just out of reach.

Even in the quiet moments, when you weren't in front of her, you were still there.

She'd catch herself thinking about you when she was supposed to be helping RJ, your voice playing in her head, your smile flashing behind her eyes. It wasn't just the way you looked—it was the way you were. Bright and unguarded, like nothing could touch you.

You haunted her.

And she couldn't stop.

It didn't matter where you were or what you were doing. Laughing with Bobby-Lynne, leaning against the porch railing lost in thought, adjusting your clothes before filming started. Her eyes always found you.

You were like a beacon in the dark, drawing her closer and closer, even when she knew she shouldn't look. Even when she hated herself for it.

The more she watched, the more it felt like you were meant to be hers.

And the whole problem was that Lorraine had told herself from the start that she wouldn't look.

The moment she realized what kind of film RJ was making, she'd felt her stomach twist in disgust. It wasn't just about the immorality of it—although that alone was enough to make her chest tighten—it was about what it meant to be here, surrounded by people who seemed so shameless.

Sex before marriage was a sin. Watching others commit that sin was a sin. Hearing it was a sin, too, but she told herself that part didn't count. She couldn't help what her ears picked up.

But her eyes? Her eyes were her choice.

She swore she wouldn't watch. Not Maxine. Not Bobby-Lynne. Not you.

Especially not you.

Yet here she was.

She stood just out of frame, the heavy microphone in her hands, pretending she was focused on her job. She should have been looking anywhere else—at RJ, at the equipment, at the wall. But her gaze was locked on you.

And she couldn't tear it away.

You were in the middle of the room, bathed in the golden light RJ insisted on, your bare skin glowing as though it were meant to be admired. Every movement you made was deliberate, slow, and fluid, and Lorraine hated the way her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn't supposed to look like this.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

Her hands tightened around the mic as you shifted, arching your back ever so slightly. She could see every line of you—every curve, every muscle—and she felt as though she were drowning. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out RJ's quiet directions and the faint hum of the equipment.

She didn't want to notice how your lips parted, how soft sounds spilled from your mouth like a prayer meant only for her. She didn't want to see the way your eyes fluttered closed, lashes brushing your cheeks. And she certainly didn't want to feel the heat pooling in her chest, in her stomach, like something dark and forbidden had taken root inside her.

But she noticed. She saw everything.

You didn't even look her way, didn't seem to care that she was there. You were so focused, so lost in the moment, and it made it easier for her to stare.

The worst part was that it all felt real.

The way you moved, the way you sounded—it didn't feel like an act. And even if it was, she couldn't stop herself from imagining what it would be like if it weren't. If it were just you, without the cameras, without the others.

That thought alone made her want to scream.

She told herself it wasn't her fault. You were impossible to ignore. Anyone would be drawn to you in this moment. But deep down, she knew it wasn't true.

It wasn't anyone else.

It was her.

It wasn't just her eyes that betrayed her now—it was her thoughts.

She told herself it wasn't intentional, but the image was already there, unshakable. She imagined what it would feel like if it were her beneath you. If your touch was meant for her, if your lips formed her name instead of someone else's.

The thought left her reeling.

Her grip on the microphone faltered for a moment, her palms slick with sweat. She swallowed hard, her throat tight, as if choking down the weight of her own guilt. It wasn't just wrong—it was blasphemous. A sin beyond comprehension.

How could you think that?

Her mind screamed at her, the voice so loud and damning that it might as well have been her father's. She could practically hear his sermons echoing in her head, the fire and brimstone warnings about lust, about temptation, about damnation. And yet, even as the guilt gnawed at her, she couldn't stop.

You shifted again, the slow, deliberate arch of your back drawing her in like a magnet. The soft, breathy sounds you made were too much—too intimate, too real. Every curve, every movement seemed designed to unravel her completely, and she hated how easily it worked.

Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, as if her body was betraying her just as much as her mind.

You're disgusting, she thought, her nails digging into the skin of her palm as if the pain could ground her, pull her back from the brink. But it didn't work. Nothing worked.

The more she tried to push the thoughts away, the stronger they became.

She imagined your hands on her, guiding her, claiming her, and it sent a rush of something dark and electric through her veins. It wasn't just desire—it was longing, raw and desperate, the kind that ached deep in her bones. The kind she'd spent her whole life pretending she couldn't feel.

And it terrified her.

She tore her eyes away, forcing herself to stare at the floor, at the worn wood planks beneath her feet. But even then, it wasn't enough. She could still hear you, every sound a brand against her soul, scorching her from the inside out.

The idea that she wanted this—wanted you—felt like poison. But the worst part wasn't the wanting.

The worst part was that, for one brief, fleeting moment, she imagined you wanting her back.

That thought sent her spiraling, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. She clenched her jaw, her teeth grinding together as if she could force the thought away, but it was no use. The image of your hands on her, of your lips against her skin, was burned into her mind.

It was wrong. It was unforgivable.

But God help her, she didn't want it to stop.

That thought lingered long after the cameras stopped rolling, clinging to her like a second skin. It followed her through the rest of the day, its weight pressing down on her chest. Even as the others laughed and drank, their voices bouncing off the walls of the small cabin, Lorraine remained quiet, clutching her Bible and pretending to read, the words on the page a blur.

Her hands trembled when she turned the pages, her mind too full of you—of what she'd seen, what she'd felt, what she'd wanted.

By the time night fell, she was exhausted, every muscle in her body tense as though she'd been fighting herself for hours. When RJ led her to the room they'd been given, she followed in silence, her legs moving on autopilot.

Now, lying beside him in the dark, the bed creaking softly beneath their combined weight, she stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through the fire still burning low in her stomach.

The small cabin creaked around them, the old wood shifting and settling as the night stretched on. The bed was uncomfortable, the mattress too firm, but that wasn't what kept her awake.

She knew exactly what it was.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her skin damp with sweat. It clung to her neck and shoulders, making her feel trapped, suffocated, as if the air itself were pressing down on her. She thought of her father's voice, his sermons about the flames of Hell. This is what he meant, isn't it?

Satan's fire, consuming her from the inside out.

She turned onto her side, her back to RJ, curling in on herself as though that might contain the shame threatening to drown her. But the moment she closed her eyes, there you were.

You were just down the 'hall', asleep on the couch. She could picture it too vividly—the soft rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, your hair spread out across the cushion, your body at peace in the dim light of the living room.

Her mind replayed the day's events in agonizing detail. The way you'd looked under the camera's gaze. The way you moved, so natural, so confident, as if you'd been born to be admired. The way your skin seemed to glow, the soft sheen of sweat catching the light.

She felt the heat rise in her again, shame creeping up her neck as she pressed her thighs together, desperate to quell the growing ache.

Your voice echoed in her head, soft and teasing, the way you'd laughed earlier that day when Jackson made some offhand joke.

The sound of your moans, still fresh in her memory, sent a shiver down her spine, her fingers curling into the sheets. She could see you so clearly—your skin glowing under the lights, the gentle arch of your body, the way you moved as though you were completely at ease, completely yourself.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry as her pulse pounded in her ears.

It wasn't just the memory of what she'd seen. It was the knowledge that you were close, completely unaware of the effect you had on her.

You'd volunteered to sleep on the couch, brushing off Wayne's half-hearted suggestion that someone else take it, and she hated how selfless you'd seemed, how kind.

It only made her feel worse.

She shifted again, her body tense, her skin sticky with sweat despite the cool night air drifting in through the cracked window. Her legs rubbed together under the sheets, and she froze at the sensation, shame washing over her in a tidal wave.

Her stomach churned as the thought of you invaded her mind once more, the memory of your body, your sounds, your smile. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting down hard on her lip to stifle the gasp threatening to escape.

It wasn't just desire; it was torment.

She shouldn't have watched. She should've turned away, closed her eyes, done anything but what she did. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself of that now, it didn't change the truth.

She had watched.

And she had liked it.

Every movement, every sound, every fleeting expression—it was all burned into her mind, and the worst part was she didn't want to let it go.

The cabin felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of her guilt. She lay there, trembling, as the hours stretched on, her thoughts circling back to you again and again.

You, asleep, so close yet so far.

You, who had no idea what you'd done to her.

You, who would never know.

And Lorraine, too afraid to close her eyes, because she knew exactly what she'd see.

That's what brought her here, the quiet desperation thrumming under her skin as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She couldn't stand it anymore—the weight of the images burned into her mind every time she closed her eyes, the phantom sound of your laughter echoing in her ears.

She told herself it was for water. A simple glass of water to ease her dry throat. Nothing more.

It's only water. Was what she told herself as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the hem of her striped nightgown brushing against her thighs. The cool summer air kissed her skin as soon as she peeled the covers back, a welcome relief to the suffocating heat that had consumed her body.

RJ didn't stir beside her. His breath remained even, oblivious. She moved carefully, her bare feet meeting the wooden floor, and winced as its coarse texture bit into her soles.

Everything in this cabin seemed to be made of wood—rough, unpolished, as though designed to make you feel each step.

Each creak of the floorboards echoed in her ears as she tiptoed toward the door. Her breath hitched every time she shifted her weight, convinced for a fleeting moment that RJ would wake and ask where she was going. But he didn't. He never even flinched.

The handle was cool under her palm, the door groaning softly as she slipped into the hallway. The moonlight streamed in through the thin curtains, illuminating the narrow path toward the main room where the sink and the couch sat.

Where you were.

She told herself it wasn't about you. She repeated the lie in her mind as her feet carried her forward, her nightgown swaying with each step. It was about water. Her throat was dry. That's all it was.

But with every careful step, her heartbeat quickened, and her palms dampened. The closer she got to the big room, the harder it became to ignore the pull, the quiet voice whispering that she wasn't walking toward the sink at all.

The air shifted when she reached the room, the warm summer breeze filtering through the open windows and ruffling the hem of her nightgown. Her eyes landed on the sink first, a hollow pretense of her purpose for being there. But then they flicked to the couch, and everything else faded.

You were asleep, sprawled out on your side, one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped lazily over the edge. The blanket you'd pulled over yourself earlier was half-kicked off, and your sleep shirt had ridden up, exposing the soft curve of your stomach. The moonlight cast a faint glow over your skin, making it almost luminescent, and Lorraine's breath hitched.

She stopped in her tracks, her hand clutching the fabric of her nightgown as though it might steady her. The thought of water dissolved entirely, replaced by a new, all-consuming awareness.

You looked peaceful, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, completely unaware of the world around you—or of her.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she stared, unable to move, unable to tear her gaze away. The gentle slope of your exposed skin, the slight parting of your lips, the way your hair fanned out across the pillow—it was too much and not enough all at once.

Her breathing grew shallow as she stood there, rooted in place, her grip tightening. She should move. She should turn away, fill a glass of water, and go back to bed.

But she didn't.

Her chest rose and fell in sync with yours, her own breaths growing ragged as she watched you.

She tried to remind herself that this was wrong, that she had no business standing there, staring at you like this. But no matter how loud that voice screamed in her head, her feet wouldn't budge.

Her gaze traced the delicate rise and fall of your ribcage, the way your body seemed to glow in the moonlight, and the warmth that she'd thought she'd left behind under the covers began to spread through her again.

Every breath you took, every slight movement of your body as you shifted in your sleep—she saw it all.

And she couldn't look away.

Until you moved again.

It was subtle at first—a soft sigh leaving your lips as your fingers flexed against the blanket, the tiniest hint of tension releasing from your body.

Then your hand slipped over the edge of the cushion, and Lorraine's heart began to race. She watched as you stretched, your back arching slightly, and let out a quiet murmur that sent a shiver crawling up her spine.

For one terrifying moment, she thought you might wake. Your lashes fluttered, and your head turned slightly, lips parting as though preparing to speak. Lorraine froze in place, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears, every muscle in her body stiff and bracing for the worst. What would you say if you saw her standing there? Would you scream? Would you ask her why?

She stumbled back a step, her heel catching on the edge of the wooden floorboard, and the soft creak that followed was louder than a gunshot in her mind. Her stomach dropped as she watched your body stir in response. The blanket slipped further down your waist, revealing more of your skin, and her eyes flicked to the smooth curve of your exposed hip before she could stop herself.

Her breathing quickened. You shifted again, this time with more purpose, and she thought for sure you were waking now. The panic clawed at her throat, her breath hitching in short, shallow gasps. What was she doing? What was wrong with her?

She had to leave.

Her bare feet moved in frantic little steps across the wooden floor, each creak of the boards beneath her weight feeling impossibly loud in the stillness of the cabin. The summer air that had felt soothing only moments ago now seemed to press against her skin, amplifying the heat she thought she'd left behind in bed.

She didn't stop moving until she reached the doorway of the bedroom, the soft sound of your breathing still lingering in her ears.

She dared one final glance over her shoulder, her gaze locking onto the rise and fall of your chest, the soft glow of the moonlight casting you in a haze that was almost angelic.

You stirred again, your hand brushing the edge of the couch as you shifted onto your side. Lorraine turned sharply, her heart hammering as she slipped back into the room she shared with RJ. She didn't bother to grab the water she'd told herself she needed. She wasn't thirsty anymore.

Her hands trembled as she pulled the covers back up, slipping carefully into the bed so as not to wake him. RJ didn't stir; his deep, even breathing filled the room, a stark contrast to her own erratic gasps for air. She clenched her fists beneath the blanket, pressing them to her thighs in an attempt to steady herself.

Her body betrayed her, burning hotter than it had all night, and she thought of her father. He would've told her this was Satan's fire, consuming her from the inside out for every sin she'd committed. And this sin—this one felt worse than all the rest.

Her mouth was dry. No—her mouth was watering. The contradiction made her head spin, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the darkness would bring her some kind of peace. But it didn't.

And now she was back in this bed, beside RJ, her body trembling with emotions she didn't understand and thoughts she knew she couldn't let herself have. She couldn't let herself want you. She couldn't want this.

But she did. And it was killing her.

The silence of the room pressed down on her like a weight, heavier than RJ's presence beside her. She stared up at the ceiling, the faint creaks of the cabin settling in the cool night air doing little to distract her from the relentless swirl of thoughts in her mind. Her body was tense, every nerve alight with a sensation she didn't want to name.

She shifted beneath the blanket, turning on her side to face the wall. Maybe if she didn't look at him—if she pretended she was alone—it would be easier to find some kind of solace. But her body wouldn't stop its trembling, her mind refusing to let go of the image of you lying on that couch.

The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting long, pale lines across the wooden floor. She focused on them, counting the beams as though they could anchor her to something solid. Anything to drown out the sound of your quiet breathing echoing in her mind.

Her fists unclenched slowly, her muscles loosening by fractions as exhaustion crept into her limbs. She could still feel the warmth of her skin, the remnants of her earlier torment lingering like embers that refused to die out completely. But it was fading now, dulled by the weight of her body sinking into the thin mattress.

Her eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, though her mind fought to stay awake, as if sleep would only bring her closer to the sins she'd already committed in her heart. She pressed her face into the pillow, the scent of detergent and faint wood smoke grounding her for just a moment.

She didn't want to sleep. She didn't want to dream. Because she already knew what—or who—she'd see.

But her body betrayed her once again, her breathing evening out as the fire in her chest began to dim. Slowly, her thoughts dissolved into the haze of sleep, though they lingered just enough to torment her in the in-between moments where consciousness fought to stay alive.

Lorraine finally drifted off, the image of your soft smile and the sound of your voice the last things to follow her into the dark.

___

The morning sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, warm and unrelenting as it spilled across the bed. Lorraine stirred, her face pressed into the pillow, her chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. But even as she blinked herself awake, the remnants of her dream clung to her, vivid and insistent.

It wasn't the kind of dream she could shake off. It wasn't the kind she wanted to talk about either.

Her heart pounded as she sat up slowly, the weight of what she'd seen behind her closed eyes pressing heavily on her. Images she couldn't justify and feelings she couldn't name flickered in her mind like a film reel, just out of focus but impossible to ignore.

She had dreamt of herself.

Of being in the movie.

The very idea made her stomach twist. She knew what it meant to even think it, let alone dream it. It was a betrayal of everything she'd ever been told to value, to protect. But there it was, lodged in her mind, as if her subconscious had peeled back a layer of herself she hadn't known was there.

Throughout the morning, she moved about the cabin in a daze. RJ was busy setting up the camera for the next scene, his words barely registering as he explained angles and lighting. Maxine and Bobby-Lynne lounged on the porch, their laughter carrying in the warm breeze, carefree and loud.

And yet, Lorraine's thoughts remained elsewhere.

She couldn't stop replaying the dream in her mind—the way she had looked, the way she had felt. Confident. Beautiful. Free.

She wanted to dismiss it as nonsense, just a trick of her overworked mind, but it didn't feel like nonsense. It felt real, tangible, like something she was supposed to understand but didn't yet have the courage to face.

It wasn't just about the dream, either. It was about everything—the lingering stares, the secret thoughts, the quiet rebellion she felt building in her chest. She'd spent her whole life being the preacher's daughter, the girl who followed the rules, who knew exactly where she belonged.

But maybe she didn't belong there anymore.

The dream had sparked something in her. A defiance she didn't know she had.

And now, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

She wanted to prove something—not just to them, but to herself. That she wasn't just the preacher's daughter. That she could be more. That she could feel more.

The thought terrified her.

But it also thrilled her.

Which was why she decided to bring it up.

The room had been alive with chatter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, the faint hum of Jackson's guitar mingling with the clink of beer bottles and low laughter. They'd all been lounging—Maxine stretched across the couch like a cat, Wayne sitting close by, Bobby-Lynne perched with a sharp grin, and you leaning back in one of the chairs, looking as effortlessly calm as ever.

Lorraine had been quiet, like always, sitting beside RJ on the smaller loveseat. But this time, something was different.

Her heartbeat was heavy, thudding against her ribcage as she gripped her bottle tighter, the condensation dampening her fingers.

It had been building all day—the thought, the idea. It had started as a spark, something she would've dismissed immediately, but it refused to leave her mind. The movie. The scenes. What it would mean if she...

The words left her mouth before she could overthink it again.

"I want to be in it."

The room had gone still, so suddenly it almost felt suffocating. All the casual chatter, the noise, the laughter—it evaporated in an instant. And every eye in the room turned to her.

RJ's reaction had been immediate, as she expected. Shock, disbelief, frustration. He'd leaned forward, his voice rising with each objection, his words sharp with desperation. He'd listed reason after reason—how the movie was already planned, how it was too late, how her father would never forgive her, how it wasn't right. He'd grasped at excuses, anything to sway her, to make her back down.

But Lorraine hadn't.

She'd held her ground, her gaze steady, even as her chest tightened with every word he spat at her. She'd kept her voice calm, her answers firm, but the weight of his resistance still gnawed at her resolve.

And then, you had spoken.

You, leaning casually in your chair, had smiled—not in disbelief like the others, not in mockery, but with something softer. Pride. It caught her off guard, that look. Like you were proud of her for finally speaking up, for doing something that wasn't expected of her.

"She's got a point," you'd said, your tone light but edged with a confidence that immediately shifted the energy in the room. "She's got a hot bod. Why not let the preacher show it off?"

The room had rippled with reactions—Bobby-Lynne's sharp laugh, Maxine's raised brow, Wayne's amused nod. RJ had sputtered, trying to regain control of the conversation, but your voice cut through his protests like a knife.

"She wants to do it, RJ," you'd continued, leaning forward just slightly, your eyes flicking toward Lorraine. "Let her. And honestly, it's not like it's gonna mess up your masterpiece, right?"

Your words shouldn't have meant as much as they did, but they settled into her chest like a warm glow, fueling her resolve in a way nothing else could. You hadn't laughed at her, or dismissed her, or tried to talk her out of it. You'd defended her, again and again, your calm voice countering RJ's panic with an unshakable certainty.

And that smile—that little smirk tugging at the corner of your lips—lingered in her mind long after the conversation had ended. It wasn't just approval. It was something more, something she couldn't quite name but felt all the same.

When RJ had stormed off, muttering angrily under his breath, and the others had gone back to their drinks and cigarettes, Lorraine stayed rooted in place.

She was still reeling from what she'd said, from what it meant. But more than anything, she was reeling from the way you'd looked at her, from the way her chest felt full and weightless all at once.

Conversations flared up again, quieter this time, but there was a charged energy in the air now, a mix of curiosity and excitement. The idea of Lorraine being in the movie had sparked something no one could ignore, even if RJ wasn't around to approve it.

Wayne, ever the opportunist, leaned forward with a sly grin, rubbing his hands together like a man ready to strike gold. "Alright then," he drawled, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. "If Lorraine's serious about this—and it seems like she is—guess the only question left is... who's gonna be in the scene with her?"

That question set off a ripple of reactions. Maxine groaned, stretching out further on the couch as if the conversation bored her. Bobby-Lynne smirked, taking a slow drag from her cigarette, clearly intrigued but not volunteering.

"Don't look at me," Maxine finally said, lifting her hands in mock surrender. "I'm not into girls. Not like that, anyway."

Bobby-Lynne laughed, flicking ash into the tray on the table. "Aw, c'mon, Max. Don't be shy. You sure you're not a little curious?"

Maxine rolled her eyes but didn't respond, leaving Wayne to glance around at the rest of the room, his gaze eventually landing on Jackson.

"What about you, big guy?" Wayne asked with a grin. "Think you're up for it?"

Jackson shrugged, his easygoing charm never faltering. "I mean, I'd do it, but isn't the whole point of this to shake things up? Add somethin' different?" His gaze flicked briefly to Lorraine, then back to Wayne. "Besides, maybe she'd rather work with someone else."

The room went quiet again, everyone glancing at each other, and then—inevitably—at you.

You'd been sitting back, watching the conversation unfold like it was the most entertaining thing you'd seen all night. But when all eyes turned to you, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

You didn't hesitate, didn't draw it out for dramatic effect. You just leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees, and shrugged.

"Sure," you said casually. "I'll do it."

The simplicity of your response caught everyone off guard. Even Wayne blinked, momentarily speechless, before he laughed and clapped his hands.

"Well, that settles it, then!" he announced, his grin widening.

But you weren't finished. Your gaze slid over to Lorraine, who was sitting stiffly on the loveseat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked like she was trying to disappear into the cushions, but her wide eyes were locked on you.

"That alright with you, preacher?" you asked, your tone teasing but not unkind. The way you said it—low, smooth, with just a hint of a smirk—sent a flush of heat crawling up her neck.

Lorraine's throat felt dry, her mind scrambling for something, anything, to say. She didn't trust her voice, didn't trust herself to speak without giving away the tangled mess of emotions roiling inside her. So she just nodded, quick and jerky, hoping no one would notice the way her hands trembled against her lap.

The room buzzed with approval, laughter, and a few offhanded comments about how good the scene would be. But Lorraine barely heard any of it.

All she could hear was your voice echoing in her head. All she could see was that smirk on your lips.And all she could feel was the sharp, dizzying pull of you—closer than ever now, in ways she wasn't sure she could handle.

Before she knew it, it was time.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long, golden beams through the cabin's narrow windows. Dust particles floated lazily in the air, undisturbed by the nervous energy that had settled over the room.

Lorraine stood off to the side, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she watched the small flurry of activity around her.

Wayne adjusted the lighting, barking out instructions while Jackson helped move a piece of furniture out of the frame. Maxine lounged nearby, disinterested but present, while Bobby-Lynne added her own commentary from the couch.

You were in the corner, calmly sipping from a water bottle, looking far too relaxed for what was about to happen.

Lorraine couldn't stop staring.

Her heart was a wild, erratic thing in her chest, threatening to break free from her ribs altogether. Her palms felt clammy, her knees weak, and no matter how many deep breaths she tried to take, the tightness in her chest refused to ease.

She told herself this wasn't a big deal. It was just acting, just a scene. Just a moment she'd chosen to prove herself—to everyone else, to herself, to you. But as the minutes ticked closer to the start of it, all those rehearsed reassurances crumbled like ash in her mind.

Because you were there.

And that changed everything.

You caught her staring. Of course you did. You always did. A small smile tugged at your lips, playful and knowing, and you tipped your chin toward her as if to ask, You ready for this?

She wasn't. Not even close. But she nodded anyway, her fingers curling tightly against her arms.

The world felt like it shrank in those moments. The idle chatter, the shifting of props, Wayne's muttered complaints—it all faded away. All she could see was you, moving toward her now with a lazy confidence that made her feel both exhilarated and terrified.

"You alright, preacher?" you asked softly, your voice low and warm, and her stomach flipped at the teasing edge in your tone.

She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She could only stare as you reached for her wrist, gently tugging her toward the makeshift set. Your hand lingered on her skin for a moment too long before pulling away, and the loss of your touch was like a physical ache.

She followed you on shaky legs, her breaths shallow and uneven. She told herself not to look at you, not to let herself fall further into this impossible, sinful fascination.

But her eyes disobeyed her, drifting to the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your neck, the way the light hit your skin just so, illuminating every inch of you like something holy.

Every breath you took, every movement of your body, every subtle glance in her direction—she saw it all.

She always had.

And now, as she stood mere feet from you, about to do something she never could've imagined just days ago, it felt like everything inside her was on the verge of collapse.

She wanted to look away. She needed to look away. But she couldn't.

Not from you. Never from you.

Her pulse roared in her ears as Wayne called for quiet on set, his voice distant and faint compared to the deafening thrum of her own heart.

You turned to her one last time before the scene began, your eyes locking onto hers. And for a split second, the world stilled.

She wondered if you knew. If you could see it in her—the storm raging beneath the surface, the way every part of her felt like it was about to break free, shattering into pieces you'd unknowingly claimed as your own.

But before she could unravel completely, Wayne's voice cut through the moment.

"Alright, let's roll."

And as the camera's red light blinked on, Lorraine realized her secret was no longer safe—not from herself, not from God, and certainly not from you.

#elfgars ramblings #maybe im reading too much into it #ignore me #love it so much #need more lorraine day stories

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