#nanami header is made by me and dividers by @saradika | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mysteria157 · 2 months ago

Text

Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Summary: A terrifying close call catapults your festering guilt, your secrets slowly consuming you.

Rating/CW: slow burn romance, mild intoxication, brief violence and mentions of blood, smut, vaginal fingering, angst. MDNI!

WC: listen buddy..

Author notes: Hello! Apologies for the wait but here is part two! Only one more part to finish up the story. Thank you all so much for your patience, support, and kind words. It truly means the world. I used this part to focus more on emotion and simmering conflict that will finally shatter in part 3.

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

Happy reading!

Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika network tag: @pixelcafe-network

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Part Three

The universe, it seems, has a cruel and unforgiving sense of humor. Since that night of the cattle drive, when you let yourself believe in the possibility of more, when you basked in the warm desire of Nanami’s gaze and the electricity of his touch—it was the beginning of the end.

Since that night, every step has been in error, every word a potential betrayal, every shared moment tainted by the secrets you keep—

“I’m not one to put my hands on a lady. But you’ve been slippin' past me for too long. This ends tonight.”

His words echo a haunting melody in your head as you sag against your bedroom door, sweaty and lungs burning with every desperate gasp for air. Your heart is beating so fast it feels as if it will burst from your chest, pounding at your sternum like a snare drum—

The deafening pop of your pistol. The bullet that was meant to be a distraction so you could escape the Phillips’ house had hit the wall and then flesh. Horror flooding your veins in an icy wave as Nanami grunted in pain, a hand flying to the now torn upper arm of his navy long sleeve—

You choke on a floundering breath, fingers trembling and wet with blood as they press against your throat. The coal on your skin feels suffocating, a physical manifestation of your sin—

His weight pinning you to the floor, the heat at the apex of his thighs forbidden and delicious against yours as you struggled beneath him, twisting your bandana-covered face from his prying fingers. Your desperate fingers acting on impulse—anything to get you away—pressing hard enough into his wound that he spat out a curse, giving you enough leverage to buck him off you and disappear into the night, your spoils from Mr. Phillips sashaying against your hip—

You snap back into focus, eyes stinging from a fresh wall of tears. You’ve crossed a line tonight, one you prayed and prayed to never even get close to. As you try to catch your breath, you acknowledge that, yes, this is the beginning of the end. The moment you realize that you can no longer keep up this double life. That you can no longer help in a way you find worthy.

You trudge across your bedroom to the dresser that holds your porcelain basin of cold water. You keep it full on nights like these, ready for you to wash the coal off your face before you collapse into bed. Panting, you dip a washcloth in the cold water, wiping the disguise and Nanami’s dried blood from your skin, pulling your fear from tonight along with it.

You look up into the mirror above your dresser, taking in your haggard form. Eyes no longer filled with determination, a tear in your shirt at the shoulder that exposes the faint scar from an injury sustained years ago, your braid frazzled and coming loose at the ends. You don’t look like the fearsome bandit that you’ve made of yourself.

You look tired. Afraid.

As your pulse begins to steady, a wave of exhaustion washes over you, taking the ordeal of tonight and carrying it into the abyss. You set your coal-soaked washcloth on the dresser, ready to shed your bandit persona and collapse into bed, when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound makes you freeze, your heart seizing in your chest with halted breath as you leave your room and quietly tip-toe to the front door. The darkness of your living room gives you enough cover to peek through the curtains, but you know who it is. Of course, it’s Nanami. Heaving with high raised shoulders as he presses his forehead to your door.

You exhale a shaky breath as you stagger back, walking backward to your room as you think of what to do and—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You jump, your back bumping into your door frame as you gape at the open air.

“J-just a minute!” you call out, your voice higher than usual. With trembling hands, you begin to strip, fingers shaking as you unbutton your shirt and slip out of your leather pants. You toss your clothes under the bed.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“I’ll be right there!” you shout again, slipping into one of your long off-white nightgowns. Your hands fumble with your braid, snagging knots against your fingernails as you unfurl your curls to hang free. One glance in the mirror makes you curse, and you throw on a thick flannel to hide the view of your nipples from behind the near-transparent linen.

POUND! POUND! POUND!

“I said one second!” you yell, frustration and fear curling the edges of your words as you balance the nearly full porcelain basin in your hands. You quietly slide open your bedroom window, throwing the coal mixture out into the night and shucking the blackened washcloth into a dresser drawer.

You rush back to the front door, taking a deep breath as you smooth down your hair and pray he’s not as sharp as usual when he looks at your frazzled form. You pray he hasn’t figured it out. You hope and plead to whoever is listening that your fears about the world falling apart do not come to fruition right now.

You know the sight to expect, but seeing it is still a horrifying shock. He takes up your entire door frame, all muscle and authority, sweaty with pinched eyebrows as he clutches at his bleeding arm. Your stomach coils tight, nausea brewing like a bubbling pot. He’s panting heavily, no doubt from the adrenaline of mounting Flint and racing through town to get here, his Stetson resting on his back, blonde locks sweaty on his forehead.

He swallows, his throat bobbing beneath a sheen of sweat.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice strained and urgent. “I saw her—the bandit come this way.”

Nanami’s too kind, too caring, too willing to put himself on the line for someone else. Because the irony of his concern about you, the fact that he’s injured and came this way instead of getting first aid…it’s almost too much to bear.

You shake your head harshly, slipping into a regrettable mask and pushing away the festering guilt that bubbles to life along with the action.

“I’m fine, but you’re hurt! Why didn’t you go to Shoko?”

“I don’t want to wake her. Besides, there’s no time,” Nanami grunts as he squeezes his upper arm. As much as you internally beg your body not to look, your eyes flicker to the crimson blood that oozes between his fingers. Guilt, unbridled and disparaging guilt, threatens to undo you.

“I need to check the house,” he insists, stumbling past you without waiting for an invitation, his spurs clanging against your floorboards. He yanks his pistol from its holster, fingers shaking as he loads the bullets from his sling into the chamber with precision.

Your Nanami would wait to come in, removing his hat at your threshold with kind eyes. So the blood that trails behind him with every step, marking his path like breadcrumbs, the desperation in his gait, the quiver in every exhale from his chest as he fingers bullets from his gun sling and loads them into his pistol, it’s a glaring reminder of just how bad you’ve made things.

Any other moment, you would freely let him roam.

“Nanami, please,” you plead softly, following his aimless form as he wanders without a purpose, his gun raised at no one as he starts for your hallway. “You need to sit down. You’re hurt—”

“It’s just a graze,” he snaps, dismissive even as a fresh gush of blood seeps his darkened shirt and drips crimson onto the floor. “She could be here. Could’ve followed you, could be waiting.” His words tumble faster, more disjointed as he sweeps your kitchen with barely contained panic.

You fight to keep your voice steady. “Well, she’s not here. I would have heard somethin'.”

Nanami turns to face you, gun still raised, a flicker of it trained on you as the bandit just an hour ago making you flinch. Blood has soaked most of his sleeve now, dripping steadily onto your floor.

“You can’t possibly know that. She’s dangerous, clever—”

“I’m fine,” you insist, stepping closer, flinching as he opens and slams your cabinets. Blood smears on the wood from his hands. “Please, you’re bleeding. Let me help.”

Nanami scoffs, it’s a foreign sound from deep in his chest that echoes into the air. Even with a slight hunch from the pain, he towers over your home from his place in the kitchen, that imposing but welcoming frame casting shadows onto your floor as he takes a step back, regarding you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

The accusation stings, even though you’re the source of it. The source of his frustration and the wound on his arm. If only he knew how seriously you took this.

“I am,” you press, desperately trying to quell his erratic movements now that he’s gone back to searching the pantry for a second time. “But you’re hurt, and I—”

“For God’s sake!” You jump from the boom of his voice, flinching as his gun clatters to the floor and crosses the space in two strides. His hands grip your shoulders with bruising strength, blood from his fingers seeping through your flannel. “You could be in danger!” he snaps, acidic anger spitting from split lips, his face inches from yours with breath hot on your skin. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Nana—” you try to speak through your shock, your whisper drowning in his desperation.

“Why can’t you understand?!” His grip on your shoulders tightens, your skin pinching beneath fingernails. But you can’t register the pain as you take in the fire in his eyes, burning bright and tinged with a vulnerability that makes you want to disappear entirely. “Do you even know what it’s like to lose someone that you—that—”

He struggles, words catching in his throat as his mouth fights silently with indecision.

You watch as he battles with himself, trying to force out words that seem too big in his throat, too consequential to voice as if he’s held them in from the moment they were lodged there. You pick up on the implication quickly. The weight of it, of his unspoken feelings and the pain of his past, somehow connected to that bullet-sized dent on his badge.

“I can’t—” Nanami tries again, voice hoarse. “If anything happened to you, I—”

“Okay,” you whisper, a hand laying softly on his heaving chest. His eyes search yours, frustration giving way to desperation and pleading. It’s rare with Nanami, but when you see the man behind the badge, that raw and exposed cowboy with a hidden past that he will never divulge, you cherish every second it’s presented to you.

He has never told you about that person who changed the course of his life, about the dark side of his work, the death and cruelty that he refuses to talk about. But you won’t ever ask for more, because every minute with him, even if you’re the cause of his misery, is precious and fleeting.

“If that’s what you need to feel safe—to know I’m safe—then check the house.”

The vice grip on your shoulders vanishes immediately, blood rushing back to fill in the gaps of his harsh fingers as he steps away and sweeps through your home with a practiced eye.

You watch, nerves frayed and heart pounding like a hummingbird in your chest as he moves from room to room. The back of your neck breaks into a sweat when he crosses the threshold of your bedroom, lungs seizing as he disappears from your view. But when he finally returns to the living room seemingly more relaxed, you hide the sag in your shoulders from relief.

Gone is the furious and demanding sheriff, duty-bound and crazed with the urge to protect. Now, regret fills his features, brown eyes sweeping over your form and furrowed brows taking in the sight of his bloody hand prints on your flannel. He’s ashamed, remorseful of his sharp words and fierce touch.

“Sit,” you demand as a means to distract him from his inner turmoil, pointing to your sofa. “Let me look at that arm.”

“Ma’am, you don’t need to do that. I should get on,” he tries to fit back into a professional shell, refusing as best he can even though he shuffles closer to you, lingering in front of your sofa with indecision in his eyes.

“Stop calling me that,” you can’t help but snap, glaring at him. “Sit down, Nanami,” you soften your tone, to show just how worried and unwilling you are to entertain his embarrassment. How sorry you are that you’ve caused all of this.

He hesitates, opening his mouth to argue with you, but the glare on your face must be enough. He unbuckles his gun sling and sets it carefully on your coffee table before plopping on your sofa, knees tucked together as if sitting on fine china, afraid to break anything.

You return to lay a medical kit, two basins—one empty to flush his wound, the other filled with water—and a bottle of whiskey on the small coffee table in front of you both, sinking onto the sofa and turning to him expectantly. He eyes the whiskey only for a second before he registers the meaning. You’re not an expert like Shoko, so alcohol may be the only cleaning and numbing agent that will help Nanami with whatever you need to do.

“You’ll need to take off your vest.”

“Right,” he sluggishly moves out of the leather garment, grimacing and biting his lip as he pulls his injured arm free. His upper arm is soaked red, the navy fabric sliced through where the bullet pierced its surface.

“And your…your shirt.”

“What?” he fumbles, eyes slightly wide as he looks down at you.

You clear your throat, blood boiling from his hesitant gaze. “I’ll need to see the entire wound. To clean it and—well…”

“Right, of course.”

Nanami pauses for a second too long, squeezing his fists against dirty denim pants as if to steel himself before his bloody fingers move to the buttons of his navy button-up. But the pain makes him clumsy, the adrenaline finally giving way to the present, and he can barely bend his injured arm. You can tell from the look on his face and swallowed groans that he’s struggling.

Without thinking, you reach out to help, your fingers brushing against his to knock them out of the way. The touch buzzes against your fingertips.

“Let me,” you offer, your voice barely above a whisper.

You take his silence as a cue to continue, and you work the buttons open, hyper-aware of Nanami’s steady breathing and the warmth that heats your fingertips from his skin. Slowly, the lapels of his long sleeve part to reveal sun-kissed skin.

It’s hard to look away from the planes of thick muscle that make up his torso, a firm chest, and chunky bands of abs that bunch together with his haggard breaths. There’s a dusting of honey-brown hair on his chest, littering the skin so faintly that you long to card your fingers through. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight, scratching an itch deep in your mind that only rears its head in the middle of the night.

You help him guide the fabric off his shoulders, your fingertips kissing his skin in a forbidden dance as you slide his shirt out of the way. The billow of his clothes wafts his scent up your nose—leather, gunpowder, a hint of a cigarette. So uniquely Nanami that it makes your head spin and you have to take a second, swallowing against a thick ball of desire in your throat so that you can focus on the task at hand.

“It’s a graze,” you mutter as you bring the empty basin to rest under his elbow. “But it’s gonna need stitches.”

Nanami simply nods, tersely following your hand that snatches and uncorks the whiskey, body tensing as you pour the amber liquid over his wound.

“God damn—” he snarls, the curse cutting off into a harsh groan as his head falls back against the sofa. His free hand grips the armrest, knuckles turning white, the dried blood between his fingers more prominent with his squeeze. The whiskey runs dark down his arm, a muddy brown collecting in the basin.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, hoping he can taste the sincerity and double meaning. He answers with a noise in the back of his throat, snatching the bottle from your hands, pulling deeply from it as you wipe his wound dry and prepare your needle and thread.

By the time you’re ready to start stitching, he’s three gulps in, his eyes locked on your unlit fireplace, body heaving with pained and frustrated breaths.

You hesitate, hand hovering over his bulging bicep before you wrap your hands around his arm. He’s soft to the touch and so incredibly warm; you want to melt into him—curl against his chest and bury your face in his skin so you can forget about the world.

But the moment the needle pierces his skin, Nanami lets out a sharp bark of pain.

“Jesus, are you sure you know what you’re doing?!” he hisses, grimacing with discomfort as he tries to pull his arm away from you. You tighten your hand on his bicep, fingertips collecting the blood that leaks from his wound at the action. “Are you stitching me up or trying to kill me?”

“Oh, hush up, you big baby!” you snap, angry at his misplaced discomfort. It’s already daunting that you have to do this—that you’ve caused this. While you deserve to be barked at, you’re not one to go down without a fight. “I’ve seen children take stitches with less complaint!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, your eyes locked with each other as you process what’s happened. His eyes are wide with shock, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks.

Then, suddenly, his lips twitch. A chuckle escapes him, eyes widening at the uncontrolled expression before he breaks into full-blown laughter.

It’s rich and guttural, a cacophony of deep rumbles that traverse across your sofa and caress your body, just like that night as you both rode back into town. It’s such a rare sound to hear from him, such a treasured piece that you and few others have. But your urge to laugh, to join in this rare glimpse of Nanami with his guard down isn’t deserved, so you swallow it down.

“I’m sorry. I was rude.” Nanami’s eyes are soft as he regards you, strands of honey wheat kissing his forehead and upper lids. “I shouldn’t have doubted your medical expertise. I’m more thin-skinned than I realize.”

You roll your eyes playfully as you press the needle to his skin again.

“Don’t bark at me this time,” you warn, absentmindedly rubbing his large bicep with your free hand to soothe him before you guide the needle through jagged skin.

He hisses, teeth bared like a dog, jaw clenching from biting down, the muscles of his stomach twitching as a grunt rumbles from within.

As you continue stitching, that tension he always carries in his shoulders fades away. With every pierce of the needle on his skin, he takes a generous swig of the whiskey, body relaxing inch by inch. It’s a shame how quickly he turns to whiskey, even if you both weren’t in this predicament now, you hate how much you’ve made him turn to something that is slowly killing him.

The motion of the needle is almost hypnotic, compelling your mind to wander to the danger of tonight, of your hand in all of this, of your desire for some sort of redemption without having to say anything.

“Nanami,” you start, ignoring the weight of his gaze that turns to you, “have you ever thought about…why the bandit does what she does?”

He grunts, tensing slightly under your hands, the next needle prick more difficult against taut skin. “Can’t say I’ve spent much time wonderin' about the motivations of someone who’s made my life hell.”

The revelation stings. Oh, does it sting.

You want to press on, to ask him if he would ever forgive the actions of someone like the bandit if it meant helping those less fortunate.

You want his opinion, his validation, his reassurance that if you were to show him your coal-soaked washcloth hidden in your dresser and the torn black shirt, he would still hold you close and say what you are doing is noble. That he doesn’t think any differently of you. Oh, how you long for that.

But there’s a large part of you that knows your definition of reality is faded and unobtainable. So you change the subject, asking him to talk about his frustrations of tonight even though it pains you to listen.

As you work, Nanami’s usually clipped cadence relaxes, the alcohol loosening his tongue. That Western drawl he usually keeps in check now flows without a barrier at the end of his words.

You listen, heart heavy with guilt, pounding thick regret through your veins as he describes the encounter from his perspective. Each word is more agonizing than the last.

“I was so close,” he mutters, chagrin coloring his voice before he takes another swig. “But lately, everythin’ has fallen from my grasp. No matter what I do, it feels like I’m fightin' against somethin' that should be left alone. And I hate it.”

You tie off the last stitch, fighting back the fuzziness at the corners of your eyes.

“There,” you whisper, throat tight. “All done.” You run your fingertips along the protruding edges of his stitches, admiring your work and the warmth of his muscled skin. It’s a piss-poor attempt to atone for your mistakes.

He looks down at your handy work, then back to you. There’s a fogginess in his gaze, a slightly unfocused demeanor in his irises from the alcohol, dark brown warm with gratitude.

“What would I do without you?”

It’s such a simple statement, something that would have made you smile so bright that it could brighten the room. But now…after everything, hearing the earnest trust in his voice—

You throw him a small smile, turning away quickly to shuffle through your medical kit so as to hide your trembling hands. Your curls create a curtain between your misery and his relaxed form on your sofa.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d manage just fine without me,” you offer truthfully. You know, deep down…if you weren’t in this town making his life miserable, he would be happier.

You turn back to him, not meeting his eyes as you procure a small container of salve.

“Calendula?” Nanami hums, watching as you glide a sticky finger along his wound.

“I got it from Shoko,” you lie, despising the taste of it in your mouth. You stole this salve from a doctor’s office years ago when you began this troublesome life. It’s yet another reminder of how unclean you really are.

“You’re a good sheriff,” you admit softly, tracing a particular spot of reddening skin while your mind clambers away from the darkness that is ever-present. “Stop bein' so hard on yourself.”

Each ridge of his stitches feels mocking—reflecting your deception and a physical manifestation of everything you’ve done. He is so good, the best protector a town could ever have, and you’ve made him miserable. Pushing him further into the bottle and deeper into a pit of self-loathing.

The urge to confess roils like bile up your throat, burning your esophagus and tinging the back of your tongue sour. Nanami’s eyes are on you, heavy and searching, his naked chest rising and falling slowly, veins no doubt pumping with the calming effects of whiskey.

You can feel the weight of his gaze, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to meet it. You’re afraid of what he might see—the pain and fear, the guilt and longing, the desperate need for forgiveness.

It’s too much—you can’t do it.

Those tears you’ve been fighting back all night—every month, week, hour, minute—well up, fogging your vision until the sight of his stitches is a sea of black and red. You blink rapidly, trying to clear them away before they make things worse, but it’s too late.

He’s already moving the second a tear drips from your lashes, reaching for you before you can turn away.

“Hey now,” Nanami murmurs, voice soft and comforting as you feel the warmth of thick fingers caress beneath your chin before tilting it up so you’re looking at him. “What have I done?”

A scoff bubbles wet from your lips, disbelief at his words that only make your lips quiver with an onslaught of more tears. He’s done nothing. He’s never done a thing to hurt you or steer you wrong or cause you pain. Nanami has only given you protection, a gentle gaze, and mannerisms laced with so much affection that you want to hope that it’s love.

You shake your head, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. How can you tell him that every injury whether mental, emotional, or physical, is one you’ve inflicted? That you want nothing more than to wish he was like every other sheriff you’ve come across in this life—willing to turn a blind eye to anything that is not serving themselves. He should be like them, not kind and determined to a degree that’s self-sacrificial.

“I just—” you manage to choke out, lips trembling until his thumb glides along your bottom lip to settle the quivering muscle.

‘I want you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not a terrible person. That you’ll forgive me.’

“I hate seeing you hurt,” you sigh instead on a shaky exhale, blinking away a fresh wall of tears that leaks from your bottom lids. “I worry about you.”

His expression softens, and you hate the way his presence pulls at you, silently beckoning you to fall into him. He brushes away your tears with his thumb, the touch so gentle it nearly makes more fall.

“This is why I don’t like to trouble you with what I do,” he mutters, downtrodden in his admission. “I hate worryin' you.”

“No,” you grip the open lapels of his shirt, yanking at the fabric as a means to make him understand. “I want to know. I want to worry. We’ve been…friends for years, Nanami. I don’t care if it’ll make me sad, make me cry, or make me angry at you. When will you understand that?” You parrot his words back to him, laying the irony of it all at his feet.

His eyes search yours, a mix of surprise and something deeper, more intense, and overwhelming that makes the air between you both thin.

“You want to know everything?” he asks, a whisper that’s barely audible in your quiet living room.

“Everything,” you breathe, twisting your fingers more in the fabric of his open shirt.

It’s true. You want to know his fears, wants, and desires. You want to know what he thinks about in the morning and at night before he goes to sleep. You want everything, even though you are the last person who should wish for it.

His thumb slides across your cheekbone, his large hand cupping your face. You resist the urge to lean into the warmth of his touch.

He’s always so warm. When it brushes against yours on your walks. When he hovers too close at the bar on Wednesday nights when you see Kilmer for moonshine. When you close your eyes at night, and dream of every line of him pressed against you, branding your skin in his touch so you’ll never know anyone else but him.

Nanami leans in closer, his breath hot against your face, the faint scent of whiskey and tobacco rushing up your nostrils to wrap around your brain.

“Even if I come to you in the dead of night, bloodied and beaten?” Your heart races at his words, at the implication. “Would you—”

“Patch you up,” you finish, not bothering to hide the shiver that runs down your spine with equal parts desire and dread. “Yes,” you whisper, “Especially then.”

It has to be the whiskey, because the feel of Nanami’s injured arm sliding behind your back, pulling you more into him, would be against everything he holds moral.

But there’s no chance in the world that you’ll pull away now. You soak in his touch while you have it, beneath a tipsy gaze and the heady scent of his breath on your skin.

“And if I tell you about my failures?” he’s rough, wrapped around a pearl of vulnerability that you want to cradle and store away like it’s precious. “The times I’m not the sheriff this town deserves?”

You can’t ever tell him that most of his failures are because of your very existence. But you still meet his gaze without flinching, hoping to convey how much you mean to him. How much you yearn for him even when he’s broken and disappointed in himself.

“I could never think less of you, Nanami. Never.”

He hums as he strokes your cheek, the sound crawling hot and molten down your body, seeping into the thick fabric of your flannel and the threadbare linen of your nearly translucent nightgown. It’s scalding and should make you turn away, but you pitch closer to him, inhaling a deep breath of alcohol that clings to his lips.

There’s a question in his eyes, something he wants to ask but can’t find the words for. You think you know what it is; you hope so because the air is thick again. Only now, it’s leaden with tension and desire, of promise and a line that’s been danced on without care for far too long.

Even as you inch to close that gap, the shame is persistent. You don’t deserve his curiosity and his want. You’ve twisted his kindness, his affection and laughter, and even his frustrations into a warped justification of your own actions. Your selfishness has cast him into a Hell of your own making, and that realization burns just as hot as your desire.

You should pull away and brush the hair from his forehead with a teasing smile. You should roll your eyes and usher him out of your home with the complaint of having to rise early in the morning to prepare for the kids.

But you’re both close—so so close—and the logic of what you should do dissolves into nothing with every breath you take.

The whiskey has left a slight flush on his cheeks, slightly sweaty from the pain of your stitching. You can’t help but flick your gaze to his lips, slightly parted and split down the middle from dryness, and so tempting.

When your eyes catch his, you swallow a gasp at the intensity, at an emotion you dare not name. You can’t. Every fiber of your being screams to close the distance between you, to finally see how his lips feel and taste—even as your mind equally screams with all the reasons you should turn away.

“Promise me you’ll be more careful,” you breathe, the words a prayer and a plea whispered into the dwindled space between you.

His response is wordless, visceral. The scalding hand on your back presses firmly, pulling you even closer with a strength that makes your stomach twist, your knees knocking against thick thighs.

Your fingers twist into the lapels of his open shirt, the fabric groaning in protest, buttons digging into your skin. You’re both tiptoeing on a thinning line of something profound, fighting against an invisible force that screams the implications of what this could mean—a warning for you to step back and not make this worse.

That rope unravels with the weight of you both, strands splintering open and threatening to snap. And oh, how you want to fall with him.

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s a ghost of a kiss—feather light and achingly tender as chapped skin teases your lips. But it’s enough. For a second too long, you’re suspended in time, searching each other’s eyes for permission, for absolution. Then, as if pulled by that same inviting force, you come together again.

It’s deliberate this time, awakening and filled with intention. His lips move against yours, warm and insistent and heavy with whiskey and want, and you respond in kind, hoping the way you bite down on his bottom lip that he can taste the years of want.

One of your hands slips from a lapel, smacking onto his bare chest, palm flat against skin feathered with tawny hair. His heartbeat is rapid, matching the frantic pace of your own, and you gasp into his lips, pulling harder for him to fall into you.

In this kiss, you taste possibility. You see a future where you have no secrets, where the guilt in your insides is replaced with the butterflies he consistently makes you feel, where it’s you and Nanami happy in this dusty town. For one beautiful moment, you let yourself believe.

But reality comes crashing down like a bucket of cold water on your body. Nanami pulls away slightly, but enough for the air between you to grow stale, molten desire cooling rapidly.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. The alcohol on his breath is like a siren to you, pulling you further under with each whiff. His nose brushes against yours, gentle and exploratory, as he inhales the smell of your skin.

“We shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—” His lips trail down the side of your cheek as he speaks, each word a caress that contradicts his attempted withdrawal.

You shake your head to dispel the cloudiness in your mind and also to convey that he did nothing wrong and that it just might be better this way. That he’s right to regret touching you, kissing you, letting you into his life. It’s better for you both.

You can see the conflict slicing through the fogginess in his gaze, a mirror of the turmoil in your own heart. Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, still pulling inch by inch, unwilling to be the first to let go.

“I should go,” is what escapes his mouth even as he makes no move to leave, his thumb still stroking your cheek. “It’s late, and I’ve forgotten my manners—I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

The words shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t smack you with such force, but they do. What he hopes to sound humble, only reveals as insulting.

You offer a wobbly smile, fighting against a stinging sensation of tears that threaten to bubble from his rejection.

“Was it that bad, Sheriff? I know I’m not the best kisser in town but—”

“No. It was perfect,” he interrupts, the hand on your cheek caressing the skin, his thumb stroking in reverence as he offers a regretful chuckle. “You just deserve someone else. Not a man like myself.”

His words fall like heavy weights in your stomach, plummeting into acid that bubbles with guilt and fear. You pull yourself from his embrace before you can stop, his warmth evaporating into the cold air.

“And just what kind of a man are you?” you ask, incredulous, as you regard him with slightly widened eyes.

Nanami sighs heavily, his uninjured arm coming up to card a hand through his unruly strands.

“The kind that spends most of his time with outlaws and criminals instead of decent folk. The kind that smokes with no regard for his health. The kind that drinks far too much whiskey than what is good for him.” He shakes his head, frustration twisting around his fingers as he fumbles for the buttons of his open shirt. “I won’t subject a woman to my carelessness.”

Your mouth hangs ajar, fighting to form words to dispel his worries even as the opportunity to distance yourself presents like a meal on a silver platter.

“Why would you say that about yourself?” you whisper, incredulous as you watch his fingers slip on his buttons, the pain in his arm flaring from the angle with which his arm is bent.

“Because it’s true.”

You smack his hands away from his lapels with far too much force, your anger permeating from your fingertips as you snatch up the fabric in your hands and fasten each button.

“No. It’s not true. You’re a good man. You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?” Your fingers falter on the last button that hovers over his collarbone, the words at the tip of your tongue.

For love?

His hands draw themselves up to wrap around yours, cocooning in their warmth even as they burn with the reminder of what you can’t have. What you shouldn’t have.

“I’ve done a poor job of conductin' myself around you. I’m sorry…”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. At that moment, something snaps inside of you. It feels like a dam breaking, flooding you with a combination of sadness, frustration, and a desperate need to stop this torturous dance.

“Okay.”

It’s clipped and sharp, cutting through his apology like a knife. It leaves a lingering bitterness on your tongue. A single syllable but loaded with so much resignation and unspoken pain.

For a second, you wish you could take it back, to smile up at him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him close, whisper in his ear that he deserves more than he gives himself credit for.

When you finally drag your eyes from his collarbone to meet his gaze, the regret in his eyes is so heavy you almost drown in them. It etches onto his features, pulls at the edges of his lips as he frowns, and pushes at the top of his nose to make his brows furrow. Your fingers twitch beneath his, an involuntary urge coming to life as you swallow the need to smooth the worry lines from his skin.

“Please understand that I never want to hurt you. You’re precious—I need you to understand how much you mean to me,” he presses; he sounds insistent, begging, wishing that you could understand his inner turmoil.

It’s ironic just how much you do. Every day you spend with him is another day that you have to live with feeling inadequate. He deserves a woman who is honest and forthcoming, who would never lie to him and hide a secret so heinous it might kill you before you’re half a century old.

So just like he yearns to put distance so that you can find someone more worthy, you do the same.

“You better get on,” you mutter, the words like sand in your mouth, eyes downcast to your floor as you stand and tuck your flannel around your body. It’s a poor substitute for his embrace, but it’s all you will have of him for the foreseeable future.

From your peripheral, you faintly see Nanami’s hands curl into tight fists on his denim-clad knees, knuckles pressed white like sun-bleached bone before he relaxes, blood filling the skin again.

As he stands to leave, you’re struck by the duality of the moment—the warmth of his touch that lingers on your skin, the silent admission from both sides of this conversation—of the kiss that was not enough, and the cold weight of much-needed denial settling in your stomach.

It’s enough to make you nauseous as you watch him shrug on his vest, the rustle of fabric unnaturally loud in the loaded silence of your home. Your eyes take him in a while his gaze is turned away, tracing every curve of muscle, every worry line from work and the harsh sunlight.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, voice low as he clicks his gun sling in place. Your eyes finally meet, uncertainty and hesitant desire from both sides.

You dig your fingernails into your flannel, tightening its hug around you to desperately hide every inch of yourself and the emotions that are threatening to seep through your pores.

You nod at him softly, offering a gentle but dishonest smile that feels so brittle it could crack at any moment. The door creaks open, the late-night air rushing in cool and with memories of your haste to get home, guilt in your hand at the stitched bicep beneath his coat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he offers, hopeful. And oh does that nasty side of you, the one that Mama always chastised with a smack to your hands, coils like a rattlesnake—ready to strike.

You could slap him for even thinking you would entertain his presence after giving you so much for months, years, tonight—and stripping it away in a matter of seconds because of misplaced self-righteousness.

But that other side, the side that longs for every inch of him, understands that while your feelings are tumultuous, you know he wants you close, even if it means hurting you both.

“I’ll be working later than usual for the next few days,” you lie blatantly for the second time tonight, your stomach churning. “So maybe next week sometime.”

There’s a hitch in his breath, quick and staggered as it catches in his throat. He lingers, mouth opening as if to speak, shoulders hitching with stolen breath before he sags in defeat, exhaling whiskey-tinged breath across your face.

“Have a good night.”

You don’t offer anything else, not trusting your voice to speak, eyes stinging with more unshed tears as you watch him disappear from your view. You don’t watch to see him mount his stallion. You don’t strain your ears to pick up the rustle of leather as he mounts his saddle. You don’t even peek through your curtains to watch the dust kick from Flint’s hooves as they make their way home.

Instead you press your back to the door, bottom lip trembling before you let your body give in to the mess you’ve made of everything.

“Storm might be the worst one this year.”

Against the backdrop of a clap of thunder, Nanami hums noncommittally, calloused fingers idly twirling his badge, sliding it between each knuckle with practiced ease.

His office isn’t much, just a little room in the jailhouse. His walls hold no relics of his life and are littered with wanted posters and photographs of his form stock still next to outlaws and bandits he’s caught over the years.

But on his desk, there is one photo of him with the schoolchildren, Yuji perched on his shoulders, peach hair spilling beneath the brim of Nanami’s stolen Stetson. There’s a freshness that began to brew on Nanami’s face from that moment, still stone-faced and aloof, but with a soft look in his eyes because of the woman holding the camera.

You’d been new to town then, eager but uncertain, insisting on capturing the moment rather than being in it. Nanami was adamant you be in the frame, to commiserate your first day, but you’d stood firm, that familiar fire in your eyes that’s always drawn him in.

He likes to look at it every day, reminding him of why he protects the town and fights so hard to keep everyone safe. It makes him feel wanted and anchors him when doubt creeps in, and the weight of his duty threatens to overwhelm him.

But Nanami really should be paying attention.

Across from him sits the town’s new lawyer, Higuruma Hiromi, overworked but effervescent as he describes a case that he’s working on. He’s only been in town for almost a week, already capturing the hearts of the town’s citizens, who like to linger in the shiny new law office a few streets over.

While Nanami has never been one to work with others if they will only slow him down, the conviction that radiates from Higruma as he gestures wildly with lightly tanned hands, running them through dark brown hair that’s styled back over and over, Nanami can tell that they will get along. He’s strong-willed with a fierce belief in justice that this town needs.

But Nanami’s mind is, regrettably, miles away. Back to that night when he’s gotten the closest he’s ever come to the bandit with her thrashing underneath him, his arm pulsing with white-hot pain from her attempt at distraction.

She had gotten away again.

And when the bandit had jumped from the window at the Phillips’ house and disappeared into the night towards town, his sole thought was you.

Find you. Make sure you’re safe.

His mind shamefully recalls his raised voice and the shock on your face as he dug his hands into your shoulders. He replays the feel of his limbs loosening with every drag of whiskey, canting toward your body as if you’re a magnet that he spends every waking moment trying to pull away from so he doesn’t stick to you forever.

He can still feel the ghost of your lips, smooth and hot, passionate and tasting faintly of the love he wishes he could have from a woman. Your hands were soft even with the dryness from chalk. Your voice alluring even when tinged with frustration as you chastised him, reeling from his rejection.

“You’re a good man,” you had said, fiery and exasperated. “You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?”

He’d pushed you away, insistent in his belief that it was for your own good. But the memory haunts him—your always illuminating melanin-kissed skin twisted with hurt, that brittle smile, the small pearls of tears bubbling at the corners of your lids that you thought he couldn’t see. The consequences of his choice now cut deeper than ever.

He hasn’t seen you since that night—not properly. He finds himself at the saloon more often than usual and can no longer blame the bandit for seeking solace in whiskey.

In the past, his days had been measured by moments with you—walking you home, watching Yuji drag you to the general store as he trailed behind with a somber gait, treasuring that smile you’d shoot his way from over your shoulder.

It’s barely been a week, and to put it simply, Nanami is unbearably lonely.

Fleeting glimpses through saloon windows or watching you with the schoolchildren aren’t enough. Every night since that bullet grazed his arm, when he can’t sleep because all he can think about is you, fingers tracing idly along his healing stitches, he wonders what kind of man pushes away the one woman who only wants him.

A fool of a man, apparently.

His mother always told him that self-righteousness is more foolish than denying your own heart. She’d be clicking her tongue in disappointment at him right now.

His mind is so lost, so caught in its own web of self-destruction, that he doesn’t register Higuruma's question. “I’m sorry,” Nanami says, one hand still twirling his badge while he sits up in his chair. “Could you repeat that?”

The lawyer chuckles, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his suit as he fixes Nanami with keen brown eyes.

“I was just rambling about the town festival and asked if you’re taking a pretty lady? I’ve finally worked up the courage to ask a beautiful sweetheart to accompany me.”

Nanami’s expression never changes when faced with anything that a situation out of his control. Too many tells in the eyes of the enemy could cost him his life. He’s calm and collected, even with a gun pointed between his eyes.

So he exercises the most restraint he’s ever needed to keep his eyes from twitching, to keep from shifting in his seat under the painful squeeze in his chest.

“Anyone I know?” The question brims to life of its own volition.

Higuruma's tired eyes flash with warm admiration so genuine that it turns Nanami’s stomach. For the first time in many years, he finds himself comparing his adequacy to the lawyer. He looks too refined in his suit, aquiline features too handsome for the rustic surroundings of the sheriff’s office.

“I should think so. It’s the schoolteacher.” Nanami’s heart seizes in his chest, painful and lurching in a desperate act to beat again. “Surely you know her? Radiant as the sun, always wears the nicest skirts, beautiful curls, and smells like lavender—a man could lose himself.”

The physical description of you hits him like a physical blow, punching his gut hard enough to make his lunch gurgle up his throat. The memories of that cool night after the cattle drive flickering like a time reel in his mind.

“…pick someone else. I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”

You’ve taken his advice and chosen a man to accompany you. He should be happy that you’re doing the right thing. Shouldn’t he?

“She has the most beautiful smile,” Higuruma continues, seemingly unaware of the badge that’s stopped twirling between Nanami’s knuckles, to the subtle groan of tin as his fingers clench around it.

Nanami knows how to navigate most situations. He has a backup plan for every single unexpected situation in his life.

But not right now. Not while he’s trapped under the guise of propriety with a lawyer he suddenly can’t stand.

Now, Nanami imagines if he punches him in the face, he might smooth the curve in his nose. Now, Nanami hopes that every case Higuruma takes will keep him awake for days, never to know relaxation or peace. Now, he hopes he wakes up each day to more of those silky strands on his pillow until he’s bald for daring to breathe in your direction.

Now, now, now Nanami hates.

The badge protests in his grip, jagged edges breaking thin skin. Anger flares hot and sudden in his chest, irrational and consuming him to the point where he barely recognizes himself. Vitriol burns his mouth, bubbling past his teeth before he can stop it.

“You don’t know a thing about her.”

The words permeate in the air, sharp and accusatory. Higuruma blinks, taken aback by the sudden vehemence in Nanami’s tone. Surprised that the stern sheriff, who usually moves in silence, carries a bark that hangs in his belly, locked in a cage, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

The office is silent save for the storm that rages outside and the faint trickle of laughter from the schoolchildren across the street. No doubt you’ve let them out early so they can get home safe.

Another clap of thunder booms through the office, rattling the windows as if the storm is trying to force its way inside. The white-hot anger that boiled in Nanami’s gut is doused immediately with humiliation. It drips over him like a cold sweat, sliding down his leather vest and beneath his clothes.

“I apologize,” the lawyer starts, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

But he did offend. By coming into this town, by breathing your air, by having the mitigated gall to ask for your hand to an asinine town festival that Nanami should have stepped up for. That Nanami should have swallowed his pride and let his heart guide him for once. Not Higuruma. Not this lawyer who would probably treat you well.

He’s offended Nanami to the highest degree.

Yet, his humiliation runs rampant enough to quell his fury.

“No, I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“If she’s spoken for, I’m not a man to make matters complicated. I can—”

“No,” Nanami insists, eyes flickering to the rain-stained window. Water droplets cascade as if racing against each other, the landscape a torrent of wild wind and dusty dirt turned muddy. “She’s not spoken for. I’m simply…protective of her.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth, but Nanami swallows down the acrid flavor. He has no right to be jealous, no right to lash out, no claim on your affections. If anything, the very thought him claiming any part of you under the guise of protection would have earned him a rightful scowl on your face.

He made his choice that night on your couch, his lips still tasting of you, his body singing for more. Duty over desire. Now, he has to live with the consequences.

“I’ll be sure to do right by her,” Higuruma insists, earnest and sincere. Nanami wishes at this very moment that his father had taught him to be a violent man. The kind of man that wouldn’t hesitate to reach across this desk and show men like Higuruma what happens when they speak about a woman that Nanami wants. Deeply, viscerally, from a jagged pit in his belly.

Because you’re his—not really. But you are, you are, you are—

Another clap of thunder, his office flashing white. The sound closing the door to his internal rambling.

“If that’s all,” Nanami presses as politely as an impatient man can manage, hand still a vice around his badge as he stands from his seat.

“Right,” Higuruma picks up on the moment turned sour, ready to leave the tense atmosphere, and Nanami wouldn’t mind shucking him out the window if the lawyer wanted a boost. He claps his hands on his suit-clad knees and rises from his chair. There’s a small seed of triumph that blooms in Nanami’s belly as he takes in the two inches he has over the lawyer.

“I’ll bring everything by tomorrow morning and we can discuss further.”

Nanami doesn’t offer any further words, simply extending his hand for the lawyer to shake, unconsciously squeezing a little tighter before they part. He watches in silence, narrowed eyes trained on his back, as the lawyer throws a hat on his head and ducks out into the rain.

The open door carries hot and humid air into his small office, the roar of the storm rising with every passing second before the door closes, and he’s cast back into silence and regret.

Nanami quickly strides across his office to the window that gives him a view of the schoolhouse. He watches as the last of the school children disappear down the street, his eyes catching Yuji as he stumbles in the thick expanse of mud in front of the schoolhouse door, smiling bashfully as he turns back to listen to whatever is being spoken to him.

He seems jovial and careless at his young age as he tries to trudge through the mud before his foot is caught, and he falls to his knees. He yanks at his ankle, tiny fingers slipping over wet skin as he fruitlessly tugs at his foot.

Nanami’s eyes catch the movement of you before he can think, fixating on the flash of dark green calico of your skirts as you race out of the schoolhouse and into the torrential downpour.

He admires the flash of your shins as you hike your skirts up, clambering heavy-footed across the schoolyard before you wrap your arms around little Yuji and heave with the strength of ten men, his feet shucking from nature’s grip.

You fall backward, your skirts fluttering to a thick smack onto the ground, soaked beyond comprehension. You pat Yuji's hair gently, your affection for him clear even from the distance before letting him scurry off, uncaring of the rain that drenches you as you remain firmly planted in the mud, a small smile on your face as you watch him go.

Nanami longs to run outside, to race across the street, pull you up into his arms, and get you to safety. He longs to draw you a hot bath, stoke the fireplace in his home that he built with his two hands, and allow you to curl on his prized fur that he keeps in front of it.

But he can’t have that now.

And as Higuruma comes into view, running across the street to your drenched and relaxed form, Nanami realizes that he’s not only a fool—he’s unequivocally, painfully stupid.

Your curls kiss your cheeks in wild abandon, unfurling along the break of your smile as Higuruma approaches. Something dark and possessive twists in Nanami’s gut as he watches the lawyer reach for you, seemingly uncaring that the downpour ruins his pristine suit.

The casual way his hands find your waist, pulling you easily onto your feet, makes Nanami’s fingers tighten around the badge in his hand until the metal bites into his now raw flesh. The lawyer guides you up the steps to the schoolhouse, work-worn eyes bright with affection that he wants to strangle out of him.

Then, as if to twist the knife further that Nanami has willingly lodged in his own chest, Higuruma takes your hand in his and brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss. The gesture is kind, nothing untoward, especially for a man who’s trying to court a woman.

But for Nanami, it may as well be the most scandalous sight because his blood boils, the sight of another man’s mouth anywhere near your skin makes him so angry it nearly blinds him.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Nanami slams his badge on the windowsill, cursing beneath his breath as he storms from his office. He barely registers the rain that soaks him as soon as he steps outside to stride across the street. His eyes are locked on Higuruma's retreating form as he runs away from the schoolhouse and to his home, hardly paying Nanami any mind.

The red-hot and foreign jealousy whispers like a cat in his ears, beckoning for Nanami to follow the lawyer home and give him a piece of his mind. But he won’t, not this time, his sight only on the fluttering schoolhouse door.

The familiar scent of chalk dust envelops him when he steps into the schoolhouse, lingering with the lavender that always radiates from your skin. His hot fury splinters from the sight of you, your back to him, wringing water from your curls.

Each strand wraps around your wrist like a tendril, water droplets scattering across the floorboards. Nanami watches, transfixed, as rivulets trace thick lines down the rich brown column of your neck. He wants to trace those trails of water with his tongue, to feel the warmth of sun-blessed skin in stark contrast with the coolness of the rain. He wants to gather your curls in his hands, to know how silky they would feel in his calloused palms, to turn you around and—

“Did you need something, Sheriff?”

Your voice, coolly formal, cuts through the silence. You don’t turn to face him, continuing to wring out your hair as if his presence means nothing at all. Even though it means everything. The scent of him—leather and tobacco wrapped around rain—fills the schoolhouse, permeating the air so quickly that you’re dizzy with it.

You hear the shuffle of his boots against the wood behind you and feel the weight of his gaze on your back like a physical caress. Your spine shouldn’t itch to shudder under those invisible hands.

“I hear you’re going to the festival with the lawyer,” he blurts out, the words rough against your wet back, piercing through the drenched calico of your dress like a pin needle pushing through the thickest of fabric.

Your scoff is bitter as you turn to face him, so unlike your usual melodious laugh that he flinches.

“Is that what you stormed in here to say? After almost a week of silence that you asked for?” Your voice trembles—with festering rage or the slow trickle of hurt in the hollow of your chest, you’re not sure anymore.

“You didn’t speak to me either,” he counters weakly, trying to sound firm even though the words paint him like an idiot. As if he’s a young boy again, trading blows with a classmate that means nothing but is more destructive than the last.

Immediately, you’re angry as you soak in his words, wide-eyed and seething. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, shaking against your skirts as you drip wet onto the floor.

“Do you take me for a fool, Nanami Kento?”

It’s the first time in months that you’ve said his full name. You brandish it like a weapon, deliberately sharp. He has that look on his face again—a mischievous schoolboy caught in mischief, all that stern authority crumbling under your gaze with no Stetson to anchor him.

“No ma’am, of course not—”

“Then let me spell it out for you,” you begin, your voice trembling slightly with barely suppressed emotion. “I like you. You like me. A few days ago, we shared somethin'…” your voice cracks traitorously. “Somethin'…intimate. After so many years of dancin' around each other. And then you decided to pull away, to make decisions about how I should live my life, to tell me what I deserve, as if I’m incapable of takin' care of myself!”

Thunder rumbles like a hovering figure, matching the storm brewing in your chest. Lightning flashes through the windows, catching in the water that falls from his locks, illuminating the conflict in his brown eyes.

“Hiromi is a nice man. He asked me on a friendly date, and I said yes. That’s all there is to it.”

“You said yes to a man who’s only been in town for a few days,” Nanami growls, jealousy coloring his words that strike your chest like a dagger. “Already calling him by his first name?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as your gaze turns icy. You’ve never known Nanami to have a scornful bone in his body. So while you know his actions now stem from some deep-rooted insecurity in his choices, the words still sting.

You stalk towards him slowly, purposefully, your leather boots squelching as they leave wet prints with each step.

“What exactly are you tryin' to imply, Sheriff?”

“A few pretty, albeit stuffy, words from a stranger in his pressed suit, and you forget yourself entirely,” he hisses, the words so painful as they stab at your cheeks that you can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes.

It’s hurtful because these words come from someone who knows you so well, how carefully you’ve built your reputation, and how hard you’ve worked to earn a place in this town. It’s a feeling you never thought would be directed at you.

“How dare you,” you snarl, raising your hand to smack, punch, do anything to hurt him like he’s hurting you.

But Nanami is faster, catching your wrist mid-swing and yanking you against him. The impact against his chest steals your breath—or maybe it’s the feel of him, towering and burning hot despite the rain-soaked clothes between you. Your free hand flies up to twist in his shirt, fingers catching on the fabric in a dance of pushing him away and pulling him closer.

You struggle against his grip, grunting with futile effort that meets iron strength. His fingers don’t dig enough to hurt you, but to remind you of his brutal strength, of all the times you’ve dreamt of how that strength would feel when channeled into his hands on your body. The thought only fuels your anger.

You wrench your hand from his grip with a sound that croaks from your chest like a raging dragon, turning to storm to your desk. Papers scatter in your wake like startled birds, floating to the slick floor beneath your sodden boots.

You have no right,” you spit, fingers trembling as you bend down to gather the papers. “No right to act like I belong to you when you pushed me away!”

You need to push him away. God the hypocrisy is overwhelming, but not enough to grasp the logic you need right now.

“You don’t know Higuruma—” Nanami starts, and you whirl to face him, wet skirts slapping against your legs, eyes flashing with a storm of your own that claps with the next ring of thunder and lightning outside.

“And you do? He’s a good man, a respected lawyer—”

“He’s not good enough,” Nanami cuts in, voice rough like gravel. You watch his jaw clench, the muscles jumping beneath sun-weathered skin moist from the rain that slides down his throat.

“Oh?” You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Let’s play this game then, Nanami. Put the shoe on the other foot. I guess Thomas from the general store won’t do it for you?!”

“The man can’t keep his hands to himself even in the saloon,” he growls, the corner of his lip twisting into a snarl.

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle with heat despite your anger. You’ve never seen him this furious, not with you, and it shouldn’t make your stomach churn with arousal, shouldn’t make your stomach twist with want, shouldn’t make heat bloom between your thighs.

“Mr. Foster.”

“Unfaithful to every woman who’s given him the time of day!” Nanami’s words crack through the air like a whip, furious at your suggestion.

“Deputy Gojo then,” you challenge, lifting your chin in defiance.

It’s a low blow, a harmful punch to the intimacy of the conversation and closeness that brewed from Gojo's presence that night after the cattle drive. But you don’t care. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a war drum, each beat echoing the pain and anger that pushes through your veins and thrums in your ears.

His warm brown eyes widen with fury, menacing as they liquefy into a glare so dangerous that your core pulses with a need you should be ashamed of.

“Don’t,” he says simply, low and deep, unwilling to entertain it any longer. The very thought of Gojo's name in association with you is enough to make him crazed.

Something inside you snaps, fraying like an old rope, finally giving way to the push and pull of you both. You slam your hands on the desk, the sharp smack of your palm echoing through the schoolhouse.

“Well, then, enlighten me, Sheriff!” Your voice rises with each word. “Since apparently no man in this town meets your precious standards, what exactly do you want from me?!”

He’s silent. So dreadfully silent, broad shoulders heaving with each ragged breath, eyes locked on yours, conflicted but unwilling to back down.

You storm up to him until you can smell the tobacco on his clothes, and you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Dark blonde eyebrows are pitched down in barely contained rage, sharp cheekbones beckoning your hand to slap him. You’re so unfortunately attracted to this cowboy, but so angry that your head spins.

You jab a finger into his chest. His shirt clings to every muscle like a second skin, reminding you of how his chest felt under your fingers that night, how his skin burned against yours as you stitched him up.

“You don’t get to push me away and then dictate who I spend my time with,” you whisper with deadly intent. “You don’t get to act like some—some jealous husband when you made it clear that I wasn’t—that we weren’t—”

The words stick in your throat like thorns, choking you from speaking any further. Nanami’s eyes darken, black nearly eclipsing brown, something dangerous and wild flickering in their depths. The air between you crackles with electricity, every breath shared between you charged with the energy that seeps through the walls from the storm.

But despite the quiver of want in your bones, the close proximity, you can’t do this anymore—you can’t stand here in this now suffocating schoolhouse and lay your emotions at your feet that need to be locked away.

You have to leave.

Without thinking, you shoulder past him, flinging open the school door and stepping out into the rain. The harsh pellets are a jolt on your feverish skin, quickly soaking through your barely dry clothes.

The thud of Nanami’s boots and the jingle of his spurs behind you spur you on, your legs trudging through the mud to Buttercup’s stable and away from him. You only make it halfway through the schoolyard before a large hand catches your wrist, firm and calloused but somehow still gentle as he spins you to face him.

“I’m done talkin' Nanami!” you yell over the storm, glaring at his handsome face soaked in rain. You yank free from his grip, gait heavy and sticky as you stagger away until you’re several feet from each other. “I’m done arguing with a man who doesn’t know what he wants!”

Through the veil of rain, you see his eyes widen in disbelief before they narrow into heinous slits. “You think I don’t want you?” Thunder punctuates his words, your heart fluttering against its cocoon of rage. “That I don’t think about you every waking moment?!”

“Then why—” you holler, throwing your hands up to the sky in exasperation before he interrupts.

“Because I can’t have you!” The confession rips through him like tearing open a wound, his words cracking along the next lightning strike in the mountains. “I’m supposed to be dedicated to this town. To my citizens. To my career. If you weren’t so—” he stops short, growling beneath the howl of the wind. “If you hadn’t shown up that day all those years ago, if you didn’t bake me those pies, if you weren’t so goddamn beautiful and—”

“This is my fault!” you screech, taking a step towards him only for your leather boots to sink into a particularly deep patch of mud. The wet soil seeps into the spaces, coating your socks and toes. The rain continues its onslaught, your curls heavy as they sway and stick to your face. You wipe them from your cheeks in a fury, sputtering through dirt and water.

“You’re blamin' me because you’re too much of a coward—”

“Yes!” he shouts, shoulders shaking in a wave of vulnerable anger as he glares at you. “Because every time I see you smile, every time Yuji comes to me happy that you taught him something new, every time you look at me like I’m worth something—” His voice catches Adam’s apple bobbing and lips gaping for words. “I forget why I need to stay away.”

You flop your hands against your thighs in defeat, huffing a humorless laugh. “Just tell me what you want,” you whisper, half challenge, half plea. You should run, turn around, and make your way home before you fall deeper into a web of lies you’ve spun. “For once in your goddamn life, Nanami, just tell me.”

“I want you to tell him no,” Nanami growls. “I want you to turn down every. damn. man. in this town who thinks they deserve you.”

The whiplash of his want and need is enough to make your neck hurt. That simmering rage boils to the surface, churning like melted butter in your limps as you yank your feet from the mud to storm toward him.

“You stubborn—” you start, boot immediately sinking in mud. You yank it free with a wet squelch. “Just wait until I get my hands on you, you self-righteous—” another step, another struggle against the soaked earth. Your deep green skirts are heavy with water and mud, tangling around your legs as you fight tooth and nail to get closer. “Insufferable—” Yank. Step. “Maddenin' excuse for a man—”

Your last step is interrupted by him, stomping and angry and biting as he navigates the schoolyard like it’s nothing, his hands digging into your wet waist before he yanks you to him, crashing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so brutal, so possessive, and everything you’ve been fighting and craving all at once that your eyes roll into the back of your skull from the force.

Your boots slip against the ground as his mouth claims yours, teetering backward to fall, but his hands are there instantly—one tangling in your soppy curls while the other digs further into your waist, steadying you as he angles your mouth without having to ask.

How can you be so hypocritical right now? Why have you made such a mess of things? The wall that you need to erect between you is crumbling beneath weak weight, freely giving up any resistance as his lips slide against yours. You chastise yourself even as you twist your fingers into his transparent shirt, pulling him closer as thunder cracks overhead.

“They don’t know you,” Nanami hisses into your mouth when you break for air, rain streaming between the gaps of where you don’t touch. His grip at the base of your neck tightens, arousing licking to life as your core tingles in betrayal at the twinge of pain. You bite into his bottom lip, swallowing his groan that vibrates down your throat and into the muscles of your pelvis.

Nanami spins you—you stumble in the mud, flailing even though his strong arms reach under your thighs to yank you up. Your skirts stretch uncomfortably, legs begging for more room so you can wrap your thighs around his waist. But he has other plans, swallowing another whine as his lips take yours, the sound of his spurs rattling the jumbled space in your mind as he climbs the schoolhouse steps.

Your back crashes into your desk, more papers scattering and floating to the water-slicked floor. You’re both dripping everywhere—creating puddles beneath your feet, water running from his shirt to collect on the wood between you. His hands squeeze your waist, the strength permeating a thick pulse between your thighs as he lifts you onto your desk.

“Those men could learn about me,” you gasp, involuntarily bunching your skirts around your waist as Nanami crowds into the space between your legs.

His fingers reacquaint themselves with their hair at your nape, twisting and yanking your head back to expose your throat.

“He doesn’t get to learn a thing about you,” Nanami growls into your pulse point, dragging sharp teeth along the skin. You can’t help the whimper that breaks free, leaking past your lips. “Not how you sound.” A tongue to your neck that makes you arch, eyes shut tight as your cunt thrums in your panties. “Not how you taste.”

Your hands fly up to find purchase on the wet fabric of his shoulders, grabbing the muscles of his trapezius as he growls into your neck.

You have to stop, you have to. But when his hips press forward, the metal of his belt buckle grinding against you through sodden layers of fabric, all coherent thought vanishes.

You gasp at the feel of his hot hand trailing along your leg, up the canvas of your thighs, that part even more for him without thought. Calloused fingertips tease the edge of your panties, the touch electric enough to make your hips buck for more, a whine dying in your throat as you nod to his silent ask for permission.

“Tell me,” he demands, a seductively low timber against your mouth as he pulls your panties to the side, the cool air yanking a wanton moan from your throat. The touch of two fingers to your clit is enough to make you faint, your fingers digging into his shoulders to keep yourself from screaming. The hand in your hair squeezes, rewarding you for your sounds. “Tell me you don’t think about this.”

You do. You do. God, you do. You think about him exactly like this, skin to skin, reverent words of desire in your ear as he takes you higher and higher.

You bite his lip instead of answering, and the fingers on your clit begin to move in torturous circles that make you moan into the cool air. You were wet the minute he raised his voice, the minute you could taste his jealousy, the minute you smelled that leather and gunpowder from his skin. So your essence pools to the bottom of your panties now, embarrassingly wet and dripping as he circles your clit with a precision that makes you wary.

His fingers slide down your wet folds, teasing your entrance that clenches around nothing. The callous of one fingertip press inside, barely enough to do anything, and you pull against his resistant shoulders, whining desperately for more. A broken sound creaks from your lungs as he sinks in one finger and then the next inside of your pussy.

“Oh god,” you cry out in what feels like relief, your boots hitching on his hips, mud streaking the denim.

“No one else,” Nanami demands, setting a pace just shy of too slow within you. Water drips from his hair and catches on your collarbone before sliding down between the hint of cleavage of your bodice. His eyes are dark, mahogany depths gone as they take in every flicker of pleasure on your face. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

“I—” you gasp, swallowing around a dry throat parched from your guilt and building pleasure that tingles in your cunt against his fingers. You’re still shivering from the rain, but his touch burns, each stroke of his fingers devastating. Your head falls back as his fingers curl inside of you perfectly, brushing against the spongy wall of your pussy like he’s studied you for centuries and knows just how to pull you apart.

“Look at me,” he demands again, his grip tightening in your hair. When your eyes meet him, you flinch at the intensity of his gaze. There’s an unspoken danger there, a hint of untethered lust that barely overshadows the flickers of guilt he’s trying to keep at bay.

It’s the perfect opportunity for you to take charge of the situation, to pull away and agree that this needs to end now. To grab his wrist and tell him that you don’t need anymore. But—

“Tell me he’s not worthy of this.” His thumb finds your clit, stroking with fervor, fingers sinking deeper inside of you. “Tell me.”

“He’s not—” you choke, your orgasm rounding the corner sharp and fast. “He’s not worthy—oh please, please.”

You have no idea where the words are coming from—surely some deep cavern in your chest where you keep all your desires for him in the dark. But they rise freely now with every curl of his fingers and every desperate sound.

But even as ecstasy threatens to consume you, anguish claws at your heart. The reality of what you’ve done crashes over you in waves, each crest of pleasure tinged with the bitterness of your dishonesty. Nanami worships you with abandon, hypocritical in his touch, his lips whispering possession against yours while you hold back the very essence of who you are.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room, a rivulet of water sliding down your lower back, a reminder of the storm that drove you to this moment.

“That’s it,” he growls against your mouth, watching as your orgasm begins to shake your body on your desk. “Show me what no one else gets to see.”

You’re so close—so, so close, tumbling on the edge of something that feels like falling and flying. The furrow of concentration between his brows, the raw hunger in his gaze as he watches you come undone—it’s too much. Tears prick at your eyes, blurring your vision as your orgasm builds to a devastating crescendo.

“Let go for me, Dove,” he whispers against your mouth, and that endearment, that tenderness when you’ve been so aggressive with each other—it’s what you finally need to vault over the edge. Your orgasm rips through you, blissful pleasure obliterating everything in its path. You cry out his name, whimpering into his mouth that he takes for a kiss, your body arching into him as release crashes over you in burning waves of fire.

As you slowly come down, you’re left gasping, trembling, utterly wrecked with your gaze locked on his. The magnitude of what’s transpired settles over you like a murky shroud, beautiful and terrible. You’ve never raised your voice at Nanami, just like he never has with you, but these fading moments were overwhelming, with hidden desires being shoved to the front without a barrier to guide them.

You use the feel of his wet shirt as a beacon to keep you rooted in the moment, doing whatever you can to push those guilty thoughts away that waste no time teasing you wickedly. Even now, dripping wet and breathing deeply against you, he’s devastating to look at.

You want to touch him, to make him feel what you just felt, to have the memory of the weight of him in your hands one time before you leave this town forever.

So you slide one hand from his shoulder to reach for his belt, but his fingers catch yours, impossibly gentle, as he stops you from going further. The softness of his touch hurts more than if he had smacked your hand away. It hurts because you see it clearly, so clearly that it makes your chest ache.

Even if you didn’t have another persona, even if you were just the schoolteacher in this town who bakes him pies and makes him smile, his want for you palpable in the air, he would never let himself have this. He would never let himself be completely yours.

The realization smacks you in the face, the flames of your rage that had been put out with his touch now roaring back to life. You’ve been handed yet another opportunity to right your wrongs, and this time you don’t hesitate to snatch it up.

You push him away, sliding off the desk on shaky legs as you yank your hand from his grip.

“This is never going to change, is it?” you ask, voice steady even as your heart stutters out of rhythm. “You’ll always push me away in the name of duty or nobility or whatever excuse helps you sleep at night.”

“I—“ he starts, reaching for you, but you push him away further, savoring the muscles of his chest one last time.

“Save it.” You swallow, squaring your shoulders for what feels like an impossible task. “After today…nothin' needs to happen between us. No more walks home, no more pies or acting like we know somethin' the other doesn’t.” You wrap your arms around yourself, cold and wet now that the heat of his skin is gone. “Because we both know we can’t be friends without wantin' more….and I won’t let you string me along any longer.”

He stands there, dripping, with hands hanging at his sides in defeat. He can’t argue with you, he has no right. And you use his dejection as fuel.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” your words cut like glass in your throat. “I don’t want to see you. You had every opportunity to take me as yours…splayed me on this desk until I had nothing left, and still you…I’ll find someone who isn’t afraid to want me completely. Like you said, it’s what I deserve.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps, but he stays silent. You hate how well you know him—how he’s retreating behind duty been now. That this pain is noble somehow. And you couldn’t agree more.

“I should go,” you whisper, deliberately formal, deliberately final.

The silence stretches between you like a chasm, punctuated only by the sound of rain and thunder outside and the water dripping from your clothes. You wait a moment longer—some foolish part of you hoping that he will fight for this, for you. But Nanami remains silent, his leather vest striking on his wet frame as he stands with rigid shoulders.

“Goodbye, Sheriff,” you mutter, turning away first and gathering what’s left of your dignity.

Your skirts are still heavy, clinging on cold legs that still tremble slightly from your orgasm. Each step feels like you’re traversing through the mud in front of your schoolhouse all over again.

Let him keep his duty. Let him wrap himself in nobility and righteousness while you finish up what’s left of your path in this dusty town.

The storm greets you again when you step outside, immediately soaking you as you make your way to Buttercup’s makeshift stable. The physical discomfort you feel as you gather her reins is nothing compared to the ache in your chest, the knowledge that even without your secrets, the outcome would have been the same.

He doesn’t come out of the schoolhouse. He doesn’t chase after you and drop to his knees for forgiveness. And the reality of it all makes your eyes blur with a fresh wave of tears.

As you race home on Buttercup’s saddle, the rain is harsh on your skin, and the clarity cuts through your emotional haze.

You know what you have to do.

The treasure.

You’ll gather it up, just as you’ve planned all along. But now, it’s not just about helping the town. That thought of freedom no longer seems wary. You’ll get the treasure, yes. You’ll distribute it to the town, giving them the help they need. One final good for the people you’ve grown fond of. And then… then you’ll leave. You’ll disappear, never to return to this place that’s become both heaven and hell to you.

The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through you, but you embrace it. Pain means you’re alive and that what you’ve experienced here matters. You’ll carry it with you, a bittersweet reminder of the life you’re choosing to leave behind.

As your house comes into view and you take it all in, soaked to the skin and shivering, the distant sound of Buttercup whinnying beneath you, you make a vow to yourself.

No more hesitation. No more torn loyalties.

The storm rages on when you finally close your front door, but inside your heart, a strange calm settles over you. You have a plan now. And soon, you’ll have your freedom. Even if it comes at the cost of everything – and everyone – you’ve grown to love.

Thanks for reading! Finale coming soon!

182 notes · View notes