bertolio

[bertolio]

Say It Again

Chapter 13 - Restless Detective

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Rating: Mature

Category: M/M

Fandom: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)

Relationship: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams

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God, how long was I out? Feels like I blinked and the world shifted. My head’s fuzzy, like I’m wading through fog. Did I dream?

The light’s changed. Softer now. Cooler. The lanai breeze pushes through the open door in slow, lazy breaths. I’m curled on my side, back pressed to something solid… well, someone. And I don’t have to check who.

Steve’s arm is still draped over me, warm and anchored across my middle. His chest rises against my back. I lie there a moment, pretending I’m not awake. Pretending this is still sleep. The kind you don’t want to end, because everything outside of it feels heavier. Louder. Less… held.

This is dangerous. I know it is. I’m not an idiot. I’m lying here, letting his arm pin me like it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away, and I’m pretending it’s fine. Like it’s just a nap. Like I don’t feel every inch of where he’s touching me, like my brain isn’t screaming that this is too much and not enough all at once. But… hell, it’s warm. Safe. When’s the last time I felt safe like this?

His fingers twitch once.

Don’t move. Don’t ruin it. Just stay here a second longer, where it’s quiet and nothing hurts. He’s just being a good friend. That’s all this is. Right?

“You awake?” he murmurs.

Dammit. I don’t answer right away. My voice is somewhere under the ocean outside. It takes me a second to find it.

“Unfortunately.”

His chest rumbles with a soft laugh. “That bad already?”

He’s laughing. That’s good, right? Means he’s not reading too much into this. Or maybe he is. God, I hate how he makes me second-guess everything. Why does he have to sound so… calm? Like he’s got it all figured out while I’m over here drowning in my own head.

“Not bad,” I say. “Just… weird to wake up still warm.”

He shifts behind me. Doesn’t pull away. “You looked like you needed it.”

I hum. Don’t disagree.

For a few minutes, we don’t move. I listen to the wind. A bird screeches somewhere up in the palm trees. I feel his breath against the back of my neck.

It’s not fair how okay this feels.

“I could get used to this,” Steve says after a while.

Oh, don’t say that. Don’t put that in my head. You think I haven’t already thought it? You think I haven’t already imagined what it’d be like to have this every day? Stop making it sound possible, Steve.

“Don’t,” I mumble. “Dangerous thought.”

Dangerous. Understatement of the century. If I let myself think about it, I’m done for. I’ll start wanting things I can’t have. Things I don’t deserve. Things that’ll break me when they fall apart.

“You already did.”

That earns a small, reluctant smile from me. “Shut up.”

“I mean it.”

I roll onto my back slowly, careful not to jostle my ribs, and turn my head to look at him. His eyes are already on me, calm and open in that terrifying way that makes it impossible to hide.

Oh, God. Those eyes. Stop looking at me like that, Steve. I can’t breathe when you do.

“You’re staring,” I say.

He shrugs. “You’re interesting.”

“More like a medical case.”

Yeah, that’s safer. Keep it clinical. Keep it distant. Don’t let him see how much you’re clinging to this moment.

“That too.”

Ouch. Okay, fair, but ouch. He’s not wrong, though. I’m a mess. Bruised ribs, bruised ego. Why’s he still here, anyway?

I groan and rub a hand over my face. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“You kinda were.”

He sits up finally, stretches once, his shirt pulling tight across his chest, and I immediately regret waking up. He stands, glancing down at me with something unreadable in his expression.

“I’ve gotta swing by HQ. Just for an hour.”

“Alone?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.

Why did I say it like that? He’s not going far. He’s not abandoning me. But my brain’s already running worst-case scenarios: car crashes, ambushes, or maybe just him walking out and deciding he’s done with my mess. Stop it, Danny. He’s coming back. He always does.

“I’m not leaving the island,” he says. “Chin said he might drop by. Kono too. You okay with that?”

He’s reassuring me. He heard it in my voice, didn’t he? That stupid edge of panic. God, I’m transparent. Okay, focus. Chin and Kono. Good. They’ll keep me from spiraling. Maybe.

“Long as no one brings flowers or sympathy cards.”

Steve leans down. Brushes his fingers once across my forehead like he’s checking for a fever, but I think he just wants to touch me again.

Oh, God. Don’t do that. Don’t touch me like I’m fragile. Like I’m something you need to check on. My heart’s gonna give out before my ribs do. Why does your hand feel so good?

“You need anything before I go?”

You. Stay. Don’t go. But I can’t say that. I won’t. I’m not that guy. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I shake my head. “You’ve already mothered me enough for one morning.”

Deflect, deflect, deflect. If I keep joking, maybe I won’t fall apart. Maybe he won’t see how much I want him to stay.

He straightens, smirks faintly, and heads toward the door.

“Steve?” I call before he disappears.

He stops. Waits. Patient bastard. Say something, Danny. Don’t screw this up.

I clear my throat. “Don’t be gone long.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything. Just smiles once and then he’s gone.

The screen door clicks behind him.

I exhale. And it feels a little colder when he’s not in the room.

The quiet settles in like it’s been waiting for its turn. Too heavy. Too still. I lie there a while longer, trying to hold onto the shape of Steve’s warmth against my back, but it’s already slipping. My ribs ache with every breath, a dull reminder that moving’s a bad idea. So I don’t. I just stare at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles, each blade blurring into the next. Maybe if I stay still enough, I’ll disappear into the couch cushions and wake up in a world where none of this feels like it matters so much.

But the truth is… it does.

The truth is, the second Steve walked out that door, something in my chest clenched like it was waiting for bad news. Like it’s trained to assume absence means danger. Or disappointment. Or that he won’t come back the same. Or won’t come back at all.

Which is insane. He’s coming back. Of course he is. He said he would. And Steve doesn’t lie. Except when he thinks it’s for your own good.

Time drags. The light outside shifts, but it’s hard to tell how much. Minutes? An hour? My phone’s on the coffee table, too far to reach without regretting it. I could call someone. Grace, maybe. Hear her voice, let her ramble about school or those stickers she’s obsessed with. But the thought of talking, of pretending I’m fine, feels like lifting a weight I don’t have the strength for.

Grace would know something’s wrong. She always does. Kid’s got a sixth sense for when I’m faking it. And what would I even say? “Hey, monkey, your dad’s losing his mind because Uncle Steve held him too close and now he can’t think straight”? Yeah, great parenting, Danny. Real gold star material.

I close my eyes instead. Try to drift back to that dream from last night, the one that felt so real it left my chest tight when I woke up. Steve’s hands. His voice. But the details are fuzzy now. All I’m left with is the ache it carved out, the kind that makes you wonder if you’re losing your mind or just your grip.

The breeze from the lanai picks up, rattling the blinds. I open my eyes. The room’s empty, but it doesn’t feel like it should be. Steve’s book is still on the side table, dog-eared at a page he’ll probably never finish. His mug’s by the sink, half-full of coffee gone cold. Little pieces of him, scattered like breadcrumbs, reminding me he was here. Reminding me he’s not.

I shift, wincing as my ribs protest, and push myself up to sit. Ow. Okay, bad idea. Moving is pain. Everything is pain. But I can’t just lie here like a corpse. I’ve gotta do something. The effort leaves me lightheaded, and I brace a hand on the couch armrest, waiting for the room to stop tilting. When it does, I reach for the glass of water on the table. It’s warm now, but I drink it anyway, slow sips to fill the silence.

The bird outside screeches again. Same one, maybe. Or maybe they all sound the same when you’re stuck in your own head. I lean back, glass still in hand, and let my eyes wander to the lanai. The ocean’s out there, steady and endless, but it feels too far away. Like I’m cut off from it. From everything.

I think about getting up. Making toast, maybe. Something to do. But the kitchen’s ten steps away, and that feels like ten too many. So I stay put, the glass sweating in my palm, the fan humming overhead. My mind keeps circling back to Steve. To the way he looked at me before he left, like he was trying to memorize something. To the way his fingers brushed my forehead.

“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. My voice sounds wrong in the quiet, too loud and too small at the same time. I set the glass down harder than I mean to, and it clinks against the table.

The house creaks, settling or maybe just mocking me. I rub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble I haven’t bothered to shave. I should. I should do a lot of things. Shower. Eat. Take the damn meds sitting on the counter. But all I can do is sit here, trapped in this loop of waiting. Waiting for Steve to come back. Waiting for the team to show up. Waiting for something to make this feel less like I’m unraveling at the seams.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s been an hour. Maybe more. No one’s here yet. No footsteps, no voices. Just me and the weight of this room. I shift again, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt, but every move pulls at my ribs, my shoulder, and somehow at my thoughts too. I let out a slow breath, trying to shove it all down, but it’s like pushing against a tide.

I close my eyes again. Not to sleep. Just to stop looking at the empty space where Steve should be.

Just then, a car door slams outside.

I freeze.

My breath catches, and for a split second I think it’s him. That maybe he changed his mind. That maybe he felt it too, this weight, this silence, and turned back before reaching HQ.

Please be him. Please. I don’t know how much longer I can sit here with this hole in my chest. I need to see him walk through that door, smirk like nothing’s wrong, and make this room feel like it’s mine again. Come on, Steve. Don’t make me wait.

My eyes flick to the door.

My whole body leans forward before my brain catches up.

But the footsteps are lighter. Quicker. Familiar in a different way.

Not boots.

Not him.

And something in me deflates before I can stop it.

I sit back against the couch, trying to play it off even though no one’s here to see me. Trying to swallow down the lump that rose up so fast it burned.

The door handle turns.

“Knew it,” I mutter under my breath, just as it swings open.

“Kono,” I say aloud, already pasting on a smirk.

Kono. Good. She’s safe. She’s easy. She won’t ask too many questions. Just keep it light, Danny. You’ve got this.

"Hope you're not naked, Danny," Kono calls. "Because I brought dessert."

God, I love her. She’s like sunshine in human form. Always knows how to break the tension. But she’s gonna see right through me if I’m not careful.

I open my mouth to reply, but of course she doesn’t wait. She barrels in like always, a paper bag in hand, sunglasses perched in her hair, grin wide and bright.

"What've you got there?" I ask, pushing up on one elbow.

"Homemade banana bread and iced passionfruit tea. Grace said you haven’t had sweets in three days, and I figured that’s a violation of some Geneva convention.”

“You’re an angel,” I say, and for the first time today it sounds real. “If I ever rewrite my will, know that you’re in it.”

She laughs, setting the box down on the table. “Also… Steve asked me to remind you that if you forget your meds again, he’ll personally make you swallow them with lime juice.”

“Tell him that sounds suspiciously erotic.”

Oh, God, did I just say that? Out loud? To Kono? I’m losing it. But it’s funny, right? She’ll laugh. She won’t read into it. Right?

Kono lifts an eyebrow. “Not my business, but… noted.”

Dammit, Kono, don’t look at me like that. I’m not ready to explain this. Not to you. Not to myself.

I grab the glass of tea, grateful for the cold against the heat simmering under my skin. The taste of passionfruit lingers on my tongue, sharp and sweet and oddly grounding.

The door opens again. Slower this time. Softer steps.

“DAD!!”

Grace. Oh, thank God.

I barely get my arms out in time, Grace launches herself toward me, hugging my shoulder gently, but with that same weight of total, wordless love.

“Hey, monkey,” I rasp. “What, not scared of my bruises anymore?”

“Mom said I could be here for twenty minutes if I don’t bug you,” she says seriously. “But I told her I’m not a bother, I’m your favorite.”

“Also true,” I agree, and kiss her temple.

She smells like sunscreen and crayons. Like home. Like everything I’m fighting for. Don’t cry, Danny. Don’t you dare.

She cuddles closer, then pulls something out of her backpack. “I made you a new drawing. No markers this time. But it still kinda smeared.”

Another drawing. My heart can’t take this. She’s too good. Too pure. I’m gonna lose it if I look at it.

I unfold the paper. Two stick figures. Me with a giant head, Steve with a surfboard again. A big heart and the words “TEAM OHANA FOREVER” scribbled across the top. She even gave us sunglasses.

Oh, Gracie. You’re killing me. That heart. It’s just a kid’s drawing, but it feels like a spotlight. Like she’s seeing something I’m too scared to look at. Me and Steve, forever. Like it’s that simple. Like I could just let it be that simple. But it’s not. It’s messy and terrifying, and I don’t know how to be the guy in that drawing.

Kono, peeking over my shoulder, says, “Okay but that’s canon.”

I don’t get a chance to reply, because the door opens again.

More people? I’m already overwhelmed. Who’s this now?

“Afternoon, wounded one,” Chin says with that calm half-smile.

“Don’t start a group therapy session,” Grover mutters, closing the door behind him. “I brought ice cream.”

“You guys are serious about this whole recovery thing,” I say, accepting the container gratefully.

“You’re on the brink,” Grover says. “Your kid’s drawing hearts around you and McGarrett, and Kono brought dessert.”

“Why is everyone so obsessed with the heart?” I mutter. “It’s just… art.”

Defensive much? They’re gonna see right through me. Shut up, Danny. Just eat the ice cream and shut up.

But no one says anything.

There’s a weight to the quiet now, something between concern and suspicion.

"Okay, twenty minutes," Grace announces, flopping down beside me on the couch like a timer just started ticking. "Mom was very specific."

"That sounds ominous," Chin says, pulling up a chair near the window.

"It always is," Grover mutters, already digging into the ice cream. “Single moms have a tone. You don’t ignore that tone.”

“She also said if I make you laugh too hard and you pop a stitch, it’s her hospital bill to deal with.”

“She said that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Grace grins. “Well, she implied it.”

Kono chuckles from the kitchen, where she’s cutting the banana bread into slices. “Okay, but who’s actually popped stitches from laughing?”

Grover raises his hand.

Chin raises his, too.

I groan. “God, I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Idiots. Yeah, but they’re my idiots. And they’re keeping me from falling into the hole in my head. I need to stop thinking about him. I need to focus on Grace, on the team, on anything else.

Grace kicks her feet off the couch, swinging them as she looks at me. “Are you in pain right now? One to ten.”

Oh, God. She’s doing triage. My kid is doing triage. Where did she learn this? I’m so proud I could burst, but also… stop growing up so fast, monkey.

I blink at her. “Why are you doing pain scale triage?”

“I saw it on a drama. One being you’re chill, ten being you’re screaming like when you stub your toe at night.”

“...Solid system.” I tilt my head. “I’m probably at a four. Five if I breathe too deep. Seven if Steve’s around.”

Did I just say that? Out loud? Seven if Steve’s around? Oh, God.

Grover snorts. “Now it’s a drama.”

Dammit, Lou. Don’t make it worse. Don’t make it real. I’m trying to keep this under control.

Kono brings the banana bread over and hands a slice to Grace first. “You get priority. Nurse slash emotional support daughter.”

“I accept this role,” Grace says, solemn as ever, before biting into her slice.

For a few minutes, the conversation floats around normal things, how school’s almost over, Grace’s obsession with making sticker designs, Chin’s discovery of some obscure jazz vinyl, Grover threatening to join Steve’s morning jogs “just to spite him.”

I let the sounds settle in. The comfort of it. The warmth of my people.

And then Grace leans over, whispering, “Are you and Uncle Steve fighting?”

I nearly choke on a sip of tea.

How am I supposed to explain this when I don’t even understand it myself?

“No,” I say too fast. “No, why would you-?”

“’Cause he usually texts me every night,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And he didn’t last night. I figured that meant something happened.”

I stare at her. Thirteen years old and already reading dynamics like a trained therapist.

She’s right. Steve didn’t text her. And I’m betting it’s because he was too busy holding me together last night. Or maybe he’s as messed up about this as I am. No, that’s wishful thinking. Steve doesn’t get messed up. He’s Steve. He’s got it together. Unlike me.

“Maybe he was just busy,” I mumble.

She shrugs. “Okay. But you should tell him you miss him.”

I blink at her. “You are… way too observant for someone who still watches cartoons about magical cats.”

“They’re time-traveling magical cats,” she corrects, then leans back against the couch like the conversation’s over.

I glance around. They heard it. I know they did. Kono’s probably smirking in the kitchen, Chin’s got that knowing look, and Grover’s just waiting to drop some comment about my “drama.” And I deserve it. I’m a walking soap opera right now.

Eventually, Kono stands and claps her hands. “Alright, I’m gonna take Grace to her mom before Rachel sends an army.”

Grace sighs dramatically but stands, brushing crumbs from her shirt.

“Wait,” I say. “Come here.”

One more second. I need one more second with her. Just to hold onto something real.

She walks back over and leans in. I kiss the top of her head.

“You were perfect today.”

She smiles. “So were you.”

Perfect. Yeah, right. I’m a mess, Gracie. But you make it feel like I’m not. You make it feel like I can keep going, even when I’m falling apart. I don’t deserve you.

Kono tosses me a wink. “You want me to drop Chin and Lou too?”

Grover waves her off. “I’ll go. Chin can ride with me.”

“Don’t argue,” Chin says with a smirk. “You’re just hoping she’ll stop for malasadas on the way.”

“You read me like a damn book,” Grover says, already heading for the door.

I watch them gather up their things, easy and familiar. Grace squeezes my hand once before disappearing down the hall. The front door clicks behind them. Quiet settles in their wake.

The house is still.

And Steve’s still not back.

I glance toward the kitchen. His mug is still by the sink. His book’s still folded open on the side table. He lives here in the edges of things. In the way the room feels just a little fuller when he’s in it. In the way my body’s still reacting to the ghost of his hands, like touch-memory is stronger than logic.

I lean forward and run a hand through my hair.

“Get it together, Williams,” I mutter. “You’ve survived worse. Shootouts. Ex-wives. Preschool dance recitals. You can survive falling in-”

I cut myself off.

Nope.

Not saying that.

Not even in an empty room.

Instead, I push myself off the couch, stretch carefully, and shuffle to the sink to rinse Grace’s glass. My body hurts, but it’s manageable. Familiar. Like pain with a purpose.

The sunlight outside shifts just slightly, warmer now. I glance through the kitchen window and catch a glint of motion.

A dark truck pulling into the driveway. Tires crunch over gravel. Heat shimmers off the hood.

Steve’s home.

He’s home. Thank God.

Midday like clockwork. The rhythm of a man who lives on schedules and muscle memory.

I stay where I am, one hand braced on the counter.

Don’t move. Don’t run to the door like some eager puppy. You’re not that guy. You’re cool, calm, collected. Except I’m none of those things right now.

Because I don’t know what version of Steve is about to walk through that door.

But I know I’m not the same version of me who watched him leave this morning.

The front door opens with that familiar soft creak, followed by the low thud of boots landing just inside. I don’t turn around yet.

I hear the soft rustle of a plastic bag, the fridge door opening.

“You’re still standing,” he says after a second.

I shrug one shoulder without looking. “It’s part of my recovery regimen. Standing near sinks. Real Olympic stuff.”

Smooth, Danny. Real smooth. Make a joke, keep it light, don’t let him see how much you missed him.

He steps closer. I can feel the floor creak slightly under his weight.

“Team leave?”

“Yeah.” I finally glance over. He’s in a plain T-shirt now, damp at the collar, a sheen of sweat still on his neck like he just finished something physical. His hair’s slightly windblown, and his eyes flick quickly across my face.

God, he looks good. Too good. Sweaty, messy, perfect. Stop staring, Danny. He’s gonna notice. Those eyes. He’s looking for something. What? What does he see?

He nods once. “Grace okay?”

“She was perfect,” I say quietly. “Asked if we were fighting.”

He doesn’t react. Just closes the fridge door and tosses a bottle of water my way. I catch it one-handed, wincing a little as it jostles my ribs.

Nice catch. Ow. Okay, bad idea. But he’s looking at me like he’s proud. Or worried. Or both. Stop looking at me, Steve.

“Are we?” he asks then, with that maddening calm.

I uncap the bottle. Take a slow sip. “No. Not exactly. Just…” I search for a word that doesn’t make me sound like a guy spiraling over one dream and a kiss. “Weird.”

Steve nods like that’s fair. “Weird’s better than silent.”

He leans against the kitchen counter across from me. His arms cross over his chest, veins visible, and I force myself not to track the movement too long.

“Did they bring food again?” he asks.

“Yeah. Banana bread and unsolicited wisdom.”

His mouth quirks. “Grace?”

“She said I should tell you I miss you.”

His brow lifts, just a fraction. “And do you?”

Do I? God, Steve, you know I do. You know I missed you the second you walked out that door. But saying it feels like jumping off a cliff.

I look at him, heart thudding. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t press. Just waits.

I set the water down on the counter, exhale slowly, and shrug. “I think you already know the answer.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just studies me. Then:

“You look tired.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Couch or lanai?”

“You offering a nap menu now?”

“I’m offering options.”

I look down, the tension in my shoulders heavier than it should be.

“I’ll stay inside for now. It’s cooler.”

He nods, pushes off the counter, and crosses to me. “You want help getting back to the couch?”

I hesitate.

But I want him to. I want his hands on me, even if it’s just to help me walk ten steps. I’m so screwed.

And then: “Yeah. But don’t make it weird.”

He doesn’t. He slides one arm gently behind my back, the other steadying me at the elbow.

When I lower onto the cushions again, he pauses and adjusts the pillow behind me.

Our eyes meet.

Too close.

Too quiet.

“Thanks,” I say, throat dry.

Steve straightens, but doesn’t step away. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie again.

I’m not good. I’m the opposite of good. I’m a mess, and you’re the reason, and I don’t know how to tell you that without ruining everything. So I lie, because it’s easier.

He watches me a second longer. Then nods, finally stepping back.

But not far.

Steve lingers in the room, moving toward the kitchen like he’s got a purpose, but I can tell he’s just filling space. The clink of a glass, the soft thud of a cabinet door. I hear him pour water, maybe for himself, maybe just to have something to do. My eyes drift to the coffee table, where Grace’s drawing is still folded, the edge of a heart peeking out. I don’t reach for it. Don’t want to see those stick figures again, not right now.

The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but not easy either. I shift slightly, trying to ease the ache in my ribs, but the movement pulls a sharp twinge, and I hiss under my breath. Steve’s head snaps up from the kitchen.

“You alright?” he calls, already halfway back toward me.

“Fine,” I mutter, waving him off. “Just… gravity being a jerk.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches, and he stays where he is, leaning against the doorway now, arms crossed again. Watching. Always watching.

“Stop staring,” I say, not looking at him. “It’s creepy.”

“Checking for signs of life,” he shoots back. Just that quiet steadiness that makes my chest ache for reasons I don’t want to name.

I roll my eyes, but it’s half-hearted. My fingers tap against the couch armrest, restless. I should say something to fill this gap, but every word I reach for feels too heavy, too close to the truth. So I just sit there, listening to the hum of the fridge, the distant waves through the open lanai door, and the faint creak of the floor as Steve shifts his weight.

He moves again, this time to the side table, picking up his book like he’s actually going to read it. But he doesn’t open it. Just holds it, thumb brushing the spine, and I know he’s waiting for me to give him a reason to stay close. Or maybe a reason to leave the room. I don’t know which one I want to give him.

“You gonna stand there all day?” I finally ask.

He glances over, one eyebrow raised. “You got a better idea?”

I don’t. And that’s the problem. I shrug, wincing again, and his eyes narrow. I hate how exposed it makes me feel, like he’s peeling back layers I’ve spent years nailing down.

“Go do something useful,” I mutter. “Like… I don’t know, mow the lawn. Save a turtle. Whatever you do when you’re not hovering.”

He snorts, soft and low, and sets the book down. “You’d miss me if I left.”

“Debatable,” I say, but the words lack heat, and we both know it.

He doesn’t push back. Just nods once, like he’s filing that away, and heads toward the lanai door. “I’ll be outside. Yell if you need me.”

The screen door clicks shut behind him, and the room feels bigger. Emptier. I exhale, slow and shaky, and let my head tip back against the couch. The fan spins overhead, stirring the air, but it doesn’t touch the weight in my chest. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the noise in my head, but it’s louder now without him here to drown it out.

Why does it hurt this much?

I don’t know how long I sit like that, caught in a loop of half-formed thoughts. The dream from last night keeps creeping back, fragments of Steve’s voice, his hands, the way it felt like everything made sense for once. But it’s tangled up with reality now, his arm around me this morning, the way he looked at me in the kitchen, the words Grace said about missing him. It’s too much, and I don’t have the energy to sort it out.

The sound of a lawnmower starting up outside pulls me back. Steve, probably. Doing something useful, like I told him to. I can picture him out there, shirt sticking to his back, focused in that way he gets when he’s working with his hands. It’s a distraction, but not the kind I need. My fingers curl into the blanket draped over my lap, and I force myself to breathe deep, even though it pulls at my ribs.

How does he do it? How does he just… keep going, like none of this is eating him alive? Or maybe it is, and he’s just better at hiding it. God, I hope he’s as messed up as I am. That’s awful, isn’t it? Wanting him to hurt like I’m hurting.

I reach for the water bottle he tossed me earlier, still sitting on the coffee table. The plastic’s cool against my palm, grounding me for a second. I take a sip, then another, trying to focus on the simple act of drinking, but my mind keeps drifting. To Steve. To the team. To the way this house feels like it’s holding its breath, just like me.

The lawnmower cuts off abruptly, and the silence rushes back in. I strain to hear something, footsteps, a voice, anything, but there’s nothing. Just the waves and the fan and my own pulse, too loud in my ears. I set the bottle down, my hand shaking just enough to notice, and I curse under my breath. I’m not this guy. I don’t fall apart over a quiet room or a guy who’s ten feet away. But here I am, unraveling anyway.

Silence. I hate it. It’s too loud, too empty. Where is he?

I glance toward the lanai door, half-expecting Steve to walk back in, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s giving me space, like I asked. Like I always ask, even when I don’t mean it. I don’t want space. I want him here. I want him close. I rub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble, the tension in my jaw, and I wonder how long I can keep pretending I’m fine before it all spills out.

But I hear his steps again. “Hey.”

Jesus, you scared me. How do you do that? Sneak up like a damn ninja? I’m gonna have a heart attack one of these days.

I look up.

Steve stands there, sunglasses perched in his hair. Sunlight hits the sweat at his collarbone. His shirt clings in the middle, darkened from yardwork. His forearms are bare, tensed, veins standing out like he’s been gripping something hard. His boots are dusted with grass clippings, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his wrist. He’s real, solid, and too close to the version of him that’s been haunting my head all day.

God.

“You okay?” he asks, already halfway toward me.

Okay? No, I’m not okay. I can’t tell you how much it hurts to look at you right now, how much I want to reach out and hold onto you like you’re the only thing keeping me together.

I shrug one shoulder. It hurts. I flinch.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Sit still,” he murmurs, already putting down the sunglasses.

I try to look at anything but him. The table. The mango slices. The blanket. But my body has a different agenda. My whole nervous system fires up just from proximity. The same one that’s been betraying me since I woke up with his mouth on my cheek and the taste of him still ghosting my tongue.

He crouches down in front of me, palms braced on his thighs.

“You tired?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

Because tired isn’t the word. Not even close.

I’m vibrating. Restless. My skin doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like it’s been rewired to respond to him.

“You didn’t eat enough,” he adds lower now. “Want me to make you something else?”

“You’re always making something,” I mutter. “Toast, eggs, mango… I’m eating it, you know.”

His mouth quirks, a faint spark in his eyes. “Yeah, noticed the plates are cleaner than my truck. Just checking if you’re still hungry.”

I let out a weak snort, and it pulls a ghost of a smile from him. But it fades quickly.

His eyes flick across my face, then lower.

“I should’ve stayed,” he says suddenly. “After I helped you to the couch.”

“Why?”

“So you wouldn’t overthink everything.”

“Too late.”

Too late. Story of my life. I’m always too late to figure this stuff out. Too late to stop myself from falling. Too late to keep you from seeing it.

He shifts, one hand lifting, not to touch but hovering. Maybe he wants to reach for my knee, or my side, or the place just under my ribs that still aches when I laugh. And then he lowers it again, his fist clenching briefly before relaxing. The movement is small, but it’s enough to make my chest tighten. He’s holding back. Why? Does he know? Does he feel it too? That pull? That need? Or is he just being careful because I’m a mess?

“Danny…”

My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “I’m not okay.”

“I know.”

“You don’t. You don’t know what’s going on in my head.”

“Then tell me.”

I meet his eyes. They’re soft. Open.

I shake my head, eyes falling to his damp in the middle, stretched across his chest shirt.

“I don’t have the words,” I mutter. “It’s all just... noise.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t press. Just shifts forward, one knee on the floor now, his arm resting on the side of the couch. His presence is solid, grounding, but it’s also unraveling me, pulling at threads I’ve spent years tying down. “I’m tired,” I add, quieter. “But not the kind sleep fixes.”

His hand settles lightly over my shin, warm through the blanket.

I don’t move away.

The silence between us isn’t tense now. It’s thick, soft around the edges. He waits, like he always does when it matters, his eyes never leaving my face. I can feel them, even when I’m staring at the blanket, at the faint crease where his hand rests.

“I keep… replaying things,” I admit. “Moments. Sounds. You walking away.”

It’s like a loop in my head. You leaving this morning, you leaving last night, you leaving every time I push you away. I hate how much it hurts, how much I need you to stay.

His thumb brushes once over the edge of the blanket.

“And then that dream last night,” I go on, “it just-”

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying to keep it together. “It rewrote it. And it felt better.”

“I know which version I wanted too,” Steve says quietly.

That almost breaks me.

I shift, just slightly, leaning forward until my elbow brushes his arm. He’s still here. He didn’t pull back. That’s something, right? That’s everything. I need him closer. I need him to stay.

“You ever feel like your body remembers stuff before your brain does?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

But he gives me one anyway.

“Every time I wake up sweating,” he says. “Every time I walk into a room and forget why, but my heart’s already racing.”

I let out something between a breath and a laugh.

“Yeah. That.”

He glances at me, and it’s not a look asking for permission, but it’s not assuming either. Then he reaches up, and cups the side of my neck. His palm is warm, calloused from years of handling weapons and ropes and steering wheels. His fingers spread, resting just below my jaw, and my whole body reacts like it’s been waiting for that exact contact. My pulse jumps under his thumb, and I know he feels it, but he doesn’t say anything. Just holds me there, steady, like he’s trying to pull me back from the edge of whatever cliff I’m teetering on. And something inside me quiets. Not all of it. But enough.

I close my eyes, exhale through my nose, and let myself lean into his hand. The pressure of his palm is grounding, real, and for the first time all day, I feel like I’m not about to shatter.

“Don’t let go yet,” I murmur.

Don’t let go. Please. I need you here. I need you to keep me together, because I can’t do it alone.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says.

His palm is still there, thumb brushing absent circles just under my jaw. I don’t know how long we stay like that. A minute? Two? Long enough for my body to forget the stiffness in my ribs and remember how it feels to soften into something. Long enough for the noise in my head to dull.

I lean forward. Just enough for my forehead to rest against his shoulder. His shirt is soft from the sun, faintly damp, and smells like outside.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even shift. Just lets me be there, his hand sliding from my neck to my upper back, slow and careful, fingers splayed wide across the cotton of my shirt.

My cheek presses against him now, the fabric of his shirt warm against my skin. I feel his breath change, a slight hitch, then it evens out, steady again. His arm curls around me enough to hold me in place, enough to make me feel like I’m not about to drift away. My ribs protest, a dull ache that flares with every inhale, but it’s drowned out by the rhythm of his breathing, the faint thump of his pulse where my temple rests against his shoulder.

The whole house is quiet. No footsteps, no voices. Just the hum of the fan and the open window letting in the distant push of waves. It’s too early in the day for stillness like this, but here we are. Caught in it like it chose us.

Steve shifts eventually, not to pull away but to adjust, his arm settling more fully around my waist now, anchoring us both where we sit on the couch. His thumb strokes the back of my shoulder. His other hand rests on his knee, fingers loose.

I don’t know what this is. A pause. A moment where I’m not okay and he’s okay with that makes it enough. My head’s still a mess, thoughts circling like sharks, but they’re farther out now, less likely to bite. My body’s heavy, bruised and aching, but it’s also warm, grounded by the weight of his arm, the rise and fall of his chest. I think this is the second time today I’ve felt like I might actually be okay.

So I breathe.

And stay.

[bertolio]

Why does Merlin look so beautiful in season 5? Even more so than the previous seasons

1. Buff (seriously how dare they not let us see more of this than the short clips we get with his jacket off and sleeves rolled)

2. He always has this sort of rosy blushing cheeks on him

[bertolio]

so i missed deancas day but i’m making it up with some Parks and SPN

also did you guys notice that cas totally deflected this:

with “HMM MAYBE HE’S YOUR BOYFRIEND? SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT I SUPPOSE”

[bertolio]

I don’t know if we ever hang it up in Supernatural.

[bertolio]

this isn't even every time he's done this. he can't keep getting away with it... [x], [x], [x]

[bertolio]

Hello, Dean...

(but make it in 2025)

[bertolio]

to turn that into a tv show together.

[bertolio]

dean leans over and starts kissing cas.

[bertolio]

[bertolio]

the best thing about stiles’ reaction once he recognizes derek is scott is all like ‘u ok brother u need me to pick up ur jaw for u come on man get it together”

[bertolio]

was going somewhere with this but now i have no idea

i like to pretend that when Stiles can’t see his face Derek makes less of an effort to hide his contentment.

[bertolio]

[bertolio]

(x)

[bertolio]

[bertolio]

[bertolio]

[bertolio]