foldingpaperplanes

[foldingpaperplanes]

What Holds and What Breaks -- (Rhett Abbott/Reader)

Chapter 6

Word Count 7.8k (this got away from me)

Warnings: Sex, Fluffy.

Author Note: I hope you guys like this chapter as much as I struggled to write it. 🫣

The gravel crunches under your tires as you pull up the long drive, dust trailing behind the truck in lazy swirls. It’s warmer today—sun already pressing down by mid-morning—and the air smells faintly of hay and soil, the way it always does out here. You spot Rhett before you even kill the engine. He’s on the porch, half-seated on the top step like he couldn’t decide whether he was waiting or just too tired to stand.

His arm’s still in a sling, but he lifts his good hand in a small wave when you step out. He’s holding a mug, mostly full, long gone cold from the look of it. There’s stubble along his jaw, darker than usual. The shadow of bruising under his eye is deep purple now, the skin around it puffy but healing.

You let the door close softly behind you and start toward him.

He watches you the whole way, eyes steady. You don’t smile, not right away. You just take him in.

“You showed up,” he says, voice low, rough from the morning or maybe sleep.

You pause a few steps from the porch. “I said I would.”

There’s a pause before he answers. “Still didn’t think you would.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. You look at the mug in his hand. “How long you been sittin’ out here?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. “Little while.”

You raise your eyebrows. “And by ‘little,’ you mean...?”

He gives you a sheepish smile and looks down into the cup. “Let’s just say the coffee’s not hot anymore.”

You walk up the steps and ease the mug from his hand, give it a sniff. “This is sludge.”

“It was fine an hour ago.”

“You should’ve waited inside.”

“And miss the chance to see you walking up that drive?” he says it lightly, but his eyes don’t flinch from yours.

Your cheeks warm, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you hand the mug back. “You always this charming before noon?”

“Only when I’m injured.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on. Show me what you can’t fix with one arm.”

The broken latch on the goat pen is worse than he let on—bent in two spots, the hinge cracked at the base. You crouch to inspect it while he stands off to the side, his bad arm tucked against his ribs. The silence between you isn’t heavy—it’s familiar now, comfortable in a way that once would’ve rattled you. 

“You could’ve called Perry,” you say, not looking up.

Rhett snorts. “He’d’ve said I deserved all this.”

You smirk. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

He makes a show of being offended, hand to his chest like you wounded him deeper than the wreck. You glance up just in time to catch the look—half play, half admiration.

“Figured you’d say that,” he mutters.

“You always this stubborn about helping people?” he asks, leaning on the barn post.

“Only the ones who pretend they don’t need it," you reply, shaking your head with a chuckle as you reach for his tools. “Hold this steady.”

Your hands brush when he leans close. He smells like cedar, like dust and coffee, and something that makes your throat tighten a little.

The repair takes longer than it should because you keep glancing up and finding him watching you. Not like he’s waiting for you to finish—but like he’s just… appreciating something. You let it slide.

You fall into a rhythm after that. Moving from the pen to the barn, feeding the goats, checking on a stubborn latch near the storage shed that never quite shuts right. Rhett can’t do much with one arm, but he keeps close—handing you tools, steadying things when you need both hands. You don’t need to ask. He just knows. That startles you a little.

Midway through tossing hay, you stop to swipe sweat from your temple. Rhett offers you a thermos he brought out from the house.

“Still cold,” he promises, brushing your fingers as he passes it to you.

You take a long drink, then glance at him. “You always this bad at sittin’ still?”

“Only when someone’s watchin’.”

You arch a brow. “And when they’re not?”

He grins. “Still pretty bad.”

There’s laughter in your throat before you can stop it. Something light and effortless that catches you off guard.

You step back after the last flake of hay is tossed. The barn is quiet, warm, and golden with sunlight. You lean against the doorframe, breathing deep.

Rhett doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corner of his mouth curling like he’s memorizing something. Then softly:

“I like having you here.”

The words settle in your chest like they belong there. You meet his gaze and don’t look away.

You don’t say anything yet. Just nod—slow, steady. “Yeah. Me too.”

And you mean it. Maybe more than you thought.

By the time the sun dipped lower, they’d gotten more done than either expected. The horses had been seen to, the barn swept out, feedbags restocked, and fences walked. His pace had slowed near the end, and though he wouldn’t say it, you knew he was hurting. Still, he refused to sit down until the tools were packed away and the chores were truly done.

Now, the air’s gone soft around the edges, tinted golden and lazy. You sit on the tailgate of your truck, legs swinging lightly, sweat-damp hair pulled off your neck. Rhett leans against the fence across from you, a water bottle pressed to his temple before he tips it back and drinks. 

Neither of you speaks at first. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It settles in, stretches out like it belongs there.

You watch the way his gaze tracks the horizon, how the bruising around his eyes deepened into something more purple than red. His sling’s slightly askew now. You almost say something about it, but hold your tongue.

“I didn’t realize,” you say instead, quiet but sure, “how scared I was. Not really. Not until after.”

He looks at you then. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t smile. Just listens.

“Wasn’t until I got home,” you go on, “and took the dogs out, and sat down like normal… and it hit me. You could’ve died. And I wouldn’t’ve known until someone thought to tell me.”

Rhett shifts, his boot scuffing gravel. He pushes away from the fence slowly, crosses the short distance between you until he’s close, but not touching.

“I didn’t think at all,” he murmurs. “Just pulled my phone out and called you. It didn’t even cross my mind to call anyone else.”

The way he says it—like it’s just a fact—punches a breath from your chest.

He drops his gaze to the grass. Kicks at a weed with the toe of his boot.

He huffs a quiet breath, shakes his head like he’s laughing at himself.

“Should’ve put a hat on,” he mutters, swiping at his brow.

“Are you saying I wore you out?”

You mean it playfully, but his gaze lifts—slow, steady.

“Maybe a little,” he says, voice low, half a smile playing at his mouth. He pauses for a moment. “Could get used to that, though.”

The way he says it—soft, offhand, but full of something he’s not naming—makes your stomach pull tight. You look away before it shows on your face.

“I think I’ve been fallin’ for you for a while now.” He says it low, rough—like those words have been waiting a long time to get out.

You don’t answer right away.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the tailgate, throat knotting. He looks away, maybe giving you space, or maybe because he’s scared too.

After a moment, you finally say, voice soft, careful, “I know.”

He looks back, eyes searching, uncertain.

You don’t move closer. Don’t reach out. But your voice holds something real—something he needs to hear.

“It’s... more than I thought it was, too.”

The words aren’t a promise. Not a confession. But they’re there, honest and raw between you.

His gaze lingers, warm and steady.

You hold the moment—fragile, quiet.

Not breaking.

Not quite.

Just... opening.

You don’t head straight home. You don't even consider it.

He doesn’t ask you to stay, not with words—but when he lifts the cooler of water bottles from the truck bed and brushes his good arm past yours, you follow him without thinking. The back door creaks open like it’s used to the sound of you now, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like you’re entering someone else’s space.

It just feels... easy.

Inside, Rhett sets the cooler down with a quiet grunt. You slide out of your boots by the door and glance toward the kitchen, where the light is low and the stove still looks unused.

He moves slowly—favoring his good side as he pulls open the pantry and starts gathering things. A box of noodles. A jar of sauce. You cock a brow when he grabs the pasta.

“You planning on cooking that one-handed?” you ask, amused.

He shrugs, trying to look confident. “How hard can it be?”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Want me to get the fire extinguisher ready?”

He grins, and it's this lopsided thing that makes your stomach do something ridiculous.

He fills a pot with water, but you end up turning the burner on for him, and by the time the noodles are boiling, he’s already leaning against the wall like he’s run a mile. You wordlessly nudge him out of the way with your hip and take over.

“I had it,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Just saving your pride and dinner.”

You cook like you’ve done it there before—quiet, efficient, in rhythm with the space. He keeps stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking. You catch one and smirk.

“Something on my face?”

He shakes his head slowly, but doesn’t answer. You feel the burn of his eyes even after he looks away.

Dinner ends up simple—just spaghetti and garlic bread you find in his freezer. He insists on setting the table, awkward with one hand but stubborn about it. When you finally sit down across from each other, plates full and steam rising, it feels like a shift. A shared ritual.

You eat. Talk softly. Laugh once or twice—small things, like when he nearly drops his fork trying to twirl noodles.

After the dishes are rinsed and stacked, you trail behind him into the living room. The dogs have settled. Yours are curled on the rug, looking comfortable enough to claim the space. He nudges Scout gently with his foot when he goes to sit on the couch, and to your surprise, Scout only grumbles.

You stay standing.

His eyes flick to yours. “You okay?”

You nod slowly. Then smile—something faint but real. “You look like hell, Rhett.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”

You take a small step closer. “You know,” you say lightly, fingers trailing over the back of a chair, “your clothes are filthy. I could wash them for you…”

His brow arches.

“…but I was thinking maybe you just take ‘em off instead.”

The silence that follows stretches—electric and soft at the same time.

He watches you like he’s trying to read between the lines, to be sure you mean what you’re saying.

When you don’t back down, when the intent in your voice stays steady and calm, looking at him with a soft but determined look, he stands. Quietly. Then nods his head toward the hallway.

“Come on, then.”

Before you follow, you look to the dogs—Scout’s watching with his judgmental eyes, Juniper still snoring.

“Stay,” you tell them. Your voice is low. Firm.

Then you cross the room, and he meets you halfway.

He doesn’t touch you until you’re inside the bedroom and the door closes behind you.

The bedroom is quiet, the door clicking shut behind you like the softest punctuation. He doesn’t turn around right away. Just stands there, as if absorbing the weight of what this means—of you, in this room, by choice.

When he finally faces you, there’s something in his expression that halts your breath. Not doubt. Not hesitation. Something more fragile. More real. A kind of reverence, mixed with a flicker of nervousness, like neither of you quite knows exactly where this will go, but both want it to mean something.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low and careful, like speaking too loud might wake him from something he hasn’t dared hope for.

You nod once. “I’ve been sure.”

That’s all it takes.

He closes the distance slowly, like he's afraid to startle you—but not because he thinks you'll bolt. Because it feels sacred. Your hands meet first, fingertips brushing as if reacquainting after a lifetime apart. Then his palm slides to your waist, warm and grounding, and the heat of his body surrounds you.

You lean into him, and the contact is everything—his chest against yours, your thighs brushing, the weight of this moment balancing on the edge of something that could tip either way.

His kiss is soft. Not unsure—just slow, like he’s tasting the idea of you. When your mouth opens beneath his, it’s gentle. You sigh into him, and the sound makes his hand tighten at your waist just slightly. Not possessive. Anchoring.

But beneath it all, there’s that little flutter in your chest—part hope, part fear, part wanting to lean in and part wanting to hold back, just a little longer.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, your fingers gentle as you drag the fabric up over his ribs. He lifts one arm slower than the other, the movement careful, tight. You help him ease it off, your hand brushing over bruised skin—faint shades of yellow and blue fading like a dawn sky. You pause, your palm lingering there, tracing the story written on him.

“This okay?” you murmur.

His eyes stay locked on yours. “Yeah. You… feel good.”

Your own shirt follows, sliding away in quiet rhythm. The silence that settles between you thickens—heavy with meaning. He looks at you as if you’re a half-remembered dream made real in daylight, like you might vanish if he blinks.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he breathes, almost to himself.

Behind him, the bed waits, and you nudge him gently in that direction. He sits without protest, his hands finding your hips again. You climb into his lap slowly, feeling the catch in his breath as your thighs settle on either side of him. The tension in his legs beneath yours, the twitch in his jaw—it’s all there, raw and electric.

“I wanted this before I even knew how much I liked you,” you whisper, fingers curling at the back of his neck. “But now…”

Your lips brush his, soft and searching. “Now I want all of you.”

His chest rises under your palm. “Take whatever you want.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time—slow and deliberate. His hand slides up your back, fingers ghosting over your spine until they find the clasp of your bra. They hesitate.

“Want help?” you offer, breathless.

“Only if you’re givin’ it.”

You do.

The moment the fabric slips away, his eyes drop to your chest, and a low, shaky breath escapes him. One hand lifts to touch you—tentative at first, as if he’s afraid he’ll break something fragile.

But when you lean into the touch, his thumb swirls slowly over your nipple. A quiet gasp slips from you, and he closes his eyes, memorizing the sound.

You feel him hard beneath you, heat pressing through denim, matching the wet warmth pooling between your legs.

Still, you take your time.

Your fingers fumble with the button on his jeans, sliding down the zipper with a careful touch that trails along the hard line of him. His jaw tightens, but he stays still, watching you.

When you rise just enough to push your own pants off, he tries to help despite the awkward angle and the limitation of one good arm.

Eventually, all the clothes are gone—gone like the walls between you. His bare skin presses under your thighs and between your legs, making your breath catch.

You lower yourself over him slowly.

The stretch is perfect—familiar and new, a delicate balance of give and take. His hands grip your hips with just enough pressure to keep you steady, not enough to guide.

He groans deep and broken. “God, you feel—”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know.”

For a moment, you stay still—just breathing, feeling.

The warmth of his chest beneath your palms. The rough stubble against your jaw as he leans forward, kissing your shoulder. The catch in his breath every time your body shifts.

Then you begin to move.

The first slow roll of your hips draws a low, steady exhale. You repeat it, slower this time, feeling every nuance—the way his fingers flex, the way his head falls back.

You set the pace: slow, steady, deliberate. The rhythm builds gradually as you grind and sink deeper, exploring and savoring.

His hand slides up your spine again, around to your breast. You gasp as his thumb circles your nipple, and his groan matches yours—a low, aching sound that vibrates between you.

“You’re killin’ me,” he murmurs, voice thick with wanting. “Feelin’ you like this… lookin’ at you…”

Words trail off as your lips find his, deep and hungry. Your fingers twist in his hair, tightening their grip as your body clenches and releases around him.

“I’m close,” you breathe, forehead resting against his.

“Yeah,” he whispers, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’ve got you. Just let it happen, sweetheart. You’re doin’ so good.”

His voice is a warm anchor, steady and coaxing.

“Feel how tight you’re gettin’ for me?” he breathes, lips near your ear. “That’s it. Just like that. Let go, darlin’. I’m right here.”

You do, and the wave crashes over you slowly—warm, deep, shaking. You grind through it, burying your face in his neck, every muscle tightening, then softening.

But it doesn’t end there.

You stay connected, riding the aftershocks. His hands explore you anew, holding and coaxing. Your movements slow again, savoring the heat lingering between you.

The dance stretches—moments of stillness, breath mingling, whispered names, fingers tracing skin.

He groans your name, ragged and desperate. “Jesus—you feel so good… been holdin’ on, tryin’ to wait…”

With renewed urgency, he moves again, deep and steady. You match him, the rhythm slow but insistent, building and falling in waves.

His hands grip your waist tighter as he nears his edge. The shudder that ripples through him is full-body, desperate, aching.

He spills into you with a low, trembling sound, buried deep beneath your weight.

You hold each other through the quiet aftermath, hearts pounding, breaths mingling in the stillness of the room.

Still wrapped around him, legs trembling, your chest rising and falling against his. Your hands rest against his sternum, fingers splayed wide, feeling the steady pound of his heart under your palm—like it’s trying to speak for him, too full for words.

Neither of you moves at first. You just breathe. Let the weight of what happened settle between you—warm and grounding, and so deeply felt it almost aches.

But eventually, your legs start to shake with the lingering tension, and you shift to ease the pressure. His hands flex instinctively at your hips, thumbs brushing soothing circles into your skin, but he doesn’t try to stop you.

You lift, slow and careful, and the moment his body slips from yours, you both feel it. The stretch, the absence, the sudden vulnerable edge of it. It’s not just physical—it’s emotional, too. Like something inside you tugged loose. You make a soft sound in your throat without meaning to, and his breath catches sharply in response, jaw tightening as if the loss pulls at him just the same.

He watches you with a look that’s too open, too raw—like he’s afraid to speak in case it breaks the spell.

You don’t say anything either. You just press your palm to his chest again, grounding yourself in the warmth of his skin, the sweat still cooling there, the soft rise and fall of him beneath you.

“You okay?” he asks finally, voice roughened and low, wrecked in a way that makes your chest pull tight.

You nod, lips parting into a slow, tired smile. “I’m more than okay.”

“Yeah?” His thumb strokes a soft, absent line over your hipbone, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.

“I just…” You pause, eyes tracing the curve of his jaw, the mess of curls damp at his temple, the way his gaze never leaves yours. “I like what I’m looking at.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him—barely there, but real. His grin is lopsided, unguarded, and it does something warm to your insides. You lean down and kiss him again—slow and deep, mouths meeting with that same lazy hunger, the kind that doesn’t need to lead anywhere. It’s enough to stay close.

Then, reluctantly, you shift, your limbs heavy and sated. He helps guide you down beside him, and you curl into the curve of his body like you were always meant to fit there. Your head rests against his chest. His arm drapes over your back, palm splayed wide like he’s trying to hold the whole of you in place.

His skin is warm. Yours still hums. And the space between your bodies, though no longer joined, is still full of everything you just shared.

The dogs are somewhere in the house. The night air moves gently through the window. And for the first time in a long while, the quiet doesn't ache. It soothes.

The covers are cool against your skin, but his warmth follows instantly. He turns toward you with a quiet groan, moving slowly and carefully. That shoulder’s still stiff, bruised, but he doesn’t hesitate to reach for you. His arm loops over your waist, hand resting above your navel, and even with the awkward angle, it feels like it’s exactly where it belongs. He exhales when he settles in, chest to your back, skin to skin. The readjustment feels so comfortable for both of you.

You pull his hand up slowly—thread your fingers through his—and press the back of it to your bare chest, over your heart. Just enough pressure to ground you both.

Neither of you speaks.

His thumb moves once. A soft stroke. Like he’s memorizing the rhythm of your pulse.

The room is quiet except for your breathing, the hush of wind outside, the gentle creak of the old bed frame under your combined weight.

Then—

A scratch at the bedroom door. Low, then again, followed by a grumble that’s unmistakably Scout. Juniper's little huff is right behind it.

You wait. Rhett doesn’t move. His thumb stills, and after a moment, he murmurs low against your shoulder, “I’m not gettin’ up.”

You smile. “Me neither.”

There’s another scratch. A low, resigned sigh from Scout.

“They’ll live,” you whisper, feeling his chuckle against your spine. It warms you. Keeps warming you.

“You cold?” he asks after a beat, voice still thick with sleep and something softer.

“No,” you say, turning your face into the pillow. “Not even a little.”

His nose nudges behind your ear. Not a kiss, not quite. Just there. Present. You shift back into him just a little more.

His injured arm lies heavy over you now, but it doesn’t hurt. It anchors. You hold his hand still to your chest, your fingers resting over his knuckles, over the slight tremble in him that’s fading now with each breath.

You don’t want to move. Not yet. Not when everything inside you feels so terribly, beautifully still.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. You don’t count them. Your mind drifts, briefly—back to nights you used to spend twisted in thoughts, alone, feeling too much and showing too little. And now here, now this. The way his breath evens against your shoulder. The way his fingers twitch when you shift, and he thinks you might pull away.

You press his hand more firmly to your chest. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

Another beat. Another shared breath.

“Me too,” he says quietly.

No more words after that. Just the hush of two hearts finding something steady in each other. You close your eyes. He doesn’t let go.

Not even when sleep finally takes you both.

-------

The morning breaks soft and golden through the bedroom curtains, dusting the room in light so warm it clings to your skin like a memory. You’re not fully awake—still drifting somewhere between dreams and the real world—wrapped in the heat of Rhett’s body, your cheek pressed against his bare chest. His skin is warm beneath you, steady and sure, his heartbeat slow, like it’s syncing with yours.

The sheets have twisted low around your hips, one leg tangled with his. His good arm—worn but steady—rests across your lower back, grounding you. The injured one, still healing, lies propped on a pillow beside him. You feel the twitch of his fingers against your spine before his voice breaks the quiet.

“Morning.”

Not loud, barely a breath against your hair. You hum in response, unwilling to move just yet. Your body feels heavy in a way that’s more pleasure than exhaustion, fingertips tracing the curve of his ribs.

He shifts beneath you, pressing a slow kiss to the crown of your head. The scrape of his stubble makes you smile softly, eyes still closed.

“You awake?” he murmurs, voice rough and half-sleep.

“Mhm.” A small sound, barely spoken, lips moving against his skin.

Neither of you says more. No rush—just the warmth between you, the shared silence, and the memory of last night still settling deep in your muscles.

You breathe him in—sun, sweat, something faintly woodsy that lingers on his skin. It’s familiar. Homey. The thought settles in your chest, too tender to speak aloud.

Then the question edges up, quiet and unfiltered, waiting at the back of your throat.

You shift just enough to prop yourself on one elbow, hand trailing over Rhett’s stomach. His skin jumps beneath your touch, like your fingers still catch him off guard.

The room is warm, still, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press. His breathing is easy beside you, and the way he looks at you—half-lidded, still tangled in morning’s hush—pulls your chest tight.

You study his face in the soft light, brushing a loose curl from his forehead. He lets you, doesn’t pull away.

Your voice breaks the stillness, gentle, curious—a question that wasn’t waiting until it rolled off your tongue.

“What even brought you to me, Rhett?”

The words aren’t sharp or demanding, but they hold weight—too much softness to be casual, too much honesty to take back. You watch as they settle over him, a faint crease forming between his brows. It’s hesitation, not confusion—like he’s already wrestling with the answer.

He shifts, breath catching as he looks away, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer a better truth. Then he speaks.

“I dunno,” he says quietly, voice rough. “You just looked... lonely.”

It lands awkwardly.

Not cruel, but enough to make you blink slowly, a subtle tightening behind your eyes. You sit up, tugging the shirt you took from him last night off the floor. The fabric’s warm from the sunbeam, smells like him. You pull it over your shoulders, buttoning a few buttons, letting it settle against bare skin.

You don’t answer immediately—just tilt your head, mouth pressing into a line that’s not quite a frown.

He notices.

His face shifts—immediate, sheepish. “Wait, that ain’t what I meant,” he rushes, sitting up, injured arm careful at his side as he struggles with jeans at the foot of the bed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You watch, amused but tender, as he fumbles, cheeks pink, cursing the stubborn fabric.

You don’t stop him. Just lean back, eyes soft, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Not amusement—affection. The kind you don’t hide anymore.

He catches it, breathes out a little laugh through his nose.

“I meant...” His shoulders sag. He runs a hand over his face. “I meant you looked like you kept everything inside. Like maybe no one’s asked what you needed in a long time.”

That lands truer.

You nod once, quiet. “You could’ve just said that.”

He huffs, eyes down, smile crooked. “Yeah. I know.”

You reach for him, brushing your fingers over his knee near yours.

“Why did you really come around, Rhett?” you ask, softer now.

He pauses, lets the question rest between you before looking up, eyes clearer.

“I never planned for us to get here,” he admits quietly. “I was just tryin’ to be your friend.”

Something about the simple truth strikes deep.

Because it was friendship first—quiet visits, slow glances, showing up when no one else did, asking nothing, giving everything.

Your heart tilts.

“Well,” you say softly, eyes locked on his, “you did a damn good job.”

Faint morning light spilled in from between the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the floor. You hadn’t even realized how long you and Rhett had lingered in the bedroom.

Eventually, Rhett moved toward the door, slow and deliberate, as if every inch of his body still remembered the truck wreck from just days ago. His chest and shoulders were bare, the curve of his collarbone still marked faintly where your mouth had rested. He ran a hand through his messy hair, then glanced back at you with a crooked half-smile.

You wore Rhett’s shirt—the one you’d pulled on this morning—unbuttoned low enough that the edge of your bra peeked out. You hadn’t bothered with pants. Something about walking barefoot through his house, carrying the morning light with you, made your chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the shirt.

The two of you moved in quiet sync, like a hush of routine that hadn’t yet been built but already felt natural. Rhett opened the bedroom door carefully, as if the dogs might come barreling through the second he let them loose.

They didn’t.

Instead, they waited just on the other side. Scout let out a sharp bark that made you wince, while Juniper wiggled happily in place, her tail thumping like a steady drumbeat against the wall.

You crouched down to scratch behind Juniper’s ears. “Alright, alright. Let’s go.”

Rhett opened the front door, letting in a breeze and a line of sunlight across the floorboards. Juniper launched outside, paws skidding across the porch, happy as ever. Scout hung back a moment longer. He looked from Rhett to you, then back again, a low grumble humming in his throat like a motor just short of growling.

Rhett stepped aside, giving him space. “C’mon, I ain’t gonna bite.”

Scout exhaled sharply, like a person sighing with disappointment, and finally lumbered past him. His shoulder brushed Rhett’s leg as he passed, deliberate.

You watched, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed under your chest. “He’s trying,” you murmured. “In his own grumpy way.”

Rhett shut the door gently. “You think he’ll ever stop hatin’ me?”

You smiled a little, not quite laughing. “He doesn’t hate you. He just… doesn’t trust you yet.”

“That better or worse?” Rhett asked, turning to you with a half-joking edge, though something in his eyes stayed sincere.

You glanced down at the floor, then stepped closer. “Scout’s been like that since…” Your words faltered, unsure if you wanted to go there this morning. You picked at the cuff of Rhett’s shirt. “He learned to be protective. I let him. I needed it.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

You looked up at him. “But I think… I think he’s starting to realize things are different now.” A breath passed between you. “I’m different now.”

Rhett nodded slowly, his expression quiet. You could tell he wasn’t sure how to move in moments like this—but the way he looked at you said enough.

Your voice dropped, soft and certain. “Hopefully, Scout figures it out soon. ‘Cause I don’t plan on letting you go.”

That got to him. You saw it in the way his shoulders dropped just a little—like the tension he didn’t know he was carrying finally eased. His mouth tugged up, and his hand reached for your hip with a gravity he hadn’t let himself show before. Not fully.

“You sure about that?” he asked, low, voice rough with emotion masked as teasing

You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Positive."

The morning light drifts softly through the kitchen window, warm and golden as it stretches across the worn tile and scratched wood countertops. The air smells like coffee and a little like last night—something shared and lingering, quiet in the way it hangs between two people who haven’t quite put their armor back on.

You lean against the counter, both hands curled around a coffee mug that’s too big for your grip. Rhett’s shirt still hangs loose on your frame, brushing against your thighs when you shift. Across the kitchen, Rhett is shirtless in his jeans, hair mussed, stubble catching the sunlight, his injured arm still held careful and close to his side.

“You were gonna burn the whole house down,” you say, nodding toward the stove—the scene of last night’s nearly disastrous late-night dinner attempt.

He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “I would’ve had it under control.”

“You had out a slotted spatula for the noodles.”

“I said I had it under control.”

You lift your coffee to your mouth, trying to hide the grin that’s already breaking through. “You had it under something.”

Whatever he’s pretending to do gets abandoned—he was mostly just watching you sip coffee and breathe in his space anyway. “Alright, that’s it,” he mutters, and starts toward you with that slow, deliberate cowboy stride that makes your stomach flutter.

You squint, suspicious. “What—”

Too late. His good hand finds your waist, fingers pressing just enough to tickle. You yelp and jerk sideways, almost spilling your coffee as you dissolve into laughter.

“Rhett—Rhett, stop!” you gasp, twisting in place, but he’s relentless in that soft, teasing way. His grin widens as you try to bat him away, laugh curling up out of you loud and unguarded.

“You think you can sass a one-armed man and not get payback?”

You try to flee, still laughing, but he catches you again—this time with more steadiness. One arm wrapping gently, the other braced to anchor him close. Then the movement stills.

You’re both breathless. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and suddenly the air between you changes. The laughter fades, not awkwardly—just naturally—replaced by something quieter, something steadier.

His eyes roam your face, still flushed from laughter. You’re still smiling, your hands resting lightly on his bare shoulders. Then, without warning, he lifts you—easy, like it’s muscle memory now—and sets you on the counter. He winces slightly in pain, but hides it well.

Your breath catches. Not from surprise—just from how familiar it feels. His hands rest on the edge beside your legs, not touching, just there. The denim of his jeans brushes your inner thighs where your knees part slightly. Eye-level now.

He looks down, then back up at you, jaw shifting as he swallows. When he speaks, his voice is soft—like the words have been waiting for the right moment to land.

“I really feel somethin’ with you,” he says. “I mean it.”

No rush. No angle. Just a truth laid gently between you.

Your breath steadies, and your gaze doesn’t waver. “I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

Then his mouth meets yours.

It’s slow. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that feels like an answer to something neither of you dared to ask out loud. His hands stay right where they were—one braced for balance, the other hovering close—while he leans into you like you’re the thing holding him up now.

Your fingers slide into his hair, drawing him in deeper, the kiss swelling between you—not urgent, just full. Of everything unsaid. Everything safe now.

When you part, foreheads meet gently, breath shared between you. He exhales a quiet, almost-laugh. And you stay like that, legs around his hips, hands in his hair, the kitchen quiet but for your breathing.

You don’t say anything else.

You don’t need to.

----

The kitchen is still dim with morning light, filtered soft through the curtains. No rush. No noise. Just the faint hiss and pop of the skillet, the scent of butter warming in the pan. You’re barefoot, wearing only Rhett’s shirt from the night before—soft cotton brushing your thighs, carrying traces of him: smoke, skin, and something warmer beneath it.

Rhett stands beside you, shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips. A fresh bandage wraps around the bruised stretch of his ribs. He’s trying to crack eggs one-handed, muttering when one slips and shatters against the counter.

You smother a laugh, reaching for a towel. “You’re gonna make more mess than breakfast.”

He turns toward you, smirking. His eyes are still heavy from sleep, but softened by something else—something that stayed with him from the night before. “That’s why you’re here, right? Keep me from starvin’.”

“You’re lucky I know how to make grits.”

Rhett leans a hip against the counter, watching you stir them slow in the pot. “Lucky ain’t the word I’d use.”

The banter hums low between you—familiar, effortless now. The night clings to your skin, not just the way he touched you, but the way he looked at you after—like he didn’t want to look anywhere else.

You butter the toast, finish the grits. He flips the bacon with a spatula, still working clumsily, still refusing help. You could take over, sure. But you don’t. You’ve learned he’s proud. And you’ve come to like that about him.

“Your mom really burn toast that bad?” you ask, half-teasing.

Rhett chuckles, shaking his head. “Every time. Grew up thinkin’ blackened was a flavor.”

You grin, genuinely. “My mom used to forget it entirely. We’d find it in the oven hours later, cold as stone.”

That gets a full laugh out of him. He glances sideways at you. “Guess we’re lucky we survived childhood.”

There’s a lull as you plate everything side by side. The air smells like salt and butter and something sweeter beneath it—maybe comfort. Maybe home.

You sit at the small table, legs brushing beneath it. You eat quietly for a few minutes, letting the warmth settle around you. Then Rhett sets his fork down and nods toward the open back door, where sunlight spills across the porch and the fields beyond.

You slide the toast onto a plate, glance out the kitchen window. Juniper’s in the yard, chasing a butterfly. Scout watches from the steps, still alert, but settled.

Rhett leans back against the counter, biting into a strip of bacon. His eyes track past the dogs, toward the open space beyond the fence. “You ever think about raisin’ a kid out here? On land like this? Or would you rather raise one in the city?”

You pause, surprised by the question. “Sometimes. I mean… it’s quiet. Simple. But it’s a lot of work. And I don’t know if I’d want to do it alone.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. I used to think about it. Still do. But sometimes I wonder if it’d be better to take ’em somewhere else. Give ’em more. You know—options. People.”

You stir the last of the grits, thinking. “I get that. There’s a part of me that wants that, too. But this place... there’s something about it. It settles me. It feels like home.”

Rhett looks at you, gaze steady. “Maybe that’s what matters most.”

You reach for your coffee. It’s gone cold, but you sip it anyway.

He watches you. “What?”

You smile, just a little. “Nothing. Just didn’t expect this morning to feel so… easy.”

“Easy’s good,” he says.

“Yeah.” You glance at him, voice softer. “It is.”

The dogs bark faintly outside, chasing something invisible in the tall grass. But inside, everything is slow and still. The quiet isn’t awkward anymore. The warmth between you isn’t hesitant.

It’s beginning to feel like something you could live with.

The sun climbs higher, casting the ranch in a warm, steady glow as the two of you move through the morning chores. Rhett favors his injured side—his steps careful, measured. The way he shifts his weight tells you the ache is still there, deep beneath the surface. You walk beside him, steady and close, passing tools and nails as he needs them, your fingers brushing briefly when they meet.

The fence line stretches out ahead, worn and weathered, the rhythm of work filling the quiet. Rhett’s hammer strikes uneven, frustration simmering beneath his silence. You see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his brow furrows when a nail bends instead of driving clean.

After a few more slow, clumsy hits, he mutters, “Feels like I’m just gettin’ in the way. Can’t do much right now.”

You stop. He doesn’t look at you—just stares out toward the field like maybe the grass has answers he can’t find.

Without a word, you step in close, your arms sliding gently around his waist, careful of the sore ribs. Your cheek settles against his back, soft and warm just below his shoulder blade.

For a long moment, you stand there like that. His breath slows, and your fingers find his at his side, curling gently around them.

“You’re not useless,” you say softly. “Not to me. Not here.”

He exhales—slow, quiet. The tension in his shoulders loosens by degrees. A small, almost shy smile tugs at his mouth as he leans back into you, his weight shifting toward your arms.

The quiet between you isn’t empty—it hums with something real. Then you nudge him lightly with your hip, breaking the stillness.

He turns, eyes catching yours, brighter now. “Don’t think I’m lettin’ you off easy,” he teases, fingers looping gently around your wrist.

You laugh, light and easy, and he pulls you just a little closer. The world around you—wind in the grass, distant barks from the dogs—fades to a soft hum.

Then Scout appears.

The growl is low, almost instinctive, as he steps forward, hackles raised. You feel the shift immediately. Careful, calm, you step between Rhett and the dog, your hand reaching back to find his. Fingers intertwine—solid, steady.

“Hey, Scout,” you say, voice gentle but firm. “He’s okay. You’re safe."

The growl fades, but wariness lingers in Scout’s eyes, locked on Rhett with sharp caution. You squeeze Rhett’s hand, and when your eyes meet his, there’s something shared there—quiet understanding. This is just the beginning. Of trust. Of healing. Of whatever comes next.

Later, as the sun dips behind the hills, you step onto Rhett’s porch. The light turns golden, soft and low, washing everything in honey. Juniper curls up at your feet, resting her head against your knee, tail thumping gently. Scout paces near the door, ears twitching, still on edge despite the stillness of the evening.

You scratch behind Juniper’s ears, your gaze tracking Scout’s uneasy movements. “Maybe one night was enough for them,” you murmur—not a complaint, just a truth.

Behind you, Rhett steps close, his presence quiet and grounding. He reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a touch so tender it makes your breath catch.

“Was a good night, though,” he says, voice low and full of meaning.

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, your fingers brushing his arm before you move to gather the leashes. Everything is unhurried. Measured. As if the day permitted you to slow down.

The drive home is peaceful. The sky fades from gold to deepening pink and lavender. Juniper leans against you, breathing evenly. Scout settles too—watchful, but not braced. As if even he’s beginning to trust the rhythm of this.

Back inside, the house feels calm. Familiar. You settle the dogs, run your hand through their fur, and let the day replay behind your eyes—Rhett’s smile, the weight of his hand on yours, the softness in his voice when he looked at you like you mattered.

The warmth it leaves behind is quiet and steady. A kind of promise.

It’s just past eight when your phone buzzes, a single vibration against the coffee table.

You glance over from the couch, curled up in an old sweatshirt and threadbare pajama shorts, legs tucked beneath you. Scout stands near the door like a sentinel; Juniper snores softly at your feet.

Rhett’s name glows on the screen.

Your chest tightens—not in panic, but something gentler.

You swipe to answer. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Rhett replies, voice soft. “You busy?”

“Not really. Just winding down. Dogs are finally quiet.”

You hear him breathe a low laugh. “That sounds nice.”

There’s a faint rustle on his end—kitchen chair maybe, or the edge of a comforter. You picture him where he is, the way he probably looks—undone from the day, thoughtful.

“I was lookin’ at the truck earlier,” he says. “Still won’t drive right. Think that wreck shook more than just my ribs.”

You smile. “I’m surprised it still runs at all.”

“Same. I been stubborn. Kept thinkin’ I could just coax it along. But… it’s probably time. Thought I’d head into town tomorrow. Look at some used ones.”

You pull the blanket tighter around you. “You gonna let me weigh in?”

“Oh, definitely,” he says, mock serious. “You’ve got opinions. And I’d rather not buy something that dies halfway down the road.”

You grin. “I accept the challenge.”

There’s a pause—easy, unhurried. Full of things not yet said.

“So,” he says, voice dipping lower, “we on for town tomorrow?”

You nod, though he can’t see it. “Yeah. We’re on.”

“Okay, baby girl,” he says, soft and slow, like it slips out before he can think twice.

Your heart flutters. Not fast. Just full.

“Goodnight, Rhett.”

“Goodnight, darlin’.”

The call ends.

You sit there a moment, phone still in your hand, lips parted like maybe you want to call him back. Just to hear it again.

Instead, you press the screen to your chest and let yourself breathe. Long and slow.

You’re not dreaming.

But God, it still feels like you might be.

more of my writings here

[foldingpaperplanes]

bradley bradshaws no good very bad day

[foldingpaperplanes]

me around my crush

[foldingpaperplanes]

🐂🥪 being Rhett’s favorite buckle bunny, you’re his first choice after a win, he cuddles you after you’re done and spends the night, he even makes breakfast in the morning. But whenever someone makes a comment he makes sure they know you’re not ‘his girl’. And eventually after one too many times saying it, someone else goes for you and he realizes just how much he wants you to be his girl.

is it casual now? | rhett abbott

❝ knee deep in the passenger seat and you're eatin’ me out. is it casual now? ❞

🍓 part of my summer picnic event 🍓

you were always there. every single ride, you were in the stands, cheering his name, eyes shining, face bright with joy. he couldn’t deny the warmth that swelled in his chest every time he saw you. you didn’t have to come to every single ride, but you did. and that meant the world to him.

it started out as what he assumed would be a fling. you were there one night, after he walked out of the ring with the best time of the night. he was keyed up. still thrumming with adrenaline, and you were there, eyeing him like you wanted to devour him.

you didn’t even make it to the motel. you rode him in the bed of his truck in a wide open field, pale moonlight illuminating your features. and he was hooked after that. couldn’t get enough. you’d always find each other after his rides. whether they were good or bad, it didn’t matter. they’d always end with you facedown on a cheap motel mattress, crying out his name as he fucked you like he hated you.

but the thing was, he didn’t hate you. that was why he found himself coming to you, night after night during rodeo season. you’d follow him across state lines while he was on the circuit, just to watch him ride. not even his family did that. needless to say, he found himself growing quite attached to you. he didn’t want any of the other girls that swayed their hips and jutted their cleavage in his face. he only wanted you.

he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you. it was meant to be casual. a way to let out pent-up frustration. a way to celebrate a good ride. yet he found himself gazing at you while you slept beside him, and suddenly, he saw you curled up in bed in the house you’d built together, a ring on your finger, and— holy shit. when had thoughts of the future weaseled their way into his mind? they settled in his chest with an uncomfortable ache that forced him to look away from you.

he couldn't think like that. he wouldn't. because he knew he couldn't have more with you. he was a good for nothin' cowboy with commitment issues and so much emotional baggage that it was laughable. he didn't deserve anything more than casual, meaningless sex. except it wasn't meaningless. because he stayed. he got out of bed, he dragged himself out the door and picked up some coffee and pancakes from the diner across the parking lot, and returned to have breakfast in bed with you.

you were just waking as he crawled into bed, and he left a lingering kiss, filled with everything left unsaid, upon your lips before he settled beside you. "g'mornin'," he greeted. "i went and got us breakfast." you smiled sleepily, and something broke open within him.

"mm, i can see that. you spoil me, mister," you said, teasing lilt to your tone.

he didn't smile. didn't laugh. he ached. and he couldn't stop it. even as he settled beside you and enjoyed his fill of pancakes and coffee, the television droning on with some stupid morning program. it was painful. all of it. because he'd realized something, that morning. but he didn't want to admit it. didn't want to say those three words, because if he did, it would change everything. he would lose you, he was sure of it. because you didn't feel the same way about him. there was no possible way that you saw this arrangement as anything more than casual.

so, rhett abbott did what he always did: he pulled away. after that sweet, tender morning, he closed himself off. it was his way of protecting his heart, after it had been broken one too many times. but the thing of it was, he didn't anticipate that it would already break when he saw your face the first time he rejected you.

he'd had a bad ride. lost his grip, hit the ground before he was ready. he landed on his bad shoulder, and it hurt like hell. a violent throb that reverberated from his shoulder, down to his fingers. and he was pissed. all he wanted was to run to you, to find solace and comfort in tour arms. but he couldn't, because he'd told himself he was done with you.

you were there to greet him after that awful ride, a look of tender understand on your face, and he couldn't bear it. looking at you only reminded him of what he couldn't have. what he didn't deserve. so he snapped at you. you, the person he cared the most about in the entire world. he snarled like a mean old bear, and spoke harshly to you. "would'ya take a hint?! i don't need you! go find some other bull rider to annoy."

you crumbled. not outwardly, but he could see it in your face. a look of pure dejection. your eyes filled with tears, but you refused to let them fall. "you don't get to speak to me like that," you told him, shoulders tense, hands shaking.

he should have stopped there. instead, he dug his heels in, and made matters worse. "if you don't like it, you can leave. i ain't stoppin' you. hell, i didn't even ask you to be here. you just follow me around like a lost puppy."

your bottom lip quivered. "fuck you, rhett." then you turned on your heel, and fled.

he stood there like an idiot, staring after you, knowing he should chase you down and apologize for being a colossal dick. but this was what he wanted, wasn't it? typical abbott man, afraid to face his feelings, and choosing to run from them instead. he'd convinced himself that pushing you away was better than suffering the pain of unrequited love. yet, as he watched you walk away, the agony he felt over hurting you was far worse than he ever could have imagined. he'd just ruined everything.

instead of trying to fix it, he wallowed. he let himself be miserable, because that was what he felt he deserved. he worked like a dog throughout the week, throwing himself into hard labor to distract himself from thinking about you. it didn't work, however. your broken-hearted face kept flashing through his mind. he woke up everyday, and hated himself for what he'd done. but maybe it was for the best. maybe you were better off. without him tying you down, you could find someone who knew how to communicate their feelings instead of bottling them up.

until he saw you with that someone.

he saw you at the rodeo that night, just like always. for a brief moment, his heart hammered in his chest as he wondered if you had come to watch him ride, despite the way he had behaved the week before. he allowed a blossom of hope to take root in his heart, but it was violently crushed when he saw you with trevor tillerson. of all the men in wabang, trevor was the worst of them. he didn't even deserve to breathe the same air as you, let alone be in your general vicinity.

it made rhett's skin crawl, and a wave of nausea rose up within him. why did it have to be trevor? surely you knew he was bad news, right? either way, he didn't have time to dwell on it, because his name was up next, and he had a bull to ride. even in his distracted state, he still managed to have a good ride. a great one, in fact. it sent his name soaring up to the top of the scoreboard. the crowd roared, but he was searching for you, secretly hoping you'd be cheering for him. he couldn't see you anywhere.

that night, he decided to drown his sorrows with something strong. he didn't want a celebratory beer. he wanted to get drunk. a bottle of straight-up tequila would do the trick, so he ordered one and tucked himself into a booth in the corner, far away from prying eyes. but he'd only thrown one shot of bitter alcohol back before he saw you. right across the room, you were at the bar, trevor beside you. he was ordering for you, not even allowing you to order for yourself. rhett felt the hot bloom of anger, and something else, in his chest. not jealousy, but discomfort.

he thought of trevor's hands on you. thought of him kissing you, falling into bed with you, and rhett was certain he'd be sick. he wouldn't let this man touch you. not with those grimy hands of his that had touched countless other women, in ways that were not so gentle. he was charming enough when he was sober, but when he was drunk? that was a different story. he got mean.

rhett shoved his own tequila aside, ignoring it as it sloshed out of the bottle. on second thought, staying sober was a better idea. he needed his wits about him if he was going to deal with trevor. but he didn't move yet. didn't get involved. he was going to wait and see what trevor's intentions were. so he waited. and waited. and waited.

he watched trevor flirt with you, and rhett rolled his eyes so hard a slight flash of pain rippled through his skull. the second eldest tillerson was a bull in a china shop. there was no grace or poise about him. he just thundered through life and took what he wanted. and by the looks of it, you were not enjoying his intensity one bit.

the moment rhett saw you shift uncomfortably, your back against the wall, cornered in the booth by the broad shouldered cowboy, he stood. his boots were heavy against the sticky bar floor, spurs jingling as he approached your table. when you looked up, your eyes widened in both surprise and relief. that was all rhett needed to know he had made the right decision to intervene.

"how about you give her some space, trev," he spoke up, voice rough, demanding. slowly, trevor turned, brow raised.

"the fuck do you think you're doin', nosing in other people's business, abbott?" trevor countered, making an overt show of keeping his cool. behind him, you squirmed, pushing your back further against the wall.

you really hadn't intended to get tangled up with him in this way. it seemed that he'd realized you were no longer rhett's "arm candy" as he called it, and therefore saw an opportunity to swoop in. you'd been nice. laughed at his jokes, because some of them were genuinely funny. but he got a little too pushy. a little too comfortable. and he wouldn't let you get a word in edgewise. the entire time, he talked about himself, and his accomplishments. his pompousness left no room for you to interject and tell him you weren't interested. that was how you'd ended up here, at the pit bar, back against the wall.

when you saw rhett, the tension that had been tightening in your chest eased. despite the way he'd treated you last week, you were still relieved to see him, because you knew he would put trevor in his place. and sure enough, he did.

"you backed her into a goddamn corner. now get up, and let her have some space." rhett's hands twitched slightly at his sides. he knew trevor liked to fight. he was likely not going to give up without one.

"you're just pissed you fumbled her," trevor responded with a shrug. "it ain't my fault she got bored of suckin' your dick."

"you don't get to talk about her like that, you fucking prick." rhett slammed his hand against the table, and the liquor glasses rattled. you jumped, heart leaping in your chest.

trevor jumped up, standing to face rhett. "why? did i hit a nerve? i mean, c'mon now, rhett. you've gotta be a special brand of idiot if you can't keep a literal whore satisfied."

rhett saw red. jaw clenched, he drew back, and in a split second, his fist connected with trevor's jaw. the two men broke into a fist fight, and you watched with eyes wide as saucers, heart hammering against your rib cage. but you made no move to stop rhett. you were glad he'd intervened. at least you didn't have to figure out a way to tell trevor to fuck off.

rhett's fists were big and heavy, a lethal combination when it came to physical fighting. trevor was solid, but he was no match for the lithe cowboy. the fight was over in under a minute, the second rhett hit trevor with an uppercut that sent him plummetting to the ground like a tree falling in the forest.

"do i need to call the fuckin' sheriff?" a woman's voice rang across the now silent bar, full of patrons who had stopped their chatter to witness rhett abbott take down trevor tillerson. lucy evans, owner of the bar, stood by the telephone on the wall behind the bar. she was staring intently at rhett, gaze questioning.

"no ma'am," rhett replied, breathless. "he was botherin' a lady, so i took care of him."

lucy nodded once. "i shoulda known. 'least i can count on an abbott boy to do the honorable thing." then she glanced around. "can i get a few of you men to get tillerson outta here? if he wakes up while you're draggin' him, tell him he's not allowed back in my bar again."

everyone went back to what they were doing, but rhett lingered, chest heaving slightly as his gaze, tentative and tinged with shame, flickered to you. "he won't bother you anymore. you should stay far away from assholes like him. they only want one thing, and it ain't to take you out on a nice date."

then he turned on his heel, stalking off toward the back exit. your heart siezed in your chest, and you pushed yourself up from the booth, sidestepping the group of men who came to carry trevor out of the bar. "rhett, wait!" you cried, but he didn't hear you, your voice drowned out by the squeal of the rusty door hinges. you broke into a jog, stumbling out into the cool night, feed scraping against gravel. "dammit, rhett, would you stop?!"

he skidded to a halt, shoulders tense, drawn up toward his ears. he didn't turn to face you.

"look at me," you urged.

still, he remained turned away.

"look. at. me."

he sighed, breath shuddering in his chest, before he finally faced you. his eyes were glassy. "what?"

"thank you," came your whisper.

with a shake of his head, he replied. "i could see he was botherin' you. i just did what anyone else would've done."

"not just anyone would do that. you did it, though."

"yeah, well, 'cause i know what a fuckin' dick he is." a beat passed, and he closed his eyes before he spoke again, hesitantly. "did...did he put his hands on you?" he needed to know. if trevor had done anything untoward, rhett would put him in the ground.

but you shook your head, adamant. "no. he never touched me. honestly, i wasn't seeking him out. he saw that i wasn't...around you, anymore, and i think he took that as his opportunity. i tried to shut him down but that guy won't listen to anyone but himself."

rhett's shoulders fell in relief. but deep guilt shadowed his face, and his bottom lip quivered. "it's my fault you were even in that situation to begin with. if i would've stopped bein' such a goddamn coward and admitted my feelings for you, this mess probably wouldn't have happened."

"rhett—"

"no, i need to say this. i'm shit at expressin' myself, but that's what got us here to begin with. i need you to know that i am so, so sorry for the way i acted last weekend. i had no right to talk to you that way."

you stepped forward, chest aching as you shook your head. "you were hurt, and you had a bad ride. i shouldn't have pushed it."

his eyes narrowed slightly, jaw tightening. "there's no excuse for the way i acted. who gives a damn if i was hurt. i was an asshole to you, i hurt you. i hurt my girl. and it's because i'm a coward. i realized that i...i'm fallin' in love with you. and that scared the shit outta me. so i pushed you away. i treated you like shit. and i don't know how i'll ever be able to make it up to you, but i just wanted you to know...you don't annoy me. i was just projectin' my own stupid insecurities on you."

you stared at him for a moment, overwhelmed with emotion. "you're in love with me?" quiet. breathless. full of disbelief.

tears welled in his eyes. "yes. i know we said this was just a casual thing. no attachment. but somewhere along the way i fell head over heels for you. and it's okay if y' don't feel the same. but i just wanted you to know."

to his amazement, you rushed forward, throwing yourself into his arms, burying your face against the side of his neck. "rhett, baby," you whispered, voice hoarse. "i'm in love with you, too. i have been for months."

he leaned back, face awash with disbelief. his eyes searched yours, as if he was trying to figure out if you were messing with him. but all he saw was sincerity. without another thought, he surged forward, tugging you close, lips connecting with yours. you melted into him, kissing him back with fervor, love, adoration.

"we wasted so much time," he whispered against your mouth.

you shook your head. "we've got the rest of our lives to make up for it."

his hands settled on your hips, touch warm, grounding. "you mean that? are you willin' to make this work, even after the way i treated you?"

your own hands came up to rest upon his scruffy cheeks. "yes, rhett. i want you, all of you."

he kissed you again, tender and sweet. "i promise i'll be better about communicating my feelings with you, instead of pushin' you away."

you nodded, nose nuzzling against his. "and i'll be better about communicating mine, instead of just staying silent."

his mouth curved into a smile. "guess i should ask ya proper then." he stroked his knuckles over your cheek. "sweetheart, would you be my girl?"

"i thought you'd never ask," you giggled. "it would be an honor to be your girl, rhett abbott."

and so it began.

[foldingpaperplanes]

Water Rises (2023) dir. Wyatt Winborne

[foldingpaperplanes]

Lewis Pullman as Bob TOP GUN: MAVERICK (2022)

[foldingpaperplanes]

Another great chapter! This story has had me in its clutches for the longest time! I love how the relationship between Jake and Darlin' is so realistic somehow, not all rainbows and unicorns, but the difficult things, too. How they manage to reassure each other despite the obstacles is comforting. This version of Jake is a dreamboat, tbh, so devoted! Can't wait for that homecoming! Also, godfather Javy is hilarious 😄

D-Day by TrickPhotography | Chapter 22

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x female!reader

Word count: 5.2k

Synopsis: After finding out his girlfriend is pregnant, Jake is ready to move in and get married. The last thing he expected was to be hit with a six-month deployment at sea and missing the birth of his first child.

18+, minors DNI

Chapter 21 | Series Master List | Ao3

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Chapter 22

“Point those toes!” Ash reminded. You did as she said and heard the click of a shutter. “Alright, for the next one, I’m gonna have you bring your left hand up so your fingers are lightly on your collarbone like this - perfect.” She moved closer, rearranging the hair on your face and smiling. “And arch your back for me a little bit more, but only if it’s comfortable.”

Your lower back twinged, but you followed the instructions and were rewarded with multiple clicks of the shutter. “Gorgeous. Just a few more, and then we’ll move to the bed.” 

“Okay,” you said, having learned not to nod after she had to readjust your position the first few times. 

“Now I’m gonna have you trail your fingers down and rest them on your bump. Just like that!” Her enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself relaxing slightly. 

The boudoir photoshoot was a last-minute decision. At the beach, you’d seen a studio advertising maternity pictures, and it had stuck in your mind as you walked along the shore. With the waves crashing over your feet, you’d looked at the list of negative thoughts about yourself that Helen had you write down and fixated on one: Jake isn’t going to find me attractive. As much as your husband assured you that he thought you were sexy, it was hard to feel that way when your body didn’t feel like your own anymore. 

So, only half-heartedly, you’d contacted Ash to see if she had any openings. As fate would have it, one of her clients had gone into labor early, opening up a spot on her books that you took before thinking too hard about it. At 37 weeks pregnant, you didn’t think the pictures would turn out well, but if nothing else, they could serve as a Valentine’s Day gift for your husband. 

You stewed over your decision the entire way back to Lemoore, debating calling and canceling the appointment. Or asking to do a normal maternity one, where you could hide behind a flowy dress and put the attention on Sloane. Once home, you unpacked your weekend bag and stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. Your eyes traveled over your hair, longer than you usually kept it, but going to the salon seemed like a hassle. The dark circles weren’t as prominent under your eyes, but you still looked tired. Stripping off your shirt and bra, you traced the stretchmarks marring your skin and the blue veins on your chest, weighed your heavier breasts, and studied your darker nipples. Forcing yourself not to fixate on your stomach, you tugged off your leggings and panties. Your legs and ankles were swollen from sitting so long, and you’d long stopped shaving when it became difficult to bend. 

Jake isn’t going to find me attractive.

The longer you studied your appearance, the more the thought echoed in your head. When it got too loud, you reached for your phone and quickly typed a message.

Can you talk?

The message was quickly marked read, and the phone vibrated in your hand. “Everything okay?” You could hear the tension in Jake’s voice and felt a momentary wave of frustration with yourself for doing that to him. It was almost time for him to go on shift, and you were - 

“Yeah,” you forced yourself to say, covering your eyes. “Just… I’m in my head about something.” During your fight the night before, you’d promised to call him if it happened. 

“Hang on - gimme a second.” The call sounded muffled momentarily, and you heard him talking to someone before he was back. “I’ve just got a few minutes before I need to get to the bay. What’s on your mind, Mama?”

“It’s stupid.” You could feel his disappointment through the open line.  

“Whatever it is, it’s not. Talk to me.” 

“I haven’t shaved or waxed my legs in weeks. Or, you know, done any upkeep.” Jake let out a confused huff. 

“Alright?”

“And my hair - on my head -  is so freaking long. I hate it. It’s so heavy and annoying.”

“Okay.” 

“I’m mad at myself for not taking care of my appearance, even though I know it shouldn’t matter. And I know… I know you’re gonna say that you love me and you think I’m sexy no matter what, but we haven’t seen each other for months, and I want to look good for you when you come home, and I just know that’s not gonna happen and - ” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he interrupted your rambling. “Darlin’ - you know how I feel about how you look.”

“I know. Logic brain knows that, but emotion brain just doesn’t understand it,” you whined.

“What’d Helen say to do?” 

“Challenge the thought with evidence, and replace it with a realistic alternative.” Your tone sounded petulant to your own ears, and you heard Jake chuckle. 

“Alright, so what’s goin’ through your head right now?” 

“How much I hate this.” When he grunted, you sighed. “You’re gonna be grossed out by me when you come home. I always imagined your homecoming from our first big deployment differently. Sexy lingerie, maybe a trip out of town… different. And you’re gonna be disappointed because it’s not gonna be like when you got home from Vegas or San Diego.” You could only describe the sound he let out as a growl.

“Evidence?” he managed to grind out between his teeth. 

“I look different than before you left. I put in a lot of work before I came out to see you, and I haven’t felt up to doing it this time. I’m gonna be post-partum when you get home, and I’ll probably look even more run down than I do now.”

“What about against?” 

“You…” The evidence against the thought was more challenging to articulate. “I don’t know.”

“You sure as hell do, darlin’.” Jake’s tone left no room for disagreement. “You at home, darlin’?” When you hummed a yes, he cleared his throat. “I want you to go to our bathroom and look at yourself.”

“Already doing that,” you sighed, a weary smile tugging at your lips. “Hence the thoughts.”

“Good. Now prove to me you’ve been listening when I talk to you.” When you hesitated, he hissed your name. 

“You think I’m beautiful.” The words tasted wrong on your tongue. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful.”

“And sexy.”

“Damn straight.”

“You weren’t turned off by how I looked when we saw each other a few months ago.” He grunted. “And you seemed to like the pictures I sent you last night.”

“Fuckin’ love ‘em,” he corrected before clearing his throat. “You remember what I told you when I bent you over the sink?”

Stepping closer to the vanity, you ran your fingers over the spot, thighs clenching at the memory of his hand between your shoulders and that cowboy hat on his head. “That you wanted to keep me in bed, moaning your name.” But it was his moan that echoed over the line.

“Pretty sure I said somethin’ about my pretty little wife havin’ my baby bein’ the sexiest woman ever.”

“I’m definitely not little anymore,” you sighed, rubbing a hand over your stomach.

“Even better. You’re makin’ me hard before duty, thinkin’ about you, Mama.” 

“Better or worse that I’m naked right now?” 

“Fuck,” he hissed, and you heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper. “Don’t have a lotta time, but goddamn - talk to me.” 

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Bout ‘ta fuck my fist with your voice in my ears,” Jake replied. “Wish it was you.”

“My hand? Or something else?”

“Anything. Hand, mouth, pussy, tits - just wanna touch you.” Your cheeks flushed at his groan, and you cupped your breast, thumbing your nipple. An image of you on your knees, Jake thrusting between your breasts, flashed in your mind. It wasn’t something you’d done before, and the thought made your breath hitch. “Gonna touch yourself with me, darlin’?” 

“Wanna see you.”

“Don’t have time,” Jake grunted. “What‘re you doin’? Talk to me.”

“Touching my breasts,” you breathed. “They’re starting to get sore again. And they feel like they’re getting even bigger.” 

Jake breathed your name. “Gonna walk around the house topless again? Not there to kiss ‘em better this time.” 

Chuckling, you pinched your nipple, inhaling sharply and imagining it was his teeth. “Soon.”

“Not soon enough. You still in the bathroom?” When you hummed an affirmative, he sighed. “Look at yourself, darlin’. So fuckin’ sexy. Wanna bend you over the sink again and fuck you until you understand how goddamn much I love how you look. But you know what I’d do first?” 

“What?” 

“Get on my knees, put your leg over my shoulder, and fuck you with my tongue.” You blew out a shaky breath, recalling the feel of your fingers in his hair as he devoured you. “You touchin’ my pussy yet, darlin’?” 

“No.” His chuckle was low and dangerous.

“Put me on speaker and set the phone on the sink.” Wordlessly, you did as he said, then cleared your throat. “Done?” When you made a noise, he chuckled again. “Good girl. Now, get your fingers nice and wet for me.” Looking away from your reflection, you sucked on your fingers. “Want you to pinch your nipples while touching your clit. Understood?” 

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” you smirked, hearing his answering moan. 

“Oh fuck.” It was your turn to chuckle.

“Like that, Lieutenant Commander Seresin?”

“Playin’ dirty, Mrs. Seresin.” You inhaled sharply as you circled your clit. “Fuck I miss you. Not just fucking you. Miss holding you. Kissing you.” Not feeling particularly turned on, you moved your hand, bracing yourself on the sink. 

“I miss you, too,” you said. “Miss your voice first thing in the morning when you’re not quite awake. Cuddling on the couch. And when you wake me up, asking if you can play.” Jake moaned, and you cupped your aching breasts. “Your fingers always feel so much better than mine when you touch me.”

“Love when you ride my hand. An’ my face.”   

That made you chuckle, and you tapped your phone to navigate to a picture of him you’d taken at your old apartment. He’d sprawled on your couch, arms outstretched toward you with an exaggerated pout on his lips. If you tried hard enough, you could almost imagine the heat of him as he held you. The scratch of his stubble on your forehead as he kissed you there. You could practically feel his skin under your fingertips as you dragged them from his shoulder down his arm, drawing nonsensical shapes. “I miss touching you,” you sighed. 

“Fuck, baby,” Jake panted. “I can’t wait.” Straightening, you plucked the nearly empty bottle of his cologne from the sink and retreated to the bed. Spritzing it onto his pillow, you set the phone on it and inhaled deeply.

“I love you, husband.” 

Jake groaned a familiar groan, and you smiled while closing your eyes, picturing him spilling over his hand. “Love you, darlin’.”

“God. Damn,” Ash grinned, and you felt your face flush as she snapped more pictures. “I’m gonna just move these a little -” you felt her reach between your breasts to rearrange Jake’s dog tags, the metal cool on your skin “- and pull this back a bit.” She shifted the collar of his blue jacket to just cover your nipple before fiddling with it to make the ribbon bar lie flat. Keeping your eyes closed, you took a deep breath and twirled your engagement ring around your fingers. Sloane squirmed, and it took all your willpower not to move your hand from where Ash had posed it over your head, resting on the arm of the chaise lounge. A small smile tugged at your lips when you pictured Jake’s hands on your stomach, recalling how he would chase the smallest twitch your daughter made. His chuckle, warm in your ear, when he felt her foot thump against his palm. His cheek against your skin as he talked to her while you ran your fingers through his hair. 

Only a few more weeks until he would be home. 

Until you would meet your daughter. 

After guiding you through another series of poses, including another outfit change that consisted of panties and gauzy material that Ash draped around you as you held it against your breasts, you were done. Still feeling a bit foolish, you dressed in your leggings and Jake’s overstretched Naval Academy sweatshirt. Ash was uploading the pictures to her computer when you came out of the dressing room. Her eyes drifted over you for a moment before she grinned. “As soon as these finish uploading, I want to get a couple of you in that.” 

“This?” you frowned.

“Yeah. You look comfortable and sexy. It won’t take too long.” Reluctantly, you let her lead you back to the set and helped you get comfortable against the bed headboard. She took photos of you playing with your hair, cradling your stomach, and resting a coffee cup on your belly, which made you grin while remembering Jake’s ban on anything but water in bed. But her favorite was when she had you sit on the edge, legs outstretched with the sweater tucked under your breasts, leggings rolled down under your belly, with NAVY prominent across your chest. 

“Jake’s gonna love that one,” you smirked when she showed it to you. 

“I hope so! I’ll get these edited and over to you in the next three weeks.” After thanking her, you left the shop and headed to the beach for a quick walk along the water. 

For the first time in ages, you somewhat felt like yourself. You’d gotten your hair cut and scheduled a wax for the photoshoot. The feeling of clean sheets on your bare legs after visiting the esthetician had been glorious, although the bikini wax had been more painful than you remembered. Ash’s partner had done your hair and makeup for the day before leaving, allowing you privacy in the studio. Feeling slightly emboldened, you snapped a selfie of yourself and sent it to Jake.

Twenty minutes later, the phone vibrated and Jake’s face flashed on the screen. “Hey!” you grinned while answering, the wind whipping across the microphone and muffling your words.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said. You pressed a hand to your ear and held the phone tightly. “You still at the beach?”

“Yeah, about to go get lunch, then head home.”

“Well, get something good to celebrate.”

“Why’s that?” you asked.  

“Ten-day window approved - there’s a possibility I’ll be home before Valentine’s Day.”

Three weeks.

Before your due date.

“WHAT?!” you shrieked. Jake’s laugh was warm, and you waddled quickly up the beach toward your car to try to hear better. The sand made you feel slightly off balance, but you hurried and hoped you wouldn’t fall. 

“It’s just a possibility, but there’s a chance I’ll make it home in time to take you to the hospital and meet our little girl.” You burst into tears and clapped a hand to your mouth. “Hey - hey, darlin’, it’s alright. This is a good thing.”

“I’m j-just s-so relieved,” you sobbed. As you neared the parking lot, you tugged the car keys from your pocket and unlocked the car, collapsing into the driver’s seat. 

“Me too, Mama, me too. D’ya…” Jake paused to clear his throat. “I, uh, heard that first babies usually come late. Do you think Sloane will? Maybe give me some extra time to make sure I’m there?” 

Your daughter’s foot was in your ribs, making it somewhat hard to breathe, so you forced yourself to take a few deep breaths before responding. “I-I have an appointment with Dr. Shearer in a few days, and she said she’d check if I’m dilated at that point.” 

“Keeping my fingers crossed that you aren’t.”

“M-me too. O-only because I love you.”

“Yeah? Only because you love me?” he teased. 

“Yup,” you laughed. “I’m over being pregnant.” 

He sighed, and your fingers itched to touch him. “I know, darlin’. Just hold on a little bit longer for me.” 

“I don’t think that little girl is coming anytime soon,” Dr. Shearer said, pushing away from the exam table and removing her gloves. “You’re not dilated, only 10% effaced, and still carrying high.” 

“Thank god,” you breathed, resting a hand on your belly. The doctor laughed, typing something on her laptop.

“Most moms at this stage can’t wait for it to be over.”

“I am so ready to be done,” you said, a hint of a whine sneaking into your tone, “but the longer she waits, the happier Jake will be. He asked her to stay put as long as possible before he left, and when I went out to visit. And…” The part of you that grew up with OPSEC - operations security - and the reminders that went out anytime a ship was deployed, warred with the need to tell your doctor. If the homecoming date leaked, the Navy would change it to ensure everyone was safe, usually pushing it out further. You’d joined the Family Readiness Group social media page for the Carl Vinson to keep tabs on the carrier’s updates, and the page was filled with OPSEC reminders. 

“And?”

Closing your eyes, you blew out a breath, reasoning that you weren’t giving an exact date. The memory of your husband’s voice, the hope and love and anxiety, made tears leak from the corner of your eyes. “And there’s a chance Jake will make it home.” 

“What? That’s amazing!” 

“We don’t have an exact date,” you said, trying to push down the wave of hope you refused to let drag you under. With your luck, their homecoming would be at the end of the 10-day window. Getting your hopes up felt dangerous, like tempting fate to prove you wrong. “But there’s a chance.” 

Dr. Shearer chuckled, turning to face her computer again. “Well, baby Seresin is a safe size to stay in there for a bit longer.”

“I’m not sure how much bigger she can get and still have space.” You felt Sloane nudge your hand, as though knowing you were talking about her. You’d been feeling strange tension at the top of your stomach and around your belly button for days, and shooting pain down your legs as your ligaments loosened further. 

“Space is getting a bit tight, but she’s still got room to grow and move.” Dr. Shearer moved to your side and helped you sit up. “How’ve things been at home?”  

“Good. I feel like the meds are working, and I’ve been meeting with Helen once a week.” 

“That’s good! And do you have your plan for when this one decides to come?” 

“Yeah - Javy’s already mapped out the fastest routes from the house to the hospital. Our friends are talking about rotating someone sleeping at the house in case I go into labor overnight, but I told them it wasn’t necessary.” 

“Sounds like you’ve got a supportive group of friends.” As much as you appreciated the offer, it was overwhelming. It had also caused a big argument, with Jake siding with everyone else until you put your foot down. Having someone stay with you felt like being under observation. Just because you were a couple weeks from having the baby didn’t mean you needed to be under constant supervision, and your friends didn’t have to uproot their lives.

Grimacing, you asked the question Jake had requested. “Do you think I need someone to stay with me?” 

“Medically speaking, you and this little girl are both in good shape. And unless something drastically changes in the next few days, I don’t think you’ll be in active labor anytime soon. It wouldn’t surprise me if you start having some contractions, but that’s normal. So if you have a plan, a back-up plan, your bag is ready to come to the hospital, and you agree to call if anything comes up that you’re unsure about… Moms stay home by themselves all the time.” 

“Thank god,” you groaned. “I love our friends, but I don’t want people in my house all the time.” Dr. Shearer laughed.

“Understandable. Have you given any thought to when you’re going to start your maternity leave?”

“I want to wait. I still have things to wrap up and… I can’t sit at home alone, just waiting.”

The doctor gave you a knowing look. “I’m sure you’re tired. Are you sure you don’t want to spend these last few weeks relaxing?” Of course, she was right. It was almost impossible to get a full night’s sleep with how difficult it was to breathe, and something always woke you. Getting back to sleep was an exercise in futility, so you cleaned the house at all hours of the night. 

Now, knowing that Sloane and Jake would arrive soon, you needed to scrub the house from top to bottom. Between birthing classes and work, you knew that housework had fallen to the wayside. Jake wouldn’t blame you for not thoroughly cleaning the house, you told yourself when sitting on the couch after work, but your father-in-law's words had woken you in the middle of the night and refused to stop echoing in your head.

A man should be able to leave on deployment and know that his woman’s takin’ care of his home.

Jake prided himself on keeping his home clean. While you’d successfully broken him of hospital corners when making the bed, he made sure the house was picked up every night and spent a few hours on the weekend cleaning. With him gone, you’d defaulted back to your natural state of cleaning on the weekend and letting chores pile up during the week. The idea of him coming home to realize you hadn’t deep-cleaned the bathroom or dusted the blinds in a few months made you flush with embarrassment. So you’d made a list of things to do and slowly chipped away at them in the midnight hours. And, as much as you despised cleaning the baseboards, not only for the task but the difficulty of getting up from the floor, it was satisfying to see the house return to normal. 

So between work, not sleeping, and cleaning, you were exhausted. But not to the point of just sitting around the house. You still loved walking the flight line and feeling Sloane wiggle her approval when the jets flew. If the Daggers set eyes on you at work - and they usually did, swinging by to have lunch or chat - you could usually have a night at the house alone. Which was perfect, because as soon as you got home, your clothes came off. Everything felt uncomfortable, and your feet hurt, so walking around the house in your underwear was a daily experience. 

“I’m fine,” you assured Dr. Shearer. “I’m taking it easy. Besides, Jake’ll have 12 weeks of paternity leave, too, and we want to spend as much of it together as possible.” 

“Just make sure you don’t push yourself too hard. And I’m keeping all my fingers crossed that he’ll be here when the time comes.”  

The next few weeks passed in a haze, punctuated by anxious visits with the doctor. Jake called daily, and you felt a thrill every time the time difference decreased - he was getting closer to home. 

The homecoming date had been set for two days after Valentine’s Day. The news had been hard, and you knew your husband hated delivering it after getting your hopes up. Once you’d hung up the phone, you sat in the living room and stroked your stomach. “Sloane, I know your daddy asked you to stay in there, and I’m gonna ask you to do the same. I know we’re both uncomfortable, but we can hang on for a little longer, alright?” 

The saving grace was that your appointments with Dr. Shearer continued to go well. You had a minor panic attack when she told you that you were 2 centimeters dilated, but she quickly talked you down and reminded you that it didn’t mean that you would be delivering anytime soon. That you’d only progressed an additional centimeter at the next appointment helped. 

With Jake’s prodding, you officially started maternity leave the week of your due date. As much as you wanted to save the time to spend with Sloane once she arrived, it was getting harder for you to get to work. “I’ll be home in a few days,” he promised. “Once I’ve done my inprocessing, we’ll have the time together before our little girl gets here.” 

That was what got you through the week. Sleeping in on that first day was glorious, but you woke up with a backache and ended up lying on the couch with your pregnancy pillow because your pelvis hurt so much. Between naps and trash television, you cleaned the house and ran errands. While shopping at the Commissary, you had to pause in the aisle and grip the cart handle when a cramp hit you. Thankfully, it didn’t last long and didn’t happen again until you were sitting in Jake’s truck as you ran it through the car wash. 

When Ash sent you the boudoir pictures, you stared at them in shock. That couldn’t be you. The woman in the photographs was gorgeous, a teasing smile curving her lips. Ash had to have put a lot of work into editing them. The longer you flipped through the proofs, the more you felt like crying. Finally, you put the laptop away rather than send in your selection for her to print. If you let Jake see them, he would pick which ones he wanted. 

On Valentine’s Day, Jake surprised you with flowers. The red and white roses sat on the kitchen counter, and you ran your fingers over the petals throughout the day while rereading the card.

Happy Valentine’s Day, darling. Only a few more days until I’m home, and hopefully not much longer until our daughter arrives. Meeting you on the flight line was the best thing that ever happened to me. Your man in a bag, conflict of interest, and loving husband - Jake

You took the card with you into the bathroom as you sank into the tub, hoping the lukewarm water would help with the pain you felt in your groin and back. When Jake video called, the tub had already cooled and been refilled a few times. “Hey, darlin’,” he grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope,” you sighed, shifting to try and get comfortable. “Just relaxing in the tub. Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy. I love my flowers.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mama. I couldn’t find any blue ones from our wedding, so I thought roses would do.” 

“You thought right - they’re gorgeous. Only thing better would have been you dropping them off instead of the delivery guy.” 

“I know. I’ll be home soon.”

“I’m counting the hours, Lieutenant.”

“You and me both, Mrs. Seresin. Are you sure you want to meet me on the flight line? I can have Javy drive me home.” 

“Not happening. I want to see you as soon as you land. Besides, your daughter loves the flight line, and I’m sure she’ll be moving up a - ” Your breath caught as a cramp hit hard. Your free hand shot to your stomach, feeling the tightness under your skin. 

“Darlin’?” Worry flashed across Jake’s face, and you dangled the phone over the side of the tub, unable to keep the grimace of pain from your expression. He called your name, and you forced yourself to breathe through it before raising the phone back up.

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t - are you alright? What was that?” he demanded. 

“Nothing. Just a cramp. I’ve been having them off and on for the last few days.”

Jake’s brows furrowed, and he tilted his head. “A cramp or a contraction?”

“A cramp,” you said quickly. “I’m not having contractions.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“I’m sure.” His face said he didn’t believe you, so you changed the subject. “Are you all packed?”

“Yup. Ready to toss everything in my travel pod and get the hell off the carrier.” At his prodding, he shared what he could of his day and how he was wrapping up everything for the deployment. When another cramp hit, you tried to hide the pain but noticed him glancing at his watch. “Darlin’...” he said gently.

“It’s nothing, Jake. Did you want to do anything right away when you get home? I picked up stuff from the store, but we can go somewhere.”

“No, I wanna go right home,” he said. 

“Good. Me too.” While you updated him on how you were passing your days, another cramp hit. 

“Darlin’, can you do me a favor?” he asked once you breathed through the pain. 

“What?” you asked, pulling the drain plug with your toes in preparation for refilling the tub with warm water. 

“Can you please go get check out? I’m pretty sure you’ve had three contractions while we’ve been talkin’ these last 30 minutes.” 

“I’m not having contractions, Jacob,” you snapped. “First babies are always late. Dr. Shearer told me it would be a while and we’d talk induction at our next appointment.” He sighed your name, and you shook your head. “No. It’s not happening. We’re two days away from you getting home. I’m not in labor. I’m just uncomfortable.”

“I swear to god, darlin’, if you have our daughter in the bathtub, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It’s a good thing that’s not gonna happen.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head. 

“Please, darlin’. For me?”

“Hypothetically, even if I were in labor, the contractions aren’t close enough for me to go to the hospital. Dr. Shearer said not to worry until they’re consistent and a few minutes apart.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have someone check.” 

The call continued that way for the next twenty minutes, Jake trying to cajole you into going to the hospital while you adamantly refused. His expression tightened when you held your breath as another cramp hit, not even trying to hide that he was timing it with his watch. 

You were so focused on trying to breathe through the pain that it took you a moment to realize that there was noise in the bedroom. “Jake?” 

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“I think someone’s in the house,” you said through gritted teeth. As you watched, he blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Good. Don’t be mad.” Sitting up, you felt water slosh over your belly and scowled when you recognized someone calling your name.

“You didn’t.”

“I love you.”

Knocking sounded on the bathroom door, and you groaned. “I’m gonna give you two minutes to get your ass out here before you, me, and Hangman will just have to deal with the fact that I’ll see you naked, because my goddaughter is not being born in the goddamn tub. You hear me? Don’t think I’m playin’,” Javy warned. 

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Author's Note: A major kudos and thank you to @bartonsparrow25 for the boudoir shoot suggestion! That was a fun inclusion.

Major apologies for the time between updates. Life has been life-ing and I'm prepping to take my licensing boards in the next few weeks. But hopefully this chapter makes up for it! We're so close to the finish line!

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[foldingpaperplanes]

AaaaAAaaa!!! Can't wait Can't wait Can't wait!!! 😊😊

Finally managed to finish the next chapter of D-Day. Editing and posting tomorrow after tweaking a scene I’ve been imagining for over a year!

No excuse for why there hasn’t been an update since January 😅😬

[foldingpaperplanes]

What's everyone's favourite flowers that aren't like. The normal ones. Like everyone's a fan of roses and sunflowers what's a more niche one. One you don't get in gift sets. Mine's sweet peas

[foldingpaperplanes]

right where i want you

summary: "Standing there, staring at the cotton balls in the trash, some part deep inside of you decides that it’s now or never with Rhett."  rating: explicit (18+ mdni) pairing: rhett abbott x f!reader word count: 6.1k warnings: sub!rhett, pseudo enemies-to-lovers!, mentions of violence, choking, dry humping, overstimulation, aftercare, potentially ooc, no use of y/n.  notes: uhhh walk him like a dog bitch walk him like a dog🗣😼 i'm not even gonna lie to y'all i've never seen outer range but lewis pullman is in my brain. pls let me know what u think! thank you to @sebsxphia for encouraging my rhett brainworms and to @rhettabbotts for reading a snippet ! my other works are here tagging: @lewmagoo @wkndwlff @bobfloyds @sometimesanalice @bradshawsbitch @roosterbruiser @withahappyrefrain @theharddeck - pls let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!

You work a comb in steady, circular motions over your horse’s coat, watching as the dust and pollen raises into the soft afternoon light. Just under the background noise of the stable, you hear boots crunching and you immediately know who it is. All your time away hasn’t changed a thing, it seems. 

“Rhett Abbott you leave me alone or I’ll yell at the top of my lungs, I swear.” You don’t even turn around to look at him, as if not making eye contact would mean he’ll leave. He won’t. And he never does.

“How’d ‘ya know it was me?” You hear the way he kicks at the dirt of the barn floor with his boots absentmindedly, and you try to not let his presence rile you up too much since you know that’s what he wants.

You still don’t turn around to face him. “Because y’never leave me alone.” 

“I’m jus’ sweet on ‘ya. Couldn’t help it if I tried. Besides, missed ‘ya while ‘ya were away at that fancy east coast school o’ yours.”

“Well, have you tried?” You ignore the second part of what he said–you’re back for the summer, and you really haven’t been gone all that long even if your parents act like you’ve come back from the dead.

That pulls a laugh from him. 

For as long as you can remember, Rhett Abbott has been a pain in your ass. You were slightly younger than him but that somehow never stopped him from always finding a way to be in your presence. Your dad being Wabang’s sheriff didn’t seem to deter him either, especially when your dad started getting real prickly about having boys around. 

“Nope,” He lets his lips pop dramatically on the ‘p’ sound, then pauses as if to consider his next words, “Plus, you’re real cute when you’re mad.”

All you want is to turn around and throw the rubber brush you’ve got clenched in your fingers at his stupid, smug, face. You know the exact expression he’s wearing in that moment because it’s the same one he’s had every other time he’s taunted you. 

“Decide if you love me or hate me, Rhett Abbott. Quit wastin’ my time.” You hiss, and this time you do turn around. You refrain from throwing anything at him, though. 

“Aw, don’t get too upset now,” He pushes himself off the stall door he’d been leaning against and makes his way into your personal space.

You level him with a scathing glare before going back to grooming. Even the way he breathes around you seems to raise your hackles and you wonder if all this tension is ever going to resolve itself. If he’s ever going to leave you alone.

“I didn’t come by to bother ‘ya, honest.” He murmurs.

You don’t grant him a response, but he stays where he is, undeterred.

“I wanted to see if you’d come out tonight, everyone’s been missin’ ‘ya. Whole town’s in uproar that you’re back.” 

“I’ll think about it.”

That seems to satisfy him as a grin spreads across his face and he spins on his heel, whistling jauntily as he strolls out of the stable.

You’re loathe to admit it, but it makes something twist in your stomach at the thought that Rhett came by to invite you out, to tell you he missed you. That everyone missed you. You shove that feeling down, though. Rhett’s always just been a nuisance and the fact that he seems to have gotten far handsomer while you’d been away is not part of your calculus.

-

For all his insistence that he actually likes you, has been thinking about you this whole time, Rhett sure is more than happy to let some buckle bunny cuddle up to him. You swallow something down, not jealousy, but what feels like a lump in your throat. He’s a liar and you’re a fool. Rhett Abbott will never be anything but a good for nothing, sonofa—

You storm out of the bar in a huff, not noticing the way Rhett’s eyes follow you over the head of the bleach blonde who’s grasping the collar of his flannel. 

In missing Rhett’s gaze, you also miss the way James Earl follows you out. By the time you’re in the parking lot, it’s too late to turn around. James is between you and the door. 

He calls your name and it makes all the hair on the back of your neck stand up, “Wait up!”

“Leave me alone, James.” You really don’t want to deal with him right now, you don’t want to deal with any men, for that matter. 

“I said wait.” His voice turns acidic and you pause before turning around slowly. There’s nowhere else for you to go but back into the bar, and you’re certain he won’t just let you walk off while you try to call your dad.

“Now that you’re back, I’m going to take you out to dinner.” James looks almost like he has good intentions, but you haven’t lost touch with the way news travels in Wabang just because you were separated by a few states. 

You know what the girls who stayed behind say about him. You heard the stories in high school about how he treated his girlfriends–always holding their arms too tight, a little too possessive. There’s nothing about him that you like, or even want to tolerate, at all.

“No, thank you, James. I really should get going.” You try to sound sweet, try to turn on the charm in hopes that he’ll change his mind. 

You turn your phone over in your hands, unlock it, and try to act nonchalant. You remember the Swiss army knife tucked in your bra if things get rough. 

His demeanor switches in an instant.

“You think just ‘cause you’re the sheriff's daughter you can just walk around like you own this place, huh? Too good for us with your fancy college? All of Wabang swoonin’ over a stuck up, prissy, little bitch.” The words are like poison, but you try to stand your ground, “Why I ought’a teach you a lesson.”

When James stalks your way, one hand starting to reach for you as you reel back in fear, you realize just what he intends. The world slows to a molasses, you’re outside your body as you freeze, unable to do much but witness what you know is about to happen to you.

Instead of James’ hand around your wrist or in your hair, Rhett’s voice breaks the moment, “Earl, I’ll make ‘ya sorry ‘ya ever look’d at ‘er if ‘ya don’t step away right now.” 

There he is, illuminated by the bar deck lights, one hand on his belt as he stalks into the parking lot. You’d call him your savior if you don’t blame him somehow; if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in whatever girl was giving him attention in that moment maybe you wouldn’t be here. 

“Like hell you will, Abbott. Leave us alone, this is none of your business.” James whirls around, his attention momentarily off you.

You think you can make your escape, make it back inside the bar where there are more eyes and call your dad to get him to pick you up. Instead, you watch as Rhett and James come face to face, both acting like macho idiots. 

They soil your plan for a hasty escape. It’s Rhett who makes the first move and shoves James, hard. In a split second they’re yelling obscenities at each other as Rhett grabs him by the collar to shake him and clock him across the face. His knuckles split open on James’ face and you aren’t sure if his nose is broken from the blow or not. 

“Stop it!” You try to at least get Rhett’s attention, maybe use his feelings for you for good, but it does little as James tries to gain the upper hand. “Rhett Abbott you fool, get off’a him!”

All at once, a few other patrons spill out of the bar doors at the commotion. You’re standing a few feet back from the pair as they tussle; there’s blood strewn in the dirt and you hope not too much of it is Rhett’s. Suddenly they’re being pulled apart.

You march up to James and stick a finger in his face as he struggles against the men holding his arms, “You ever try that shit with me again I’ll make sure my daddy gives you exactly what you deserve.”

His face is twisted up in a snarl, and he looks like he’s considering spitting in your face, “Still hiding behind your daddy? Figures.”

He’s hauled off in a moment before you can respond, no doubt to get cleaned up and have someone take a look at his nose. Maybe even to face your dad. You whirl around to start shouting at Rhett next, but he’s simply standing there, hands hanging loosely by his sides. No one’s restraining him anymore, they’re all dealing with James you guess, and you realize that it’s just the two of you in the parking lot at that point. 

You make your decision in an instant, “Give me your keys.” 

You don’t get closer to him, you just hold a hand out and look at him expectantly. Rhett doesn’t move. 

“Rhett Abbott, you damned fool, give me your keys so I can take your stupid ass home.” 

He has the audacity to smile wolfishly at you, cheek bruising, and say lowly as he walks to you, “Tryin’ to take me home, sugar?”

Snatching his keys from his fist, you turn around without responding. You don’t check if he’s following you, some part of you knows you don’t need to. 

You climb into the drivers side of his truck and start it, only barely waiting for him to get in and buckle up. Switching it into gear, you start driving. It’s deathly silent in the cab as you drive, ignoring far too many traffic laws along the way for someone who was raised by the sheriff. Rhett fidgets in his seat next to you. 

As you weave down the back country roads to his place, you distantly recall the time during high school when he’d bought the truck. All week, girls had flocked to him, begging him to teach them to drive stick (they all already knew) or even just sit in the back. Trucks were a dime a dozen, but Rhett Abbott’s was special in the eyes of all the future buckle bunnies. 

You’d watched the chaos from afar until he’d lifted his gaze from the girl tugging at his flannel to look at you. You’d looked away quickly, too embarrassed to be caught staring at him despite your continued insistence you didn’t like him in the slightest and that he never crossed your mind.

He never did end up giving any of the girls a chance. He wouldn’t even let them touch the keys.

Now here you are, driving his truck like it’s your own without a single complaint from him. 

When you pull up to his house, you get out the same way you’d gotten in–without a word and barely waiting for him to catch up to you. It’s almost instinctual, the way you grab the house key from next to the truck one, unlock the door and shove inside, only knowing that he’s inside too because of the way the door slides shut softly instead of slamming. 

Once inside, you flick on the kitchen light and round on him, “Now why’d ‘ya have to go and start shit with James Earl, huh?”

Rhett looks like he’s just been scolded by his mother for leaving his socks on the floor at his ripe age, and he scoffs harshly. You don’t miss the way his knuckles are split and crusted in blood. There’s a bruise blooming high on one of his cheeks. 

“I’m the one startin’ shit? He was tryin’ somethin’ with you!” He takes a step toward you but you don’t move, “Earl’s a piece of shit and he got what was comin’ to him. I don’t regret a goddamn thing.”

“I had it handled.” Your defense is instinctual–knee jerk, even—everyone wants you to be fragile, to be something that needs protecting, and you’re sick of it. 

“Did ‘ya?” You’re toe to toe now, and his shoulders are heaving. “‘Cause what I saw said somethin’ else.”

For a moment, you think he might kiss you. It takes all of your mental effort not to shove him and start shouting at him for how stupid he is, so instead you raise a single eyebrow and plaster on your most disapproving expression possible. 

“I’m not arguin’ with you, Rhett Abbott. Get your damn first-aid kit and lemme clean ‘ya up.” 

For once in his life, he listens to you. Eventually you find yourself kneeling in front of him as he sinks into the couch. You’ve turned on one of the living room lights, but there’s still just barely enough light to make out the details of his face and the way he tore up his knuckles on James Earl’s nose and cheeks. 

“Now keep bein’ all tough, I better not hear ‘ya bitchin’ about the antiseptic hurtin’.” You don’t have it in you to actually hurt him though, so you keep the press of the rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton balls gentle. 

He draws his shoulders up by his ears regardless, hissing lightly when it stings. Thankfully, only his pinky knuckle is actually split open on his right hand, so he won’t be entirely useless at work. His left hand is in worse shape, with three of his knuckles bubbling blood where he managed to cut them open. Both hands are bruised.

He doesn’t comment on your position at his knees. 

“Earl’s nose better be fuckin’ broken.” Rhett finally breaks the silence as you finish cleaning his hands. 

You don’t grant him with a response. Instead you stand to your full height and make your way to the kitchen to throw away the cotton balls now soaked with his blood. Standing there, staring at the cotton balls in the trash, some part deep inside of you decides that it’s now or never with Rhett.

When you return to him, he hasn’t moved a muscle. He simply tips his head back to look at you. Slowly, you put one knee up on the couch next to his thighs, then the other, and all of a sudden you’re kneeling over his lap. The hem of your dress just barely brushes his jeans. He looks like he’s holding his breath and he barely exhales when you let your full weight rest on him.

“I need to make sure he didn’t break yours.” It’s a lame excuse and you both know it, but you know he won’t call you on it, not when your bare thighs are warm against his denim-clad ones. 

He smells like outside, like the evening sun, and something that tickles your nose; it’s uniquely Rhett. Privately, you wonder if all his clothes smell like him, and if they carry that scent even when he hasn’t worn them in a long while. 

Shifting in his lap, you cradle his face and turn it toward the light. As if he’s trying not to spook a wild horse, he very delicately places his hands on your thighs. He doesn’t grip them, doesn’t let his fingertips twitch, just rests his calloused palms against your bare skin.

“Looks fine to me.” You breathe out, realizing how close your faces are.

“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” He’s trying to sound flirtatious, trying to sound like the casanova his reputation makes him out to be, only he’s breathless and his face is flushed and you can feel his pulse racing.

You hate when men think they can just take control of you in bed because they’re a man and you’re not. But with Rhett, you can tell you’ve got him right where you want him by the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat and the way his hands rest on your thighs, fingertips just barely brushing the hem of your dress. 

Letting go of his face, you brush imaginary dust off his shoulders before letting one hand rest flat on his chest, and threading the other up into his hair. It’s silkier than you ever imagined despite the way you know you can safely assume he does jack all to take care of it. He’s so damn pretty it makes your chest ache.

Both of you are silent, only the sounds of your breathing barely audible. Ever so gently, you slide your hand from his hair to the base of his neck. He’s like a foal in the way you’re unsure of how he’ll react to your hand placement, a new sort of touch. His heart hammers in his chest beneath your palm.

He doesn’t bolt or react strongly. Instead, he swallows thickly against your hand, blinking slowly at the sensation of your fingers tucked neatly around his throat. You’re not squeezing in the slightest, just letting your fingers rest around the warm, tanned, skin of his neck.

“Are you going to behave, Rhett?” Your voice is low over the sounds of the night outside.

He nods as you flex your fingers gently, testing the waters, and his eyes flutter shut. Rocking your hips experimentally, you feel the way his grip tightens on your thighs and the way he’s hard against you. 

He likes it. He likes the way you’ve got a hand around his throat, the other resting gently on his chest. He isn’t fighting you, he isn’t arguing–for once in his life, he’s quiet in your presence. 

The realization of how obedient he’s being sends a skittering sort of arousal through you. You see yourself pulling on jeans tomorrow and finding his fingerprints on you. You see him staring at himself in the mirror in the morning, lost at how to cover up the evidence of what you’d done to him the night before.

“You’ve spent all this time pullin’ my pigtails, and now that I’m here you can’t even form words.” He keeps his eyes closed and nods ever so slightly.

You want to hate him. 

Oh how you want to hate Rhett Abbott. You want to hate the way he’s spent the last however many years following you around like a stray dog, poking fun at you and riling you up, just to have your attention. You want to hate the way he probably spent more time chasing boys off than your dad did. More than anything else you want to find it in you to feel something other than the way he’s burrowed himself under your skin. 

“Whatever,” His voice is strained and he clears his throat before opening his eyes again, “Whatever you want, sugar. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“And if I want to get up right now, and never see you again?” You aren’t going to make this easy on him. 

Yelling at James Earl is one thing, almost beating him to a pulp is another. You can protect yourself, you’re not a damsel in distress, and above all Rhett needs to learn his place. You’re grateful he was there, you are. But you didn’t need him to go and get in trouble on your behalf.

“Now, sugar, I find it hard to believe—”

You move as if to stand up, going to remove the hand from his neck to use one of his shoulders as leverage. Before you can get far, really even one inch away from him, one of his hands is flying from your thighs to clutch at the wrist of the hand that’s leaving his throat. He holds you there, and you can feel the way his pulse is racing. He maintains the way he stares into your eyes, but this time his are wide, almost as if in fear that you’d actually get up and leave. 

“Try again.” You don’t change the way half your weight is off him, but you let him hold your wrist.

“Whatever you want, goes.” He swallows slowly before speaking again, “Will you just–Will you please sit back down?” 

He doesn’t let go of your wrist.

You ease yourself back into his lap and run your free hand in between you till you reach his erection. It sends a thrill through you to feel just how excited he is by all of this. You want to hear him say please again, you want to see how far you can push your luck with him in the palm of your hand. You want him to beg.

You laugh lightly, if not a bit cruelly, as you squeeze his cock over his jeans, “Does this turn you on, Rhett?” You pause to watch how his pupils dilate at your tone before pressing on, “Not much of a big, bad, man now, are ‘ya?”

To your surprise, that doesn’t set him off. Most men wouldn’t let you put your hand around their throat, much less question just how much of a man they are. But he barely reacts beyond his chest rising and falling, his hands moving back to fully settle on your thighs and this time, gripping tightly. 

“Like I said, whatever you want, sugar–I just want ‘ya to use me. Be good for something,” He licks his lips and exhales shakily, “Be good for you.” 

Jesus. His sincerity bleeds through in the way his face is flushed and he maintains steady eye contact. He doesn’t waver for a single moment. 

Something sick twists in your chest. Never before has a man been so willing, so pliant, for you. They’ve always tried to take what they want from you, always tried to make you submit. But what you actually wanted was this, Rhett’s eyes gazing pleadingly up at you while you sit in his lap. 

“So this is what you wanted all along, huh? Always following me around, playing pranks on me, just wanted me to get my hand around your throat and use you?” You’re goading him on, trying to discern exactly what he wants you to say, what he’ll let you get away with. 

With that, you lean close as if to kiss him and he closes his eyes lightly in anticipation, but at the last second turn your head so you can drag the tip of your nose across his cheek. The shudder that runs through him at the feather-light sensation is delicious; it makes you laugh lightly at how affected he is. His breaths are starting to come heavier, already betraying him if he tried to hide how badly he wants this. But he isn’t hiding, not in the slightest.

Now that you’re this close to him, the scent of him is overwhelming. It floods your mind and makes you almost lightheaded as you realize just how badly you want him. Part of it is that he’s so pliant, so willing, but the other part is the truth of the matter that you finally have to admit to yourself: you don’t hate Rhett Abbott. 

In fact, his whole years-long performance has only meant that his constant presence is lingering somewhere at the forefront of your mind regardless of whether he’s around or not. When you’d gone off to college, those nine months had been odd without him around. You’d half expected him to show up to walk you between lecture halls or push some frat boy off you at a party.

(What you don’t know is that Rhett did almost go out to visit you. He’d looked at plane tickets, at how long it might take him to drive. He decided against it when he remembered every time you’d rejected him or told him to, very unkindly, “fuck off”.)

“Can I kiss ‘ya?” His voice is rough and he licks his lips again, like it’s a nervous habit. 

You press a gentle kiss to his cheek and giggle softly to yourself when he whines and says, “That’s not what I meant and y’know it.”

Finally, you press your lips to his. They’re soft and warm and he’s so much better of a kisser than everyone else you’ve been with that it almost knocks the wind out of you. But he keeps you grounded, especially when his hand moves up to your jaw so he can coax it open. The way he licks into your mouth makes you let out a startled gasp. 

You don’t expect it to feel so good. It’s one thing to sit in his lap and flirt, it’s a whole other to taste him and understand why girls chase him endlessly. You can’t stop the way your hips move against his and he keeps one hand on your thigh while the other goes to your tits. His hand dwarfs your chest and he gropes you haphazardly. 

“Fuck, you’re even better than I imagined,” He sighs, pushing up against the hand that’s still around his throat. 

“I haven’t even taken my clothes off, Rhett.” You tease, wanting to see how far you can push him, see if you can still get a rise out of him.

But it seems he’s given up the fight now that you’re right where he wants you. He smiles gently as he pulls back to look you in the eyes, “I could finish in my pants like a damned teenager with you like this, sugar, doesn’t matter.”

Rhett Abbott, womanizer, absolute menace in your life, admitting that he’s got it so bad for you that he could come in his pants just from having you near him? You could’ve guessed that he wanted to fuck you, but you always thought it would be more of him getting his rocks off and letting you fend for yourself. It never would’ve occurred to you that this is how he’d be in the moment. Him admitting how weak he is for you makes your head spin.

You press yourself ever closer to him, licking into his mouth and trapping his hand between the two of you where it had been stroking your nipples through the thin fabric of your sundress. He manages to free it, though, and slides it down your side to where your thigh creases. He wraps it around you there and the the sheer size difference between his hand and your hip makes a twisted sort of want course in your veins.

The first press of his thumb against your clit through your panties sends a jolt through you. He keeps your hips moving in a steady rhythm against his as he works steady circles over your clit. His other hand won’t stay still as it runs up and down your back, rubs your nipples, yanks on the tips of your hair ever so slightly. It’s mind-numbingly filthy, the quiet of his house filled with both of your gasps and moans, your hand still on his neck. 

“Cum for me, sugar,” Then, as if he’s anticipating your chastisement, he adds, “Please.”

Your orgasm rips through you like white hot lighting as you gasp into his open mouth and he moans right along with you. You realize you’re chanting his name over and over like a prayer, completely unwittingly. He doesn’t let up with any of his movements, prolonging your pleasure til it folds into something more biting, just on the edge of overstimulating. 

“Fuck, Jesus,” He gasps, and after a moment, “I’ll be thinking ‘bout that til I die,” He rasps out, settling both of his hands on your hips and leaning his forehead against yours. 

You want to tease him about taking the Lord’s name in vain but you hold back. For a moment, it’s quiet. Your hips are still against his as you take in what just happened. It begins to dawn on you that he’s still hard under you, but he isn’t making any moves to change that. 

He starts to shift under you like he’s considering standing up but you stop him by leaning into him. 

“Ah ah, I’m not finished with you yet,” His eyes snap to yours in surprise.

“Rhett Abbott. Tellin’ me I could make you cum in your pants like a teen boy?” You lean back ever so slightly with a light snarl on your face, finally tightening your fingers to a tight grip in a way that makes his eyes glaze over, “Prove it.”

Pressing the heel of your palm into his crotch, you watch as he eyes scrunch shut and he grinds up once, twice, three times before a he releases a shaky exhale. You watch as he comes, as he pants and whines through his orgasm, the denim under your hand growing warm and wet. He doesn’t stop grinding and thrusting up against your hand til it draws a pained moan from him. 

“Can I–Can I keep going?” He tries to make eye contact but his eyes are too unfocused from pleasure, “Like it when it, ah, when it hurts.”

God, this is what you’ve been missing out on the whole time? You let yourself rock steadily in his lap as he grinds up against your hand and leans forward to kiss you messily. You wonder if he let the other girls he’s been with do this to him. But something tells you that isn’t the case–you really don’t want it to be.

The whines and gasps he’s letting out as he’s writhing below you are something from your most far-fetched fantasies. You’re only slightly stunned as you feel him get hard again below you, though it seems to draw out the pain more than the pleasure given the way his face twists up and the hiss he lets out. All at once he settles; and then he goes to lift your wrist away from his crotch. 

It’s terribly tender, the way he pulls away from you to press a kiss to the palm of your hand and smile widely at you. You almost get whiplash.

“What are you playin’ at?” You can’t help but settle back into your old ways–the Rhett Abbott you’ve known for so long has only really been around to aggravate you, the heartfelt way he’s looking at you sets you off kilter. 

When he laughs at the way you’re starting to get irritated, you try to pull your hand from his to no avail and it makes the heat rise in your face, “Knock it off, Rhett. You’re bein’ an asshole.”

But he just keeps smiling at you as he pulls your other hand off his neck so that he can place both on his shoulders and cradle your face, “You’re so beautiful.”

As if anticipating the way you’re going to react to his words, he pulls your face to his so that he can press your lips together once again. It’s nothing like before. Before it was all tongue and your lips barely meeting through the gasps and moans being pulled out of you. This time it’s something so warm, so delicate, it makes your chest hurt in a different way. 

“I hate you, Rhett Abbott,” You manage to gasp out once he pulls away fully, a sparkle in his eyes. It doesn’t have any heat to it, lacks all the rage it used to–this time, it just sounds like you might be trying to tell him you love him. 

He ignores you in favor of standing with you still in his arms and declaring, “Come on, let’s go get cleaned up and go to bed.”

Somewhere between your orgasm and when he kissed you that final time, you think he might’ve figured it out too–that you don’t hate him and maybe you never have. Because you let him carry you through his dark home without protest. You let him undress you wordlessly, without fanfare and without ogling your naked form. He simply drops your soiled clothing into a laundry hamper and starts undressing himself.

You watch him strip as he turns on the shower and gestures for you to follow him in when he steps in. For just a second you stare at him, halfway in and halfway out from under the stream of water, the way he’s staring at you expectantly. 

He still has that bruise on his cheek from where James Earl hit him what feels like a lifetime ago. His knuckles are still split in some places, just turning that particular shade of red in others. He’s a goddamn vision under the yellow and white fluorescent lights of his bathroom. It makes you want to hold your breath for fear that you’ll disturb the moment somehow.

The shower proceeds without a hitch. It’s oddly lacking sexual tension, though you notice that he’s still half hard. You have half a mind to sink to your knees and suck him off, just to prove your point, just to show him you mean business. But the way he gently washes you as if he’d done it a million times before stops you. You let him clean you up between your legs without a protest.

When he opens the bathroom cabinet to reveal various creams and lotions after you’ve both stepped out and wrapped yourselves in towels, you feel yourself start to get angry. Is he seriously showing you all the products he buys for all the other girls he brings home?

Instead, he smiles sheepishly at you and rubs the back of his neck, “You always smell so good, I spent ages tryin’ to figure out which one you were usin’. Just bought all of ‘em at some point.”

You feel floored as the fight leaves your body. You don’t have a way to be upset about that. Wordlessly, you pick up one of the bottles tucked in the second row and hand it to him. 

“It’s this one.” 

The grin that spreads over his face is one of such genuine happiness it makes you want to squeal and run for the hills at the same time. You wonder distantly if he’ll ever stop making you feel like that–simultaneously like a trapped animal and like you’re the only girl he’s ever seen. You wonder if this (there’s a ‘this’?) will last long enough for you to find out.

He lends you one of his shirts and you’re pleased to find out that it does hold his smell. It sits long on you, settling around your knees, making you feel just a bit like a sexy ghost with the way it hugs your chest. He pulls on a pair of briefs before flicking off the overhead light and then throwing back the covers and patting the space next to him.

“You’re a vision for a blind man, sugar,” His voice carries through the otherwise silent room, “Now come to bed.”

It’s something out of a daydream, climbing into bed with Rhett Abbott. You’re immediately enveloped in his scent, the way his arm lays heavy around your waist and pulls you close to him. For once, you don’t fight him.

“You okay there, sugar? Been awfully quiet.” His voice is low right next to your ear before he turns away momentarily to turn off the bedside table light. His arm is back around you in an instant.

Wiggling yourself around in his arms, you turn so that the two of you are nose to nose. He smiles that smile again, the one that fills you with warmth and makes your stomach twist. There’s barely enough light from outside to really see him as your eyes adjust to the dark, but you know his face.

“I don’t think I hate you.” 

He starts laughing. It shakes his shoulders and makes the bed creak. His eyes screw up and you can feel the way his stomach moves against yours. You feel your shoulders go up by your ears and you try to pull away, embarrassed that he’s laughing.

“I’m sorry, sugar, c’mere,” He tugs you even closer to him than before, if possible, “I’m not laughin’ at you, I’m laughin’ only ‘cause I never hated you. I don’t really think you hated me either.”

“Hey!” You’re indignant, “Rhett Abbott, who’re you to tell me how I feel?”

“Alright, alright, sugar, I’ll take ‘yer word for it. My heroics do it for ‘ya?” You barely catch the way he winks at you in the dark, but it makes you want to bite him in retaliation.

“The way you almost got the snot beat outta ‘ya? Sure.” Scoffing, you turn yourself over so you’re facing away from him again, only you don’t move out of his arms. 

He huffs lightly in protest, but lets it go in favor of nuzzling into your hair and pressing his lips to the crown of your head. It sends a warm sort of heat through you. You’re not ready to fully give in to him yet, but you think he might be growing on you. You’ll just have to see.

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Lewis Pullman for Bustle

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lewis via bustle

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Boyfriend in the garden.

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Lewis Pullman for GQ Magazine

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Bill Pullman for GQ, 2021 / Lewis Pullman for GQ, 2025

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A repro of the Dior Bar Suit from 1947! Points to her and her stylist!

Monica Barbaro on her way to Met Gala 2025 [x]