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grayandthyme · 28 days ago

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mwah hello lovely! Just had a sneaky ask so basically when I'm washing my face or like doing my hair or like sewing, I take my rings off so it doesn't get caught or anything and I was like totally thinking like imagine jackson!tommy being absolutely miserable and grumpy and yous fall out but then like go to sleep on an argument and he wakes up to you getting ready without your wedding ring on and this man is stressing on another level like he is grovelling and apologising, like completely fluff, and your style of writing would so slay this!!

(could I request to be 💐 - also love ur work so much ur my fav right now!!)

authors note: ohhhh i LOVE this idea. i do the same thing too tbh.. and then i always forget to put all my jewelry on in the morning. excuse the horrible horrible writers block. if this was bad, then i am so so sorry, my flower.

warnings: lil bit of angst. couple disagreement. tommy is emo. happy ending. fluffy ending. implied intercourse near the end.

Winter was never kind.

Not in the last two years, anyway. The cold always came early, sharp and cruel. It gnawed at the town, and at Tommy—tightening its grip with each passing day.

Illness had started to spread, food stores had thinned, and every home begged for more insulation than they had to give.

And through it all, he carried the burden—Jackson’s protector, whether he asked for it or not.

You hated how powerless you felt.

Ideas buzzed endlessly in your head, half-baked plans and desperate wishes—none of them enough.

Sleep had become a stranger. Guilt made sure of that.

The front door creaked open, slow, as if even the hinges understood the weight of the man walking through the entry. Tommy's boots hit the floor with a dull thud. You could hear him exhale as he hung up his coat—bone-tired and quiet.

Upstairs, you sat still, listening.

You could hear it on him. The heaviness. The wear in every breath.

It twisted something weary in your chest.

And still—what could you do?

All you had was your love. Your presence.

Silent prayers that no one else would fall ill.

That no more names would be added to the list of the lost.

That he wouldn’t lose himself beneath it all.

“Tommy?”

Your voice was soft, coaxing, as your hands pulled your hair into its usual protective twist for bed. “I’m upstairs.”

You heard the stairs groan beneath his weight. Slow steps. Heavy. You pictured his hand dragging along the banister like he was holding himself upright with it.

He was.

When he appeared in the doorway, your heart ached at the sight of him. His face was blank, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual—not from lack of sleep, but from everything else.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything right away.

You tried to keep your voice light. “Did you eat anything?”

“No.”

Just that. A clipped syllable, tossed carelessly into the air between you.

You sat up straighter. “You should’ve grabbed somethin’. I left soup on the stove.”

He shrugged off the comment like it was a coat he didn’t feel like wearing. “Didn’t feel like it.”

"Oh—"

"I can grab you a bowl," You blinked. "Tommy—"

"Can we not?" he muttered, already tugging off his shirt, turning his back to you. His shoulders were hunched, tense like a coiled wire.

Your stomach tightened. “Not what?”

“This." He gestured vaguely. "The questions. The fussin’."

"...I just want five goddamn minutes without someone needing somethin’ from me.”

Five goddamn minutes without your suffocating love.

Isn't that it? Isn't that what he really meant?

You stared at him, stunned by the bite in his voice. “I’m not someone from town, Tommy. I’m not asking you to fix a generator or build a fence—"

"… I’m asking if you’re okay…"

"… If you’ve eaten.”

He turned to face you, exasperation flaring behind his eyes. “And what do you want me to say, huh? That I’m not okay? That everything’s goin’ to shit and I can’t stop it? You think sayin’ it out loud makes it better?”

He just isn't himself these days.

Not the man you married.

Not the man you fell in love with.

“No,” you said, voice rising in spite of yourself. “But shutting me out doesn’t make it better either.”

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw twisting like he wanted to say something worse.

But, he bit it back.

“I’m tired,” he said finally, like that explained everything.

Like that excused all of it.

Silence settled between you, cold and thick. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to you again. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you spoke.

And after a while, you leaned your head back against the headboard, hands still tangled in your half-finished updo. The sound of wind whistled faintly through the old windows.

It was cold in the house, but colder between the two of you.

Weeks since you had last been intimate.

Days since the last time you had eaten dinner together.

Minutes since the last time you had looked at each other.

Seconds since the last time you thought of each other.

Maybe this was the breaking point.

Not the kind that comes with shouting or slammed doors—but the quiet, bitter kind. The kind that settles in the chest and whispers you’ve had enough.

Maybe tonight you were done pretending that his silence didn't scrape at your insides.

That every sigh, every shift in the sheets, wasn’t treated like a personal offense.

You stood up slowly, breath steady but hands a little tight around the pillow.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” you said, voice low, final—not angry, just… finished. You grabbed your water bottle off the nightstand, the metal clinking against your ring.

Behind you, Tommy shifted, but didn’t speak. Not right away. You were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the dark.

“What, now you’re punishin' me?”

You turned, the weight in your chest heavy. “No, Tommy. I’m giving us space. You don’t want me near you right now, and I’m not gonna beg for scraps of patience you don’t have.”

His expression darkened. “You think this is about you?” He gave a humorless chuckle and ran a hand down his face. “Christ. I can’t even be tired without it turnin’ into a fight.”

“You’re not just tired,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, level.

“You’re angry."

"And mean."

"… And I get that things are hard right now, but I’m not the enemy.”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked away, jaw tense, like the words were too much.

Like you were too much.

And maybe you were.

For tonight, at least.

So you turned.

Left the room with your pillow clutched tight to your chest, like it might hold the pieces of you still trying to stay soft. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but it was nothing compared to the chill in that bedroom.

Out here, at least, the air didn’t feel so heavy. You could breathe without the sharp edges.

Downstairs, you settled onto the couch. The cushions were stiff, unfamiliar. You pulled the blanket up over your legs and stared at the dark ceiling for a long while.

It had been nearly two years since you last slept alone.

When you got married, Tommy had made a quiet vow—not just in words, but in practice.

He stopped working nights, made a point to come home, to come to bed.

No matter how hard the day had been, no matter how tired or withdrawn he felt. He always made it back to you.

And those nights mattered—whether they passed in conversation, on-and-on, or in silence, with a book in your lap or his head on your chest.

He was there.

Always.

Every night ended with him. And most mornings began with his warmth still lingering beside you.

Until now, that is.

Now the absence was sharp, jarring in its unfamiliarity. You lay back, blinking at the ceiling. Pretty unsure if sleep would come at all.

Morning arrived without mercy.

Early light filtered through the curtains, indifferent to your unrest. It felt like you’d slept maybe two hours—scattered, shallow fragments of rest between the tossing and the waking.

Every groan of the old house, every twack of wind or branch against the windows pulled you back to the surface. Sleep had never been this fragile—not when you had his arms around you.

You'd almost forgotten how much quieter your mind was when he held you.

Was the world always this loud?

Even so, even bone-tired, you rose. Slowly, peeling yourself from the couch. Your body ached from the angles of the cushions, the way they never gave quite enough support. The living room was still, untouched by anyone else. Just you. Just cold.

You stood. Stretched out the tightness in your muscles, rolled your shoulders back, and breathed.

Then—against the weight in your limbs—you moved.

Back up the stairs. Not out of hope, exactly, but out of duty. Out of love that still lived, and lingered somewhere in the mess. You didn’t know what you’d say. You didn’t know what would be waiting on the other side of that bedroom door.

But he shouldn’t be alone. Not like this.

And when you finally opened the door—against all odds, against every hope he’d still be there—he wasn’t.

The bed was made. Curtains drawn open, exactly the way you did every morning. But the room was empty. He was already gone.

And just like that, the sinking feeling returned. That familiar, dreadful kind—the one that creeps in when you realize something is beginning to unravel. When the ground shifts beneath you, and nothing feels solid anymore.

The kind of fear that whispers, this is when everything starts to go really, really wrong.

Your chest tightened. That helpless, aching question echoing in your mind,

How are you supposed to carry his burden, when you’re starting to feel like one yourself?

It was that sensation you get when you trip over a sidewalk crack—just for a second, your whole body in freefall. That stutter in your breath, the instant rush of adrenaline as your brain prepares for pain. Just pain. Pain all over.

That’s what this feels like.

That’s what this room feels like.

Still. Clean. And utterly abandoned.

There wasn’t much you could do.

Just exhale.

Breathe in.

Gather yourself for the day ahead.

And send up a silent prayer—to whatever god might still be listening—that they wouldn’t take him from you. Not yet. Not like this. You weren’t finished. Your story wasn’t done.

So you stepped into the bathroom, steadying yourself against the sink. The light was soft, cold against your skin. You moved through the motions because they were the only things you could control.

You slipped off your ring. Then your bracelet. Set them gently on the counter like they might shatter if handled carelessly.

And then you began your morning.

Because what else was there to do but keep going?

You washed your face with the clove and ivory soap a farmer down the street had made just for you. It had come in a basket filled with sweetgrass and other homemade scents—gifts from your wedding day.

Now, these simple things were part of your daily ritual, grounding you in a world that felt anything but steady. And you routinely asked for these products.

Usually—most mornings, you’d pause in front of the mirror and smile softly, your hands would reach up and dab the soap onto Tommy’s face—gentle, playful, tracing through his mustache with quiet laughter.

He always let you.

Every single time.

That small act, so ordinary, had become a language of its own—one that spoke of tenderness beneath the weight of everything else. And, you hadn't done that today.

After your morning ritual, you stepped out into the gray light of Jackson’s small town market.

The heart of the community when everything else felt fragile.

The chill in the air bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed.

There was work to be done. People to help.

You spent the morning helping vendors unload crates, set up tables, and arrange produce with practiced care. Each small task felt heavy—not just from the cold, but from the weight of knowing Tommy carried the town on his back.

And today, you were determined to carry some of it for him.

Even if you weren't on speaking terms.

A few familiar faces caught your eye—Mrs. Harper, already at her flower stall, smiled softly as you helped her lift a box of fresh daisies.

“Thanks, dear. You always make things easier.”

You smiled back, brushing a stray hair from your face. “We do what we can.”

At the bread stand, Mr. Lawson handed you a warm loaf with a grateful nod. “Tommy’s lucky to have you.”

Was he?

Was he really lucky? Or had the weight pressing down on him blurred the lines between what he noticed and what he feared to see?

By midday, your hands were raw, fingers cracked from cold and work, your feet aching from hours on unforgiving ground.

But you pushed forward anyway.

An older woman had asked you to fetch a crate from the back, and you’d agreed without hesitation. You trudged through the snow, the cold biting through your gloves as you pulled them tighter, careful not to drop the crate.

Then—The sudden crunch of boots behind you made you turn sharply.

Tommy.

Steadfast. Solid.

Before you could say anything, his hands caught your wrist, firm but gentle.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer than it had been in weeks—less command, more question, more a fragile confession caught in his throat.

“Tommy—” You exhaled, startled by the sudden contact, your eyes locking onto his as if trying to read the worry etched deep beneath his steady gaze.

“I’m fine.” Your words came quick, but unsure. “What’s—what’s wrong?”

He hesitated, swallowing hard. His eyes flicked down to your left hand, the absence of the wedding band that you didn't know about glaring like a missing piece of a puzzle he wasn’t ready to face.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” he said quietly, his voice taut—tight with a panic that trembled just beneath the surface.

What?

You shook your head firmly, a silent no. Slowly, deliberately, you slipped your glove off, heart sinking as your fingers searched for the familiar weight.

It wasn’t there.

You must have left it in the bathroom after your morning routine—forgotten in the rush of thoughts and the quiet chaos inside your mind.

“Shit—” you breathed out, the word sharp and tangled with regret. “No, no… I forgot. I must’ve been thinking too hard… and just left without putting it back on.”

He shifted uneasily, a flicker of doubt shadowing his eyes—like maybe he wasn’t sure if he believed you.

“Hey,” you murmured, lifting your bare, gloveless hand slowly to his jaw. Your fingers traced the line gently, sliding back until your thumb rested softly against his cheekbone.

“I’m still your wife.”

“That doesn’t change,” you said quietly but fiercely, “... just because I slept on the couch last night. It doesn’t change because you carry a weight that feels like the whole damn world.”

Your voice held steady beneath the tremor of everything left unsaid—a tether meant to hold him close, even when everything else felt like it might unravel.

He exhaled slowly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—though it hadn’t yet reached the shadows in his eyes.

His hand slipped into the pocket of his worn jeans and pulled out the ring. A simple silver band, rough and weathered, crowned with the largest gem he’d been able to find in this fractured world—still bold, still fierce. About the size of a pea, catching the light like a stubborn spark.

“Oh no,” you teased, a soft laugh escaping as your fingers reached for the ring. “You’re gonna have to get down on one knee if you want to give this back to me.”

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief.

“Well, if I did it once…” His grin twisted into something fond and teasing. “I reckon I can do it again.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling low. “Good… ‘Cause it’s only payback.”

“Payback?” he echoed, sliding the ring onto your finger with a touch both gentle and reverent.

You smirked, nudging him lightly. “Payback for being just like your brother. A grumpy ass.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Hey, I’m not that bad.”

“Oh, come on.” Your grin deepened, teasing but warm. “You’re a hell of a lot worse. But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Tommy’s smile softened, the rough edges melting away as he closed the distance between you, pulling you in just a little tighter.

“Yeah, well… lucky for you, I’m stubborn as hell.”

You exhaled, slow and steady, your fingers weaving through the roughness of his hairline, tracing the familiar lines until you drew him closer still. His hands found your waist, steady and sure, anchoring you both.

“As stubborn as a bull,” you murmured, pressing gentle, scattered kisses to the planes of his face—each one a small claim, a quiet promise of holding.

Tommy’s lips curved into a crooked grin, the kind that made your heart skip—a flash of the man you knew beneath all the weight and worry.

“You know,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “if I’m a stubborn bull, you’re definitely the matador.” He gave you a playful shove, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Always finding ways to make me follow your lead.”

You laughed, nudging him back. “Someone’s gotta keep your ass in line.”

He winked, that familiar cocky edge sliding back into his voice as his fingers tangled in your hair with a possessive ease.

“Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. I’m a wild one.”

You smiled softly, your breath warm against his skin as he pulled you closer, the weight between you easing, if only for a moment, a fleeting second. “And that’s exactly why I’m sticking around.”

With a reluctant grin, you pulled away just enough to break the spell.

“Come on, get back to work. I’ll see you at home.”

You pressed a few lingering kisses along his jawline, savoring the quiet closeness before stepping back and reaching down for the crate, the cold biting at your fingertips but your heart a little lighter.

Home was a refuge—warmer than the biting cold outside.

Wrapped in the steady glow of the fireplace you’d left smoldering, just enough to chase the chill but not so much to waste fuel.

By the time Tommy came home, the house hummed with quiet comfort. You were already curled up in bed, half-lost between sleep and wakefulness, fingers loosely clutching the worn book resting in your lap—its pages blurred by your drifting thoughts.

Exhausted. You were exhausted.

The door creaked softly behind you, and then his presence filled the room before you even saw him.

He moved quietly, shrugging off his coat and slipping out of his boots without a sound. He slid beneath the covers beside you, his arms folding around your waist—steady, warm—a silent promise that no matter how heavy the world pressed down, you were still his.

Here. Now. Safe.

“Miss me?” he murmured into the hollow behind your ear, his voice low, softened by something tender and raw.

You settled into the curve of his neck, breathing out the day’s weight.

“Always.”

But then, with a playful grimace, you pushed at his arms.

“But—your hands… they’re so fucking cold.”

Tommy grinned against your skin, voice teasing as he tightened his hold just enough to spark a little fire between the chill.

“Cold hands, warm heart. You get the full package, don'tcha?”

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping you. “Seriously, you’re freezing.”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through your skin like a familiar pulse. “Yeah? Then warm me up.” His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, cool at first but purposeful, settling on the curve of your hips before sliding slowly upward.

A sharp gasp caught in your throat, breath hitching as you barely managed to say his name. “To—”

But he silenced you, his mouth claimed yours—urgent and fierce, but tender all at the same time. Then his hands traced the path of your stomach with deliberate patience, pausing just beneath your fluttering ribs.

His lips moved against yours with a slow, steady heat, tracing promises. His hands, cold and sure, slid from your ribs to your sides, grounding you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

You melted into him, breath mingling, heart beating in time with his. The cold from earlier faded away, replaced by the fire he always managed to kindle.

That burning pool in your belly.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were soft, searching, and a little vulnerable. “You alright?”

You nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Better than I’ve been in days.”

A slow, tender smile curved his lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”

You tilted your head, letting out a soft yawn into the quiet space beside him. His smile deepened, fingers leaving your hair, gently gripping your cheeks between his pointer finger, and thumb.

Tilting until you meet his stare.

“Fallin' asleep on me?”

“The couch wasn’t exactly welcoming,” you murmured, pursing your lips in mock protest beneath his touch. A soft squish.

“Too bad,” he breathed, his head dipping down to rest against the hollow of your neck. “There’s a whole lot I’ve been wanting to do to you tonight.”

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