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✨Rookie - 4/8✨

Summary: You didn’t plan on starting over in the middle of nowhere — Montana was never the dream. But when LA chewed you up and spit you out, a run-down house and a stranger with a slow smile felt like the closest thing to hope you’d had in a long time.

Pairing: Beau x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 6900

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.

The next morning, the station smelled like burnt coffee, wet boots, and too many microwaved breakfast burritos. In other words: normal.

Your boots felt heavier than usual as you walked through the doors. Maybe it was the healing ribs. Maybe it was the weight of everything else. The two weeks of space, the porch light that never came back on, the image of Jenny disappearing into Beau’s house like she belonged there. You didn’t want it to matter. But it did.

Still, you shoved it down, same as always.

“Back in one piece”, Jenny greeted lightly from across the room, clipboard in hand, her tone friendly but casual, like she hadn’t completely redefined herself in your head overnight.

“Mostly”, you said, managing a polite smile as you walked past.

You didn’t ask about last night. And she didn’t offer anything either. Your stomach twisted, but you kept moving.

Beau wasn’t in sight. Of course he wasn’t.

You found your name on the roster board, written under someone else’s, just like you expected. But not Beau. Deputy Timothy Rhoades.

The name barely rang a bell.

Then you heard it: the click of polished boots on the floor, and when you turned, you saw him.

Tall. Broad. Clean-cut in a way that felt almost military. A perfectly pressed uniform, squared shoulders, jaw set like it was carved out of granite. His light brown hair was cropped short, expression unreadable. Not unkind, just professional. All business. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a recruitment poster. Or maybe a fitness magazine.

He gave you a nod. “Deputy”.

You blinked. “Rhoades?”.

“Tim”, he corrected. “Figured we’ll be in a car together for eight hours, might as well use first names”.

You nodded once. “(Y/N)”.

“I know”, he said, then gestured toward the lot. “Cruiser’s gassed up. You riding passenger”.

You hesitated. “I thought I was cleared to drive again”.

He looked at you, then tilted his head toward the office across the bullpen, the one with Beau’s name still on the door. “Sheriff said not yet”.

Of course he did.

Tim didn’t say anything more as you followed him outside, and you didn’t ask. But your jaw tightened. The knot in your stomach wound a little tighter.

It wasn’t about the cruiser. It wasn’t about trust. It was about him.

You slid into the passenger seat, the door shutting with a soft click, and stared out the window as Tim started the engine.

He didn’t press you with small talk. Didn’t fill the air with empty chatter or awkward questions about your ribs or how it felt to be back.

But he did drive like a pro, one hand on the wheel, eyes scanning calmly, no wasted motion. Efficient. Focused. And something about that… steadiness was grounding. Even if it wasn’t warm.

About twenty minutes into patrol, he finally spoke again. “I know we don’t know each other”, Tim said, keeping his eyes on the road. “But if you’re not ready to be back out here, say the word”.

“I’m ready”, you said quickly.

“Alright”.

Silence again. But not uncomfortable this time. Just… open.

You watched the landscape roll by through the passenger window, same quiet fields, same old fences, same town that somehow kept shifting under your feet.

Somewhere behind you, back at that station, Beau was sitting behind a desk, thinking he was giving you the space you needed. And maybe he was. But all you could think about was the space that had opened up between you… and how loud it had gotten in the silence.

Another week passed. The mornings got even warmer. Your ribs ached less. And Beau Arlen stayed behind the glass of his office more and more, like a shadow you weren’t sure how to walk toward anymore.

You didn’t speak unless you had to. Not because either of you were angry, but because something delicate had broken between you. Or maybe not broken, just buried beneath things neither of you were ready to say.

But patrol? Patrol was good. Tim was good. In his own way.

He wasn’t Beau, didn’t talk like him, didn’t soften things with humor or let the silence stretch too long. He was sharper, more clipped. But there was something about his energy that matched yours. Calm. Focused. No need to impress. Just get the job done.

It wasn’t until three days into working side by side that you were both leaning against the cruiser hood with gas station coffee when he casually asked, “You said you trained in LA, right?”.

You nodded. “LAPD. Class of late-shitstorm. You?”.

“Yeah”, he said, looking off toward the road. “Was there many years. Left about six months before your class started. Bet we missed each other by inches”.

You blinked. “Wait — you were LAPD?”.

Tim smirked slightly. “Why do you sound so surprised?”.

“I don’t know. You seem… sane”.

He laughed, really laughed, the sound low and sudden, shaking his head as he took another sip. “That’s a first”.

After that, things clicked a little more.

You swapped stories — war-zone neighborhoods, the good days, the god-awful ones. Tim had been a training officer before he left. Said the politics got worse than the streets, and one day, he just couldn’t stomach it anymore. He packed up and headed north. Didn't look back.

“I guess I burned slower than you”, you admitted. “But yeah. LA kicked the wind outta me too”.

“Funny”, he said one day while pulling onto the main road, “this place is so damn quiet, it almost makes me nervous. Like it’s waiting for something”.

You smiled faintly. “Or like it’s giving you room to breathe for once”.

“Yeah”, he said. “That”.

By the end of the week, riding with him started to feel familiar in a way that didn’t hurt.

And Beau? He still barely looked your way.

But you caught him once through the window of his office, staring after you and Tim as the cruiser pulled out of the lot. His face unreadable. His hands motionless. And even though you looked away first, the back of your neck burned the whole way down Main Street.

Because you could feel it. The pull was still there. But you weren’t sure if he’d ever reach for it again.

Another week rolled by, and Tim was still your partner.

The department was still stretched thin, and Beau still hadn’t cleared you to drive solo, though at this point, you suspected it had less to do with your ribs and more to do with him keeping his distance. He’d barely spoken to you outside of brief, clipped radio calls and the occasional nod in passing.

And if Tim noticed the weird, quiet current between you and the Sheriff, he didn’t say anything. You were starting to like that about him. He was steady. Reliable. Funny when he wanted to be, dry and deadpan, but sharp. You’d gotten used to the rhythm of riding with him, the ease of slipping into conversations that weren’t loaded with half-said things. With Tim, everything was simple.

You didn’t realize how close you two had gotten, or how it might look from the outside, until Wednesday afternoon.

You were leaning over the hood of the cruiser, both elbows planted as you and Tim laughed over a shared bag of chips, your sunglasses crooked on your nose and his voice low as he mimicked one of the local deputies with alarming accuracy.

“I swear”, he said through a smirk, “if that guy says ‘roger that’ one more time, I’m turning in my badge and becoming a librarian”.

You nearly choked on a chip. “You’d terrify the book clubs”.

Just then, a shadow passed behind the windshield. You looked up and caught Beau. He was standing beside his truck, talking to one of the deputies who’d just returned from the field. But his eyes weren’t on the clipboard in his hand. They were on you. His jaw was set. Shoulders tight. Not angry, just focused. Too focused.

You knew that look. The last time you saw it, his hand was on your waist and his mouth was on yours under a sky full of stars. This time, he looked away quickly, lips thinning as he turned and disappeared into the station.

Tim followed your gaze, then looked back at you. “That was subtle”.

You cleared your throat and turned back to the chips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about”.

“Sure you don’t”.

Two days later, it was your turn.

You were grabbing a file from the front desk, half-listening to the dispatcher chat about a bake sale, when the front door opened and in walked a woman you didn’t recognize. Late twenties. Blonde, leggy, with an air of I know I look good confidence that made your stomach twist before you even knew why.

She walked straight past the bullpen like she owned the place and knocked once on Beau’s office door before slipping inside.

You froze. The conversation around you faded. You tried to keep working. Tried to not care. But when the door opened again fifteen minutes later, you glanced up without meaning to.

She laughed at something. Beau stood behind her, saying something you couldn’t hear, and she reached out to touch his arm in that soft, lingering way that meant they knew each other.

Well. Beau caught your eye for half a second as she stepped out. You looked away first.

Later, when you passed him in the hall, you didn’t say anything. And neither did he. But both of you felt it, the quiet hum of something unsettled between you. A current you both kept pretending wasn’t there. And it was getting harder to ignore.

Friday came with thick gray clouds and the kind of morning that made the air feel heavier than it should.

You were halfway through your second cup of coffee at your desk when Jenny appeared beside you, tapping the edge of your folder with the back of her knuckle. “Sheriff wants to see you”, she said, a little too casual. “Office. Now”.

You didn’t ask why. You just closed the folder, set down your mug, and made the quiet walk across the bullpen that had somehow started to feel longer every time you took it.

Beau’s office door was slightly ajar. You knocked once and pushed it open.

He didn’t look up right away. He was standing near the window, arms crossed, staring out at the overcast sky like it might give him answers. When he finally turned toward you, his expression was unreadable. Not cold, not warm. Just measured.

“Close the door”, he said quietly.

You did. The soft click echoed too loud in the quiet.

He finally turned fully, arms dropping to his sides. “You’ve been riding with Tim two weeks now”.

You nodded once. “He’s good”.

“I know”.

A pause. You waited, pulse ticking in your throat.

Beau sighed, running a hand over his jaw. “You’ve been back in full rotation, responding without issue. No hesitation. No calls needing backup. File work’s clean. Reports are sharper than half the department”.

Your brow lifted faintly. “So… am I being fired or promoted?”.

That pulled the ghost of a smile from him. “Neither”.

He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit”.

You did. He walked around and lowered into his chair, folding his hands on the desk between you. “I’m clearing you for solo patrol again”.

The words hit your chest before they hit your ears. You should’ve felt relieved. Maybe even proud. But all you felt was the low hum of something else.

“Okay”, you said. “Thank you”.

He nodded, but didn’t move. Didn’t shift back into casual work mode like he normally would. Instead, his eyes stayed on yours, quiet, unreadable, burning with something he wasn’t saying.

You leaned forward slightly. “Is that all?”.

Beau hesitated. Just for a breath. Then: “No”.

Your heart tripped.

Beau exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing once against the edge of the desk before he leaned back slightly, eyes lowering. “I’m—”. He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I just want to say I’m sorry”.

That word alone made your spine straighten. “For… what?”, you asked carefully, though you already knew.

His gaze flicked up to yours, then dropped again almost immediately. “For… kissing you”, he said, quieter now. “For overstepping”. The words felt like they scraped coming out of his throat. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Or screw up the one place that’s supposed to be… steady for you”.

You watched him closely. His voice was even, but his ears were red. His hands had stilled, and he was staring at them like they might start talking for him if he didn’t get the words right.

“I want you to like it here”, he said. “Living next door. Working this job. This place. I want you to feel safe. And I crossed a line that could’ve made all of that harder. I thought maybe you—”. He stopped again. Swallowed. Cleared his throat and tried again, quieter this time. “I thought you might feel something too, but… that doesn’t matter. It won’t happen again”.

Your heart dropped. Not because he was wrong, not exactly. But because he was doing the same thing you had done. He was ignoring the part where you had felt something. Where your fingers had curled in his shirt and your lips had chased his. Where it wasn’t fear or confusion that made you kiss him back, it was want. Real and reckless and terrifying.

But the second that damn radio crackled, you remembered LA. You remembered running.

And Beau? He wasn’t just another man. He was your boss. You couldn’t let history repeat itself.

Still, the way he was looking down now, like he was bracing for you to agree with him, like he was already halfway to hating himself for something you both wanted, it cut through you harder than it should’ve.

You sat with it for a moment. Let the silence speak. Then you said, very softly, “You didn’t make me uncomfortable”.

His eyes flicked up. Hope, faint but alive, flashed across his face before he shoved it back down.

“I wanted it”, you added. “That night. All of it. Until I didn’t”.

Beau blinked, carefully still. “Because of the job”.

“Because I’ve done this before”, you said, not harsh, just honest. “And last time, it ruined everything. I don’t want to have to run again, Beau. I don’t want to be that girl packing a duffel bag at midnight and leaving everything behind”.

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

“And I like it here”, you said. “I like the job. The street. The neighbors. The terrible coffee. I even like the quiet”. His lip twitched at that. You leaned back a little, voice steady now. “So I need to keep things simple. Even if I don’t want to”.

That landed heavier than either of you wanted it to.

Beau nodded once, then again, like it took two tries to make the motion stick. He pressed his lips together, then stood slowly and stepped back from the desk. “Copy that”, he said.

And it should’ve felt professional. Closed. Settled. But it didn’t. Because you both knew what wasn’t being said.

You gave him a soft smile as you stood, not wide, not full of ease. Just enough. Tight-lipped. Barely there. But real. Your voice was steady, even as something in your chest tugged. “You’re a good guy, Beau”, you said. “And I really… really like you”.

He blinked. Once. You could see the flicker in his eyes, like he wasn’t sure whether those words were healing or salt in a wound. Maybe both.

You hesitated, just for a breath, then added gently, “I’d still like to be your friend. If that’s something you can do”.

He stood still, hands flexing slightly at his sides. Then he nodded, slowly. “I can do that,” he said. Quiet. Honest. Not quite convincing.

You didn’t say anything else. There was nothing else that would land right without unraveling both of you all over again. So you reached for the doorknob. Pulled it open. And paused in the threshold.

Without turning around, you said, “For what it’s worth… the kiss was really good”. Then you stepped out, closing the door gently behind you.

And Beau sat down, pressed his palms against the desk, and tried not to hope for something he’d already agreed to let go.

Beau really tried. He kept it professional. He kept his head down. He assigned shifts, signed off on paperwork, even managed to nod politely when you passed him in the hall.

But beneath the surface? He was moody as hell.

Jenny noticed before noon.

They were riding together, a rare throwback to how things used to be, and by the time they’d made it halfway through the morning route, he’d already snapped at her twice, muttered under his breath three times, and sighed more than a man his age should legally be allowed to in one hour.

“You planning on biting someone today, or should I just keep throwing you milk bones until you calm down?”, Jenny asked flatly, adjusting the radio dial like she owned the whole damn cruiser.

Beau glared sideways. “I’m fine”.

“That’s a lie”, she said without missing a beat. “And a boring one”.

He grunted.

The rest of the ride was stiff. He answered calls short. Responded with clipped instructions. Barely looked anyone in the eye. But it wasn’t until lunch that it really hit him.

Jenny had suggested the truck near the edge of town, your favorite sandwich stop, the one that parked by the old grain co-op with the outdoor benches and shaded tables. She didn’t know you'd be there. Neither did he. But the moment they turned the corner, Beau froze.

There you were. Leaning back against the weathered wood of a picnic table, one hand holding your sandwich, the other clutching your stomach as you laughed, loud, breathless, so hard you nearly spilled your drink. Your eyes were crinkled, your cheeks flushed, your whole body lit up with that full, unfiltered joy he hadn’t seen from you in weeks.

And next to you, Tim. He stood relaxed, leaning against the truck with his arms crossed, watching you with a grin tugging at his mouth, not cocky, not forced. Just there. And it wasn’t the grin that gutted Beau.

It was the look. The way Tim watched you, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of you smiling. Like he couldn’t believe he got to see it.

Beau didn’t say a word. Didn’t move.

Jenny caught the shift in him immediately, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw locked. She followed his gaze, saw the whole scene unfold in one glance, and let out a slow, low breath. “Well”, she muttered, grabbing her phone. “That’s a kick in the teeth”.

Beau didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe, either.

You hadn’t seen him yet. Neither had Tim.

Beau could’ve turned. Walked away. Avoided it. But instead, he squared his shoulders, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and walked up to the truck like it didn’t feel like his chest had just cracked open.

“Hey”, you said, noticing him first, voice still breathy from laughter. Your smile faltered, just slightly, eyes flicking between him and Jenny.

Tim straightened, offering a nod. “Sheriff”.

“Rhoades”, Beau said curtly, then looked at you. “Deputy”.

Your stomach dipped. You gave him a tight nod, trying to find the version of yourself from ten seconds ago, the one who hadn’t just felt the air change.

Jenny stepped in, clearly sensing the weight. “Didn’t know this place was booked for heartbreak”, she muttered under her breath.

You heard her. So did Beau. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you for a half second too long. Long enough to register the red in your cheeks. The way you still hadn’t quite caught your breath from laughing. The way Tim’s shoulder was just barely brushing yours.

Then he looked away. “C´mon”, he said to Jenny, flat and low. And they walked off.

But not before Jenny turned back once, mouthing a single word behind Beau’s back as she passed: "Seriously?".

And you didn’t know if she meant him. Or you.

A few days later, you were halfway across the grass before you started second-guessing every decision you’d made that night.

The water in your house was completely dead — no pressure, no warning, no anything — and after a long shift in the heat, you’d hit your limit. You’d planned for a shower, a quiet night, maybe a drink and sleep. But instead, here you were, walking across your yard in nothing but sleep shorts and a thin tank top with no bra, barefoot in flip-flops, praying Beau was home and not going to make a thing out of it.

You figured it’d be quick. Just knock, ask for a wrench. Laugh it off. Go back to pretending everything was calm and neutral.

You weren’t expecting the lights in his living room to be warm and low. You weren’t expecting music coming faintly from the stereo. And you definitely weren’t expecting the door to open the second you knocked.

“Finally”, Jenny said, swinging the door open with a half-full beer in her hand and zero awareness. “I was about to eat my own shoe, this pizza—”.

She stopped. Blinking. Her eyes dropped for a second, a fast sweep from your bare legs to the tight edge of your tank, then back up to your wide-eyed face.

“Oh”, she said. “Not pizza”.

You stood frozen, one arm instinctively coming up to cross over your chest. “Uh—hi. Sorry. I didn’t know you were—”.

She stepped aside before you could finish, leaning back into the doorway and calling over her shoulder. “Beau? You’ve got company”.

You heard a grunt. The creak of a chair. Then footsteps.

Beau appeared a second later, a beer in one hand, eyes landing on you and going very still. His jaw moved, just slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to speak or swallow first.

“Hey”, you said, voice awkward and too soft. “Sorry to drop by. I, uh… no water. I was gonna ask if you had a wrench. Or a miracle”.

Beau blinked once. Then twice. Then looked at Jenny like maybe she’d have an answer he didn’t. Jenny just sipped her beer and raised an eyebrow, thoroughly entertained now. “Shower’s working fine in here”, she said casually.

You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt”.

“You didn’t”, Beau said quickly. Too quickly.

Jenny didn’t miss a beat. She turned on her heel and flopped back onto the couch like this was all one big reality show she’d been cast in. “I’m just here for beer, pizza, and the slow collapse of emotional denial”, she muttered, grabbing the remote and turning the volume on the stereo down a few notches. “Don’t let me interrupt whatever this is”.

Beau cleared his throat, glancing once more at you, still standing awkwardly in the doorway, one arm crossed over your chest, the other holding onto the edge of the doorframe like it might help anchor you.

“I’ll, uh—grab the toolbox”, he said, already moving toward the hall closet. “Might be something simple. Pressure valve or clogged line. I’ll take a look”.

You nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. “Thanks. I didn’t know who else to—”.

“You did the right thing”, he said firmly, glancing over his shoulder. “I got it”.

He disappeared down the hallway, and you finally stepped inside, closing the door gently behind you. Jenny raised her eyebrows as you passed. “Nice outfit”, she said dryly, sipping her beer. “Real subtle”.

You rolled your eyes and muttered, “I wasn’t expecting an audience”.

Jenny shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me”.

You dropped onto the edge of the armchair, tugging your shorts down automatically even though they weren’t going anywhere. Beau came back a second later, toolbox in one hand, gaze flicking to you just once before he motioned toward the door.

“Let’s go see what kind of mess you’ve got”.

“Other than me?”, you muttered under your breath.

He didn’t respond, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Almost a smile.

Jenny raised her beer like a toast. “Y’all have fun with your plumbing”.

You followed Beau outside, the night cool against your bare skin, silence stretching between you as the back porch light flicked on. He crossed the grass to your house in a few long strides, toolbox swinging at his side, and you trailed just behind him, suddenly aware of every sound… your flip-flops against the ground, the frogs near the fence line, your heartbeat.

Inside, the house was quiet, dim, a single lamp still glowing in the living room. Beau headed straight for the bathroom, setting the toolbox down with a thud. “Let me take a look”, he said, kneeling by the sink, sleeves pushing up as he opened the cabinet.

You didn’t say much. Just stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him work like it was the most natural thing in the world, except for the part where you couldn’t not notice how close you were to him in your sleep shorts and thin tank. How the edges of your world kept folding inward whenever he shifted, whenever he muttered to himself under his breath.

“Alright”, Beau said after a few minutes. “Line’s flushed, valve’s reset. You’ll need a better seal on the main eventually, but this should hold”.

He stood slowly, back straightening with a quiet grunt. “Wanna test it?”, he asked, reaching for the handle on the shower.

You nodded, stepping inside the bathroom fully now. The overhead light cast soft gold across the tile. You leaned into the tub to twist the knobs, but paused when you realized nothing was coming out of the showerhead.

“No pressure”, you said, biting your lip. “Maybe the connection’s still off?”.

Beau stepped in beside you, and it was suddenly small in there. Way too small. He moved to the tub, leaning in close. “Alright, I’ll take a look at the valve on the head itself — just hold that one tight there”.

You reached up to steady the pipe. He fiddled with something near the base of the fixture.

Then, with no warning at all, the shower exploded to life with a sudden, forceful burst of cold water. Right on the both of you.

You yelped, instinctively jerking back, but Beau caught you by the waist before you slipped. His arms wrapped around you automatically, even as water soaked straight through your tank top and shorts, plastering them to your skin instantly.

You gasped, blinking through the spray. “What the hell—”.

He twisted the knob off quickly, water sputtering to a stop with a pathetic cough from the pipes.

Silence. Except your breathing. And his. And the echo of what just happened.

Beau’s hands were still at your waist, holding you steady, like if he let go now, you’d slip again. But you weren’t falling anymore. Not physically, at least.

Your chest rose and fell with uneven breath, and his did the same, his shirt clinging to him now, darkened and heavy with water. You could see the shape of him beneath it, the way the fabric curved around muscle, the way his hair was damp and curling slightly at the ends.

But none of that compared to the way he was looking at you.

His eyes moved slowly, not greedy, not rushed, just honest. Like he didn’t mean to look, but now that he had, there was no going back. And yeah, your tank was soaked through. Clinging. Barely hiding the soft shape of you, the peaks of your nipples pressed tight against the fabric.

You should’ve stepped away… You didn’t.

Beau swallowed hard, jaw flexing, eyes flicking to yours again like he was trying to rein it in, the pull, the tension, the want. He looked like he was fighting himself.

Beau’s gaze lingered a second longer, caught between your eyes and your mouth, his breath shallow and his fingers still warm on your waist.

Then, quietly, his voice rasped out low and hoarse: “I think the shower works just fine”.

You let out the softest breath of a laugh, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah”, you murmured, “seems like it”.

Neither of you moved. You should’ve stepped out of the tub. He should’ve let go. But instead, you stayed there, close, chest to chest, soaked and silent and wide open in a way that didn’t feel reckless anymore. Just real.

He didn’t pull you in this time. You leaned up. Slowly. Deliberately. And kissed him.

His lips met yours like they’d been waiting, not just for the right moment, but for this one. The one where no one had to pretend they didn’t want it anymore.

There was no rush. Just heat. And hunger laced with care.

His hands slid around your back, pulling you gently forward until your wet bodies were pressed together, and your fingers threaded into the damp fabric of his shirt, anchoring there like you needed something solid to hold onto.

You could feel everything, the soaked cling of your clothes, the weight of his body, the quiet hum of breath between kisses. He moved slowly, like you were something worth being careful with, his hands never drifting anywhere they hadn’t been invited.

Beau didn’t pull away. Not when your fingers curled tighter into his shirt, not when your breath hitched against his mouth, not when your legs instinctively shifted closer around him. Instead, he leaned in deeper, arms wrapping tighter around your waist and in one strong, fluid motion, he lifted you off your feet.

Your hands gripped his shoulders as your back met the cool tile of the shower wall, water still dripping faintly around you, your legs wrapping around his hips without hesitation.

The kiss never broke.

If anything, it deepened, slow and sure and hungry, like both of you had been holding back too long and neither of you were willing to stop now. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint threading through every careful press of his mouth against yours. Even now — even here — he held you like you were something precious.

Your elbow bumped something. A sudden, metallic click. And then, the water exploded back on. Cold. Again.

It hit both of you like a slap, cutting through the heat, the closeness, the moment.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, and Beau stumbled back half a step, blinking water from his eyes. The shock broke the kiss clean, not just physically, but like a glass pane shattering between two halves of the same breath.

You dropped your legs from his waist, scrambling to plant your feet on the slick floor of the tub. One hand caught the wall, the other pressing to your chest like you could hold the moment still if you just held tight enough.

But it was already gone. “I’m—”, you started, voice shaking.

Beau straightened, stepping back as you slipped past him, water still dripping down your skin. “Wait—(Y/N), it’s okay—”.

“I’m sorry”, you said, again and again, too fast. Too loud over the spray of the water.

“I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have— God, I’m sorry—”.

Your hand fumbled for the knob, finally wrenching it off. The water stopped, but your heartbeat didn’t. It thundered in your chest like a warning siren. You stepped out of the tub, grabbing the towel hanging nearby and wrapping it around yourself without meeting his eyes.

“(Y/N)”, Beau said again, softer now, not moving from the tub, his voice straining with something thick, maybe concern, maybe regret, maybe both. “You don’t have to apologize”.

You shook your head, water beading down your arms, clinging to your lashes. “I do”.

“No”, he said, more firmly. “You don’t. You didn’t do anything wrong”.

“Yes, I did”, you whispered, but it came out sharper than you meant, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “I did, Beau”. You turned away, clutching the towel tighter, like maybe if you just held onto something hard enough, you could keep from breaking in front of him. “I dragged you into this mess”, you said, pacing now, wet footprints trailing across the tile as your breath sped up. “You’re my boss, Beau. You’re my neighbor. And I—I kissed you like it didn’t matter, like I haven’t done this before and ruined everything—”.

“(Y/N)—”.

“No. No, please just—don’t”. You kept going, couldn’t stop. Like if you didn’t keep talking, your chest might explode from how fast your heart was pounding. “I told myself I’d never do this again. Never feel anything like this again for someone who could—who could take it away from me if it went wrong”.

Beau’s brows pulled together, his voice low, pained. “I’m not him”.

“I know you’re not”, you snapped, spinning toward him, tears finally stinging your eyes. “That’s what makes it worse. You’re good. You’re kind. And you’ve already been too patient with me and I just—”. You faltered, voice breaking. “I can’t be the reason you regret something”.

Beau stepped forward, slow but sure. Like approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any second. “You won’t be”, he said quietly. “I swear to you. You won’t”.

You shook your head again, more tears slipping free now. “Please… just go”.

He hesitated, like it physically hurt to listen. His jaw clenched, eyes flicking across your face, still wet, still trembling, still wrapped in a towel like armor.

You could see it in him, the war. The urge to stay. To fix it. To tell you again and again that he meant it, that it was real, that you didn’t have to be afraid this time.

But you were already spiraling. And Beau… Beau respected that more than his own want. He stepped back. And for the first time, he sounded truly tired when he said, “Okay”.

He paused in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like he might say something else. But he didn’t. He just looked at you, eyes soft and steady and full of something you couldn’t name yet. And then he left.

The door to your house clicked shut behind him with a soft, hollow finality.

Beau stood there on your porch for a long second, water dripping from his sleeves, breath tight in his chest like someone had pressed a fist against it and held. Then he turned. Walked the path back across the yard, wet grass clinging to his boots, shirt still heavy with water, heart pounding with all the things he didn’t say, all the things he couldn’t.

He opened his own front door without a word, stepped inside, and closed it just as softly behind him.

Jenny glanced up from the couch where she was half-curled with a half-eaten slice of pizza, beer still in hand.

And when she saw him, soaked, jaw clenched, eyes red in a way they hadn’t been when he left, she straightened immediately.

“Jesus”, she said, setting the bottle down. “What happened?”.

Beau didn’t answer at first. He just stood there in the middle of the living room, water pooling around his boots, hands flexing uselessly at his sides.

Jenny pushed off the couch. “Beau”.

Still nothing. She walked up to him slowly, her voice gentler now. “Hey. What happened?”.

Beau swallowed hard. His voice came out raw, low. “I messed up”.

Jenny blinked. “Did something happen?”.

“She was scared”. His jaw clenched again. “She said she didn’t want to make me regret anything. And then she begged me to leave”.

Jenny studied him for a long moment. “Did you hurt her?”.

“No”, He scrubbed a hand over his face, water flicking from his fingertips. “Not like that”.

“Then you didn’t mess up”.

Beau let out a humorless breath. “I thought backing off was the right move. Giving her space. Then I thought maybe being honest was… She kissed me and I thought maybe we’d finally—”, he cut himself off, jaw tight.

“She’s been hurt”, Jenny said quietly behind him. “You knew that”.

“I know”, Beau bit out. “And I hate that I made her feel like she was doing something wrong by wanting me”. He braced both hands on the window frame, staring out at the night. At your porch. The glow of the bathroom light still on behind the curtain. “I should’ve walked away the second she showed up”.

“But you didn’t”, Jenny said simply. “Because you care”.

You didn’t sleep. Not really. You spent most of the night curled up on the edge of your bed, towel long forgotten, hair still damp, chest aching in that slow, heavy way that didn’t feel like a bruise, it felt like a hollow.

You cried. Quietly. Bitterly. The kind of crying you hated, the kind you couldn’t control, because it wasn’t just about Beau. It was everything. The panic. The fear. The way you saw your reflection in that moment and realized how broken you still were when it came to letting someone love you.

And him? God, he had been so good. That only made it worse.

By the time morning came, your eyes were puffy, your head ached, and your coffee tasted like wet cardboard. But you got dressed anyway. Pulled your hair into a bun. Put on your uniform. And forced your feet toward the station like routine could do what sleep hadn’t.

You walked through the front doors with your head down, hoping no one would really look at you. Unfortunately, someone did. Tim.

He was sitting at his desk, boots up, flipping through paperwork like he hadn’t been up until 3 a.m. playing poker with himself and half a protein bar. But the second he looked up and saw your face—your red-rimmed eyes, your stiff shoulders—he was on his feet.

“Hey”, he said gently, already walking toward you. “You alright?”.

You tried to nod. Tried to lie. But it must’ve shown, whatever had unraveled in you last night hadn’t gone quietly. Because suddenly his hand was on your back, and before you could even process it, Tim pulled you into his chest.

And hugged you.

Tim.

The guy who treated emotions like paperwork, acknowledge, file, move on. The guy who didn’t do soft touches or comfort. Who never hugged anyone.

And yet here he was, holding you tight, one hand at the back of your head, murmuring something low like, “It’s okay. I got you. You’re good”, while you stood frozen, too wrecked to even hide.

And that’s when Beau walked in. He didn’t mean to. He was just looking for you. Just wanted to say something. Anything. He hadn’t slept either, hadn’t stopped thinking about the way you’d looked at him when you told him to leave.

But the second he rounded the corner into the bullpen, his feet stopped. Because there you were, in someone else’s arms. Pressed into Tim’s chest, his hand tangled gently in your hair, your eyes shut, your face turned toward his neck like he was the only solid ground you had left.

And Tim wasn’t looking at you like a guy who was just being polite. He was holding you like he’d been waiting for a reason to.

Beau didn’t say a word. He didn’t even step fully into the room. He just stood there, frozen, heart in his throat, and thought, Of course. Of course someone else got there first. Of course you deserved better than what he’d made you feel last night. Of course you’d found someone who didn’t come with his weight.

And then he turned around. And walked back the way he came.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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