maybefanficting

[maybefanficting]

“This is your discharge paperwork,” she said, deadpan. “You are now solely responsible for her care until tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred. Side effects may include quiet introspection, spontaneous affection, and a tendency to deflect with sarcasm.”

I feel seen.

Crossroads of the Heart - Part Thirty-Eight of ?

Pairings: CJ Braxton x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: Y/N is a psychology major assigned to shadow CJ at The Stand, unaware he's the one who basically saved her life four years before. CJ is unaware that she's the one who left a notable impact on him over the phone four years ago. As they navigate the work at The Stand, they develop a spark that demands revelation and connection.

Word Count: 8,605

Tags/Warnings: Light fluff, angst (oh boy), some minor medical drama

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

NOTE: Please refer to THIS POST about the new posting schedule! Thank you!

Addendum: I have a tremendous favor to ask all my readers. Please read THIS POST for more.

Dividers: credit to @saradika-graphics

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Falling To Pieces

The last of the daylight clung to the edges of the windows as CJ and Y/N stepped out of The Stand together, her notebook tucked securely under her arm, the letter folded inside. She didn’t speak as they walked, but she didn’t have to—CJ stayed beside her, matching her pace, one hand brushing lightly against hers now and then, like a silent check-in.

The walk home was quiet, the city easing into evening, lights flickering on behind storefront windows, the air soft with early night. Y/N didn’t let go of the notebook. Her grip wasn’t tight, but it was intentional, like it grounded her.

CJ unlocked the front door to their apartment while she toed off her shoes, their movements fluid, familiar. She drifted into the living room while he set down his keys and shed his jacket. The quiet wasn’t strained—it just settled around them, like the kind that came after an emotional tide.

She sank onto the couch, notebook still in her lap, fingertips resting along the spine.

CJ disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two mugs—hers already steeping with chamomile, his black and steady. He set hers on the coffee table and sat beside her, their thighs brushing.

Y/N didn’t move right away. Her eyes were on the notebook, still closed, her thumb running along the edge like she was considering whether to read it again.

CJ’s hand found her knee. He didn’t say anything. Just gave her that—a quiet point of contact.

She blinked, pulled in a slow breath, then reached down and slid the notebook from her lap to the table. The letter stayed inside. She didn’t need to look at it tonight. Not again.

CJ watched her without pushing.

Her fingers lingered against the notebook’s edge for another beat before she turned her body toward him and leaned into his side. He pulled her in without hesitation, his arm circling around her back, the side of her head resting against his chest.

The mug of tea on the table went untouched.

They stayed that way for a long while, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator and the muted traffic outside. Y/N’s breathing gradually slowed, shoulders loosening, her weight settling fully into him.

CJ’s thumb traced quiet patterns along her upper arm.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was low. “I don’t know what to say to him. Or if I even want to.”

CJ’s chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. “You don’t have to figure it out tonight.”

“I know.”

She reached for his hand, found it easily, and laced their fingers together.

“I just needed to come home.”

CJ’s grip tightened slightly. “You are.”

Neither of them moved to stand. Not yet.

The notebook stayed on the table. Closed. Safe.

And for tonight, that was enough.

The tea had gone cold by the time CJ shifted, his hand still laced with hers, his thumb brushing softly along the back of her knuckles. The living room had dimmed around them, the quiet sinking deeper. Outside, the world moved on—cars humming past, porch lights flickering on across the street—but inside, everything stilled.

CJ tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the top of Y/N’s hair. She didn’t pull away.

“Come to bed,” he said softly, voice low enough it barely stirred the air between them.

Y/N blinked, her cheek still resting against his chest. “I’m not sure I’ll sleep.”

CJ kissed her again—her temple this time—and rose slowly, never letting go of her hand as he gently guided her up with him. She stood, her body reluctant but not resistant, like she needed the pull of him to remember she was allowed to rest.

They moved through the apartment together, quiet steps and gentle touches. In the bedroom, CJ reached for the lamp on the nightstand, turning it on low. The light pooled softly against the walls, painting them gold.

Y/N changed into one of his t-shirts without speaking, her movements slow, her limbs heavy. CJ peeled off his own shirt and folded it over the back of a chair, tugging on a pair of worn cotton pants before crossing back to her.

He didn’t ask if she wanted space.

She didn’t ask for it.

Instead, she climbed beneath the covers and waited for him. When he slid in beside her, she rolled toward him instinctively, curling into his chest. His arms wrapped around her with practiced ease, one hand finding its place at the small of her back, the other sliding into her hair.

Y/N let out a long breath. Her hand rested on his chest, palm over his heart.

CJ’s fingers moved slowly, brushing through her hair in a rhythm that felt more like reassurance than habit. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She shifted closer, seeking his warmth like a tether. When he pressed a kiss to her forehead, her body softened.

Her voice came a while later, almost a whisper. “Thank you. For staying steady. Even when I’m not.”

CJ drew her in tighter, his lips brushing her hairline. “You don’t have to be steady. That’s why I’m here.”

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his shirt.

Sleep didn’t come immediately. But when it did, it came gently—wrapped in the warmth of his arms, the quiet of the room, and the hush of a man who loved her without needing to fix her pain. Only hold it.

And hold her.

The house was silent when Y/N’s eyes blinked open, her chest already tight before she’d fully surfaced from sleep. She didn’t know what time it was, only that CJ’s arm was heavy and warm around her, the rhythm of his breathing steady against her back.

But she couldn’t settle.

Her legs shifted restlessly beneath the blanket. Her mind throbbed with the weight of the letter, like the words were still etched beneath her skin.

Carefully, she slid her hand over CJ’s wrist and lifted it gently, moving slow so she wouldn’t disturb him. He stirred only slightly, murmuring something wordless as she eased herself from the bed and tucked the covers back around him.

The hallway creaked under her bare feet.

In the living room, the lamp on the side table cast a soft glow when she turned it on. Not too bright—just enough to let her see. She crossed to the coffee table where her notebook lay untouched since earlier that evening.

She opened it and found the letter.

The paper unfolded without resistance, worn now at the seams where her fingers had already traced it. She curled onto the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, the other drawn close. Her fingertips smoothed along the bottom of the page, the words settling heavy all over again.

There was no new revelation, no change in the text—but still, her throat tightened.

She reread the paragraph about her mother. About how he had closed off. About how he had watched her grow distant and said nothing. Her father hadn’t blamed her. He hadn’t tried to rewrite it. That should’ve made it easier. But it only made the ache sharper.

She clutched the letter to her chest and bent forward, curling around it like it was something fragile and breakable—because it was. Because she was.

Her shoulders shook silently.

She didn’t cry the way she had before. These tears didn’t fall in jagged sobs. They came slower, deeper. A throb of something old unspooling in her chest. Not rage. Not forgiveness.

Grief.

Not for the man who wrote the letter, but for the girl who had once waited for a letter like it.

Her thumb rubbed the paper gently. She didn’t know if she would ever call him. She didn’t know if she could. But tonight, all she could do was hold what he’d given her and ache for what he hadn’t.

And so she did.

Quietly.

Alone.

She didn’t hear him at first. Her breath had gone shallow, body curled in tightly, the letter pressed to her chest like a wound she didn’t know how to bandage. The silence of the room cradled her grief, letting it rise and settle and rise again in waves that didn’t ask for answers—just acknowledgment.

But then… she felt it.

A shift in the air. The quiet scuff of bare feet against the hallway floor. The soft creak of the floorboard near the archway.

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t need to.

CJ padded across the room, sleep-warm and barefoot, his hair mussed, his t-shirt wrinkled, eyes still heavy with sleep—but focused entirely on her.

He didn’t speak.

He just came to her, knelt beside the couch, and wrapped his arms around her as if it was instinct, not decision. His body folded around hers, warm and grounding, one hand cupping the back of her head as she turned into his chest without hesitation.

Her fingers tightened in his shirt.

Still, he said nothing.

He held her like stillness was enough. Like presence could do what words never could. His heartbeat thudded steady against her cheek, and she melted into it, her tears soaking into the fabric at his collarbone. No questions. No expectations.

Just CJ.

Breathing with her.

Anchoring her.

Letting her ache in the safety of his arms.

And in the quiet of that hour, beneath the low hum of the night and the weight of memory, she didn’t feel strong or healed or whole.

But she wasn’t alone.

She never had to be again.

CJ’s hand moved slowly through her hair, his fingers gentle, steady, threading with care more than rhythm. His other arm stayed around her back, holding her close, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek.

They sat like that for a long time—no need to rush grief, no need to speak. Just the quiet lull of being held.

Eventually, his lips pressed to her temple, warm and unmoving.

And then, so soft she barely heard it, his voice brushed against her skin.

“Come back to bed, sweetheart.”

Not a question. Not a command. Just an invitation. A promise.

Y/N didn’t move right away. Her fingers clutched his shirt a little tighter, the letter still caught between her palm and his chest. Her body ached—not from exhaustion, but from how much she’d held in. But the sound of his voice, so low and loving, melted something in her.

CJ shifted, just enough to draw back and look at her, eyes heavy with sleep but wide with concern. He didn’t rush her. He never did.

She finally nodded.

CJ eased the letter from her grip, folding it gently and setting it on the coffee table before rising and helping her to her feet. His hand never left hers. He guided her down the hallway, one step at a time, like he was leading her out of the ache and back into peace.

And when they curled beneath the covers again, she found him already reaching for her.

This time, she didn’t hesitate.

She let herself be held. Let herself rest.

And when her eyes finally closed, CJ’s arm wrapped around her, she breathed just a little deeper—safe again, not because the pain had gone, but because she was home.

The light in the room had just begun to change, soft and pale against the curtains, brushing faint gold over the edge of the bed. Morning hadn’t fully arrived, but it was close—quiet, hushed, the world not yet loud.

CJ stirred slowly, his body shifting beneath the weight of sleep as his eyes blinked open. For a moment, he didn’t move. He just lay there, the warmth of her tucked beside him, her breath slow and even against his chest.

His arm was still around her.

Y/N hadn’t moved much since they’d come back to bed. Her face was turned toward him, one hand curled between them, her brow smooth now in sleep. She looked peaceful, but there was something fragile in the way her fingers clung lightly to the fabric of his shirt, even now.

CJ’s eyes lingered on her face. He didn’t speak, didn’t dare break the quiet.

His thumb brushed lightly over her shoulder, absent-minded, almost reverent.

He thought of the way she had sat on the couch in the dark, letter clutched to her chest like it was too much and not enough all at once. The way her breath had hitched but she hadn’t said a word. The way she’d folded into him like she didn’t need language—just him.

And now, in the stillness of morning, she looked small again.

Not weak.

Just worn.

CJ’s chest ached. Not with helplessness—but with that kind of quiet, gnawing worry that lived in the hearts of people who loved too deeply to say it all aloud.

He hoped she was okay. Or getting there. Or at least not feeling like she had to do it alone.

He leaned in, brushed the softest kiss to her forehead. She didn’t stir.

So he held her a little closer.

And stayed still.

CJ felt her shift before he saw it—just the smallest movement, the faintest tension returning to her shoulders beneath his arm. Her fingers flexed against his chest, then stilled. A slow inhale. Then another.

She was awake.

He kept his eyes on her, soft and steady, watching the quiet crease form between her brows as she blinked herself back into the world. She didn’t speak right away. Her gaze dropped somewhere to the center of his chest, unfocused.

He didn’t need to ask.

He could feel it in the way her body curled a little tighter, like she was bracing again.

She finally spoke, her voice raw with sleep. “I don’t know what to do.”

CJ shifted just slightly, brushing his fingers through her hair, letting her breathe.

“I know I don’t have to call him. I know I don’t owe him anything,” she murmured, like she was trying to convince herself. “I know I don’t have to forgive him, or let him in, or… or anything. You already said it.”

“I meant it,” CJ said softly.

She nodded slowly, but her eyes stayed distant. “It just feels like I’m… stuck. Like if I do nothing, I’m frozen. But if I do something, I’m opening a door I’m not ready to walk through.”

CJ didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he shifted enough to draw her back in, both arms wrapping around her, pulling her in fully, like shelter. Her cheek found his chest again, and he felt the breath she let out against his skin—uneven, uncertain.

He held her tighter.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

His hand moved slowly along her back, grounding her in the one thing he could give without question—his quiet, unshakable love.

And she let herself rest there, still caught in the middle of everything—but not alone in it. Never that.

CJ watched her disappear into the bathroom, the door closing with a quiet click. He stood there for a second, unmoving, the bed still warm behind him, the letter still on the table in the other room.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

Opening his thread with Gabby, he typed carefully.

CJ → Gabby: Code purple. Not a joke. Don’t come in loud. She doesn’t need lifted—she needs held. No glitter. No chaos. Just… be there.

He stared at it, thumb hovering. Then hit send.

Next, he pulled up Priya’s contact.

His thumb paused again. Then:

CJ → Priya: I’m out of my depth. She’s hurting, and I don’t know how to help beyond just being next to her. Do I do more? Or less?

He set the phone down and dragged a hand down his face, the weight of everything pressing at the edges of his chest. She hadn’t asked him to fix anything. She never did. But standing in the aftermath of her grief, knowing what caused it, knowing how it settled deep into her—it made him feel useless. Like being steady might not be enough this time.

He crossed the room and laid out her favorite shirt. Clean, soft. Familiar. Then turned down the bed, folding back the covers she always tugged around herself when she couldn’t sleep.

When the bathroom door opened, steam curling out behind her, she stepped into the room wrapped in a towel. Her eyes found him, and something passed between them—tired, aching, but present.

He nodded once, offered nothing more than a glance toward the shirt.

No speeches. No strategies.

Just this.

He returned to the kitchen, started the coffee, and left the silence intact.

Because today, that might be the only kindness he could give.

The car ride was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t ask to be filled. The streets passed slowly beyond the windshield, sunlight glinting off stop signs and puddles from last night’s rain. Y/N sat with her hands in her lap at first, the letter still somewhere deep in her mind, pressing into every corner of her chest.

She hadn’t spoken since slipping on her shoes by the door.

CJ didn’t push.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting open between them. She didn’t take it at first. But a few blocks in—somewhere between a red light and the silence of her sigh—her fingers found his. Laced through.

He curled his hand around hers gently, never looking away from the road.

She didn’t speak.

And he didn’t ask her to.

Her gaze stayed out the passenger window, eyes tracking nothing in particular. A dog being walked. A kid dragging a backpack too big for him. Someone smoking on a porch with a blanket still wrapped around their shoulders.

The city moved. The day began.

And CJ drove.

Every so often, his thumb would brush the side of her hand. Just once. A quiet reminder that he was there. That she wasn’t floating through it alone.

She squeezed back once.

And that was enough.

The tires rolled to a gentle stop in front of The Stand, the lot still half-empty in the early light. CJ killed the engine but didn’t move right away. Neither did she.

Y/N’s fingers loosened from his as she reached for her bag, moving with quiet efficiency—like muscle memory was doing the work her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. She opened the passenger door, stepped out into the crisp air, and waited as CJ rounded the car.

He didn’t speak.

Just fell into step beside her, walking up the front steps like they had a hundred times before. But this time felt different. Slower. He opened the door for her and followed her inside.

Inside, the early morning light made the front desk glow. A few of the overnight staff were wrapping up reports, their nods of acknowledgment soft and unobtrusive.

Y/N walked toward her desk.

CJ walked with her.

When she sat, adjusting the chair just slightly, CJ lingered beside her. He didn’t fidget. He wasn’t one to pace or hover. But he stood there a moment too long, his hands slipping into the pockets of his pants as if to keep them from reaching for her again.

“I’ll be in the back most of the morning,” he said, quiet enough that only she could hear. “Scheduling updates, calls to return. I’ll check in when I can.”

Y/N looked up at him, her mouth soft. “It’s okay, CJ. I know.”

He hesitated.

“You don’t have to hover,” she added gently. “I promise, I can breathe without you.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I want you to.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, reaching for his hand one last time. “You being here already helped. I’m alright.”

He bent, kissed the top of her head, and stepped back.

And that’s when the door opened.

Gabby swept in like she was trying not to sweep in. Her expression was calm, even, her hair pulled into a lazy braid over one shoulder. But her t-shirt betrayed her instantly. In bold bubble letters, it read:

"SILENT SUPPORT SQUAD: NO FIXING, JUST HUGS AND SNACKS"

CJ blinked at the shirt.

Gabby didn’t acknowledge it. She walked past him, set her drink on the edge of Y/N’s desk, and pulled up a chair beside her with absolutely no fanfare. She gave a single nod to CJ, then settled in like she’d already planned to be there for hours.

CJ glanced back down at Y/N, who gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated.

“I called in reinforcements,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Gabby casually pulled a banana from her tote bag and offered it to Y/N like it was a sacred offering. “We don’t have to talk. But I will sit here and judge other people’s outfits with you in silence if needed.”

Y/N smiled faintly, her shoulders finally dropping.

CJ lingered another second.

Then he turned, heading down the hallway toward his office—trusting her to Gabby, who had already begun pulling a pack of gummies from her pocket like a magician dealing from a deck.

The day had started.

And somehow, she wasn’t facing it alone.

CJ closed the door behind him, the latch catching with a soft click. The sound of the hallway faded, replaced by the quiet hush of his office—the low hum of the air vent, the distant ring of a phone down the hall, muffled now by two layers of drywall.

He crossed the room slowly, his steps deliberate, and stopped in front of his desk.

His hands braced against the edge, fingers curling slightly into the wood.

He bowed his head.

Closed his eyes.

And let out a long, quiet breath that deflated everything he hadn’t said out loud.

Frustration. Helplessness. That aching, silent pressure in his chest that came from wanting to take the weight off someone he loved—and knowing he couldn’t.

Y/N was strong. She always had been. She carried herself through things most people would’ve crumpled under. He admired that about her. Respected it. Loved it. But watching her carry this—her father’s words, her past, that long history of ache and silence and complicated grief—it made him feel powerless in a way he couldn’t shake.

He could hold her. He could listen.

He could sit beside her on the couch at three in the morning, his hand pressed to her back while she tried to make sense of the apology she never thought would come.

But he couldn’t make the decision for her.

He couldn’t erase the years. He couldn’t untangle the ache. He couldn’t tell her what would feel right when nothing about it ever had.

It had to come from her.

And that’s what killed him.

His jaw flexed as he opened his eyes, gaze dropping to the surface of the desk where one of her sticky notes—half-written and slanted sideways—still clung near the edge. Her handwriting was always neat until it wasn’t. This one was from last week. A reminder about coffee filters.

He reached out, touched the corner of the note with the tip of one finger.

Then straightened slowly.

The weight didn’t lift. But he carried it anyway.

Because she was the one with the burden.

And he’d be damned if she carried it alone.

There was a soft knock—barely more than a courtesy. CJ didn’t look up from where he sat, elbows on his desk, fingers pressed to his temple. The silence inside his office wasn’t peaceful. It pressed.

The door opened gently. Priya stepped inside, closing it behind her without waiting for an invitation.

CJ’s eyes lifted slowly.

She crossed the room without a word, her presence calm, grounded. She sat in the chair across from him, her posture relaxed but attentive, like she already understood exactly what he needed.

He didn’t speak.

Priya gave him a moment. Then, her voice soft: “I got your text.”

CJ nodded. His throat felt tight. “Thanks for coming.”

“You looked like you were holding your breath when I passed your door.” She tilted her head. “Still are.”

He let out a low exhale, sat back in his chair, and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know what to do for her.”

“You’re doing it,” Priya said gently.

CJ shook his head. “No. I’m standing next to her while she drowns and calling it support. I hold her. I listen. But I can’t… I can’t pull her out of it.”

“Because it’s not yours to pull her from.” Priya didn’t flinch. “It’s hers. You’re not failing by not fixing it. You’re loving her right.”

CJ’s fingers drummed against the edge of the desk. “She read the letter again last night. Sat on the couch at three in the morning just… holding it. I didn’t even know what to say.”

“You didn’t need to.” Priya’s voice was gentle, but sure. “You got up. You held her. That’s more than most people would have done.”

CJ looked down, voice quiet. “I remember being where she is. Not exactly… but close. Wishing they’d say something, anything. Then realizing it wouldn’t matter. That nothing would make up for what never was.”

She studied him carefully, saying nothing.

He continued, slower. “And I got tired. Of reaching out. Of hoping. Eventually I stopped. Learned how to live with the silence. She’s not there yet. And watching her… it’s like watching an old wound reopen in someone else’s skin.”

Priya’s expression softened further. “You made your peace with your parents. Your way. Quiet, distant. Y/N might not find peace at all. But she’ll find something. And when she does, it’ll be because you gave her the space to figure it out without pushing her toward it.”

CJ nodded once, slowly.

Priya leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “My dad and I are close. He worries I work too much, thinks I should be married by now. But we laugh about it. He never makes me feel small for not doing things his way.”

Her eyes met CJ’s.

“I know what it’s supposed to look like. And I know what it feels like when it doesn’t.”

She stood, pausing before the door. “You did the right thing calling Gabby. She’s showing up the only way she knows how. Loud shirt and all.”

CJ huffed out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh.

Priya gave him a small smile. “You’re not drowning her, CJ. You’re anchoring her. That matters.”

She opened the door but looked back one last time. “If you feel yourself starting to sink too… come find me.”

Then she left, soft and steady as always.

CJ leaned back in his chair, the quiet settling again—but it didn’t press quite as hard.

CJ sat for a moment after the door clicked shut behind Priya. The weight in his chest hadn’t vanished, but it had shifted—dispersed just enough to let him breathe again.

He rubbed his face with both hands, fingertips pressing into his eyes. Then he straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and exhaled through his nose.

Time to get back to work.

He reached for his keyboard, fingers hovering above the keys—then paused.

Without thinking, he picked up his phone. Opened her name.

Typed.

I love you.

No punctuation. No flourish. Just that.

His thumb hovered, then hit send.

He set the phone face-down beside his keyboard.

And finally turned back to the spreadsheet waiting on his screen.

The work didn’t stop. Life didn’t pause. And neither would he.

But now—he wasn’t holding that weight alone.

Y/N sat at her desk, headset looped loosely around her neck, her notepad open but mostly untouched. The rhythm of work buzzed gently in the background—phones ringing, voices low and steady, the soft clack of keys—but her thoughts drifted more than they landed.

She was functioning. Kind of.

Her screen showed half-finished call logs. Her fingers rested on the keyboard but didn’t move. Every so often, she’d pick up the receiver, handle a caller with measured calm, then hang up and sit still for a beat longer than she needed to.

Gabby didn’t hover—exactly. But she stayed close. Perched on the edge of Y/N’s desk with her elbows on her knees, offering quiet commentary, occasional snacks, and the occasional muttered, “Say the word and I’ll break into interpretive dance.”

It earned a faint smile. Not a full one. But more than before.

Gabby was good at this. Better than anyone had the right to be. Her jokes had quieted since morning, replaced by a kind of steady presence Y/N didn’t realize she needed until it was there. Nothing was demanded of her. Not her energy. Not her clarity. Just... her company.

Y/N tapped her pen once against the notepad.

Then her phone buzzed.

She glanced down, thumb dragging across the screen automatically—until her breath caught just slightly.

CJ: I love you.

No context. No punctuation. Just three words. Steady. Certain.

She stared at it for a long moment. Felt something loosen quietly behind her ribs.

Gabby leaned sideways just enough to peek.

A knowing smirk tugged at her lips. “He’s good.”

Y/N didn’t respond, not with words. Just the smallest nod.

Then she reached for her headset again, settling it gently over her ears.

One breath in.

And then back to work.

The hallway near the back of The Stand was quieter than the main floor, lined with file cabinets and half-finished bulletin boards no one ever had time to complete. Gabby leaned against the wall near the vending machine, half a protein bar in her hand, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

Her ponytail had started to slip. Her shirt—Silent Support Squad: No Fixing, Just Hugs and Snacks—was now wrinkled from a full morning of hovering just close enough to help without overwhelming.

She didn’t look exhausted, exactly. But she looked like someone who’d been holding space for someone else for hours and only just realized her own muscles were sore from it.

She took a bite of the bar. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then heard the familiar footfalls.

Miles turned the corner with a quiet purpose, as if he’d timed it down to the minute. He didn’t say anything right away—just approached with his usual calm and that unreadable expression he wore like a second skin.

Gabby noticed the subtle shift in his eyes as they scanned her, like he was taking inventory—subtle frown line, slight slump in her shoulders, the faint circles under her eyes.

She raised her protein bar. “If you’re here to criticize my lunch, I will stage a walkout.”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes warmed. “Not my jurisdiction.”

She cocked her head. “Then what is your jurisdiction?”

Miles glanced down, then up. “You.”

That disarmed her more than it should’ve.

She swallowed. “Y/N’s... she’s hanging in there. Slow breaths. Quiet strength. She’s doing okay.”

“I wasn’t asking about her.”

Gabby blinked.

Miles stepped closer, stopping a few feet away. “You told me this morning CJ asked for backup. That you were going to be with her all day. You’ve been on your feet since I walked in. Haven’t seen you sit down once.”

Gabby shrugged, trying to keep it light. “Support squad doesn’t clock out.”

“You should.”

“I’m fine.”

Miles didn’t push. He never did. But he didn’t back off either.

Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled pack of dried mango slices—her favorite. Quietly, without flourish, he held it out to her.

Gabby stared at it. “You carry snacks now?”

“I carry your snacks.”

She took the packet slowly, her fingers brushing his as she did. Her throat tightened more than she wanted to admit.

“Thanks,” she said, voice softer now.

Miles gave a small nod, almost a shrug. “You don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

She looked up at him, something fragile flickering in her expression.

“I know,” she murmured. “But today… I wanted to be.”

Miles didn’t say anything. He just stepped forward, close enough to be felt, and gently rested a hand at her elbow. He didn’t pull her in. Just stayed there, grounded and steady.

She let herself lean—just a little.

And for once, she didn’t feel like she had to talk to be understood.

Miles’s hand lingered at her elbow for a second longer—then slid slowly to the small of her back. He didn’t ask. Didn’t warn her. Just pulled her in.

Gabby didn’t resist.

His arms came around her, careful and slow, his chest warm against hers. It wasn’t the kind of hug that braced or steadied. It was something softer. Almost tentative. Like he was giving her space to fall apart if she needed to—but wasn’t going anywhere if she didn’t.

Gabby let out a breath against his shoulder, her arms looping around his waist.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

“Okay,” she mumbled into his shirt, voice muffled, “but just for the record? I still have a raging UTI, and your cologne is like, aggressively sexy. So this is complicated for me.”

Miles huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh. She felt it more than heard it—his chest shifting under her cheek, the way his hand rubbed slow circles against her back.

He didn’t pull away.

She leaned into him a little more, nose scrunching. “Seriously. I’m not allowed to even think about being turned on. My bladder’s basically on strike.”

He dropped his chin gently to rest against her hair.

“Not trying to seduce you,” he said, voice low, “just holding you.”

Gabby tilted her head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re really bad at not seducing me.”

His smile—small, crooked, real—appeared for only a second before fading back into his usual stillness.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.

And somehow, that landed harder than any flirtation.

Gabby’s smile faltered, then softened.

“Me too.”

They stood like that for a long moment, tucked into the quiet hum of the hallway, wrapped in something fragile and warm.

And even if her bladder still hated her, for just a second—Gabby felt better.

Gabby returned to the main floor with a slight spring in her step, the sleeves of her “Silent Support Squad” shirt pushed up to her elbows, the crumpled mango snack pack sticking out of her back pocket like a badge of honor.

She didn’t say anything at first—just slid back into the chair beside Y/N’s desk and sighed dramatically, as if she’d just finished some noble quest.

Y/N glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “You okay?”

Gabby leaned on the desk, chin in her hand, smile threatening at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, you know. Hydrated. Emotionally supported. Hugged within an inch of my UTI.”

Y/N blinked, then laughed—a real laugh this time, the kind that shook her shoulders and made Gabby beam.

Gabby grinned. “Miles found me near the vending machines and did that whole quiet, smoldering, caring thing. Full-on heartfelt hug. Actual embrace. Like a hug hug.”

Y/N arched a brow. “And?”

“And I almost died from how tender it was.” Gabby flopped back in the chair like she needed to physically recover. “And from the pressure on my bladder, which remains very, very angry.”

Y/N snorted. “You’re impossible.”

“Incorrect. I am delightful. And currently glowing.”

“You’re glowing because of Miles?”

Gabby looked smug. “I am glowing because he is wonderful and tall and smells like cedar and anxiety and he brought me mangoes.”

Y/N shook her head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

Gabby tapped her own temple. “I’m the exact amount of ridiculous required to help my best girl through a bad day.”

Her voice softened then, just enough. “You okay?”

Y/N’s smile faded into something quieter, more honest. “Getting there.”

Gabby reached across the desk and squeezed her hand. “We’re getting there together.”

Then she pulled her hand back and immediately started rummaging through her tote bag. “Do you want a chocolate granola bar or one of those weird matcha gummies Priya left in the kitchen that might be soap?”

Y/N laughed again, the ache in her chest still there—but easier now.

She had CJ’s steadiness.

Gabby’s absurdity.

And this strange, beautiful thing they all built together.

She was getting there.

The afternoon had stretched long and soft, the sharp edges of the morning blunted by quiet work, shared glances, and CJ’s simple text still resting in Y/N’s chest like a warm stone.

Gabby had drifted off to another desk, still orbiting but giving her space. CJ hadn’t returned to the floor yet—caught up in whatever admin firestorm he’d needed to put out. Miles passed through once, dropped off a file, nodded at Y/N like he always did—silent and steady—and disappeared again.

And still, the letter lingered in the back of her mind. Not screaming. Not sharp. But steady. Present. Unanswered.

She stood.

She didn’t say anything to anyone. Just slipped away from the main room and down the hall, where the door to Priya’s corner office stood slightly ajar, a soft stream of sunlight spilling from the window behind her.

Y/N knocked once, quietly.

Priya looked up immediately. “Hey.”

Her voice was calm. Open. Inviting.

Y/N stepped in and closed the door behind her.

Priya didn’t ask. She just gestured gently to the chair across from her desk.

Y/N sank into it, folded her hands in her lap, and stared down for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know what to do.”

Priya tilted her head. “About the letter?”

Y/N nodded. “I read it again. Twice. I cried. I felt… everything. And nothing. And then everything all over again.” Her voice wavered. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you’re human,” Priya said softly.

Y/N looked up. “I don’t know if I want to respond. I don’t know if I can. But not responding… feels like a decision, too. And that decision hurts.”

Priya didn’t jump in. She waited.

Y/N took a breath. “He said all the things I used to dream he’d say. But it doesn’t undo what he didn’t do. And I’m afraid if I answer, I’m telling him it’s okay. That it didn’t matter. And it did.”

“It still does,” Priya said. “And answering doesn’t mean you’re erasing the pain. Just like not answering doesn’t mean you haven’t heard him.”

Y/N’s eyes welled up again, but she didn’t look away. “What would you do?”

Priya sat with that question, quiet and still, before answering. “I’d ask myself what I need to feel at peace. Not what he needs. Not what would look good on paper. Not even what CJ thinks would help. What I need.” She leaned forward slightly. “You don’t owe anyone a resolution that comes at the cost of your own healing.”

Y/N nodded slowly, voice small. “What if I never get there?”

“Then you don’t get there,” Priya said gently. “Some pain just stays. But it doesn’t mean you stop living. Or loving. Or building something beautiful despite it.”

Y/N swallowed, the pressure behind her eyes sharp. “I don’t want to hate him. But I don’t know if I can forgive him either.”

“You don’t have to decide that today.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, softer than before.

Priya stood, walked around her desk, and sat on the edge in front of Y/N. She reached out and took Y/N’s hands in hers—steady, warm, grounding.

“You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to wait. You’re allowed to do nothing. And you’re allowed to take care of yourself first.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Priya smiled. “One day, it won’t hurt like this. And when that day comes—whether you write him back or never speak to him again—you’ll know you made the right choice. Because it was yours.”

Y/N blinked hard, a tear slipping loose. She squeezed Priya’s hands.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Priya gave her hands a final squeeze. “Anytime.”

Y/N didn’t let go of Priya’s hands right away. For a moment, she just sat there, letting the silence settle between them—comforting now, not hollow. Her shoulders dropped just slightly, her jaw unclenching in a way she hadn’t realized it had been all day.

Priya didn’t rush her.

Eventually, Y/N released her grip, pulling her hands back to her lap. She exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a release—just a pause. A place to start again from.

She stood slowly, smoothing her shirt. “I wasn’t sure I should talk to anyone about it.”

“I’m glad you did,” Priya said softly, standing too. “We don’t have to carry these things alone.”

Y/N nodded, then gave a quiet, sheepish smile. “I’m probably going to want to talk about it again. Like… five more times.”

“Then I’ll listen five more times.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten again, but this time from something closer to gratitude than grief.

“CJ’s been incredible,” she said, voice quiet. “And Gabby… Gabby’s been her usual chaotic, snack-offering self. But I needed this.”

“I know,” Priya said gently. “And it doesn’t mean you love them any less. It just means sometimes you need a voice from the outside. One that isn’t tangled up in it with you.”

Y/N looked toward the window for a moment, eyes following the warm stream of sunlight on the carpet. Then she turned back, steadier than before.

“Thank you.”

Priya smiled. “Always.”

Y/N opened the door and stepped out, the hallway greeting her with its familiar hum. The air felt a little lighter somehow, her chest less compressed. She didn’t have answers—not yet. But she wasn’t drowning in it anymore.

And sometimes, that was the beginning.

As she headed back to her desk, Gabby spotted her from down the hall and waved her over with a dramatic, sweeping gesture and an unwrapped granola bar held aloft like a torch.

Y/N smiled—tired, but real—and walked toward her people.

Gabby was already talking before Y/N even reached her desk.

“So I’ve been thinking,” she said, gesturing with the granola bar like it was a microphone, “what if we start rating the callers on drama level? Like, one to ten. One is ‘I lost my cat,’ which is tragic, yes, but manageable. Ten is ‘I think my neighbor is trying to hex me.’”

Y/N arched an eyebrow as she slid back into her seat. “That’s your idea of a ten?”

Gabby grinned. “We work with witches, Y/N. I need the drama scale to reflect modern realities.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you love me.” Gabby peeled back the rest of the wrapper and shoved half the granola bar into her mouth. “Also, Priya texted me and told me you were coming back looking approximately five percent more emotionally regulated. So I assume it went well.”

Y/N blinked. “She texted you while I was still in her office?”

“She’s efficient.” Gabby gave her a sly smile, tone softening. “You look steadier.”

Y/N nodded. “I am. Not fixed. Not figured out. But… steadier.”

Gabby swallowed, then reached out and flicked her gently on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

“For what?”

“For feeling your way through something instead of ignoring it or bottling it up or pretending everything’s fine. That’s hard. And you’re doing it anyway.”

Y/N looked down for a moment, then back up. “Thanks.”

Gabby leaned forward. “You want to talk about it more?”

Y/N thought for a second. “Not yet. I think I need to sit with it for a while. But… knowing I can talk about it again? That helps.”

Gabby bumped her knee gently. “That’s what I’m here for. That, and occasionally distracting you with snacks and gossip.”

Y/N smiled, a real one now. “Speaking of gossip—”

Gabby held up a hand. “If this is about me and Miles, I will neither confirm nor deny that I am completely, irrevocably smitten with a man who buys me mangoes and hugs like it’s an art form.”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re worse than me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Gabby said with pride. “But admit it—you love to watch it unfold.”

“I do,” Y/N admitted.

Gabby grinned, victorious, then settled back into her seat, nibbling on the granola bar like her mission had been accomplished.

Y/N turned back to her screen. The weight on her chest hadn’t vanished—but it no longer felt suffocating.

Her inbox pinged.

Another call coming in.

She picked up the headset and eased it on, casting one last glance toward the door CJ would eventually walk through again.

And then she answered.

Steady. Not fixed.

But getting there.

The sun was low in the sky by the time CJ finally emerged from his office, his shirt sleeves rumpled from where he’d pushed them up hours ago and forgotten. He looked like a man who’d fought administrative fires all day—and lost a few rounds before finally walking away with paperwork smudges and a dull headache.

His eyes scanned the room instinctively, tired but searching.

Then they landed on her.

Y/N sat at her desk, headset off, her shoulders a little less tense than they’d been that morning. There was color in her cheeks again, the faintest curve of a smile as Gabby whispered something too fast and too animated for him to catch.

CJ’s posture eased just slightly. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been carrying his own shoulders until now.

Gabby spotted him and immediately straightened, plastering on a mock-serious expression as she stepped in front of Y/N’s desk like a crossing guard with attitude.

“Sir,” she announced, hand raised, “this emotionally fragile but healing unit has been in my care for the day.”

Y/N let out a groan. “Gabby—”

“I have nourished her with granola, levity, and mango-related gossip,” Gabby continued, undeterred. “She’s passed inspection and is cleared for handoff.”

CJ stopped in front of them, arms crossing loosely as one brow arched. “Is there a clipboard I’m supposed to sign?”

Gabby reached into her tote bag and produced a folded napkin with a doodle of Y/N, complete with a sparkly tiara and what looked like a cape.

“This is your discharge paperwork,” she said, deadpan. “You are now solely responsible for her care until tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred. Side effects may include quiet introspection, spontaneous affection, and a tendency to deflect with sarcasm.”

CJ looked to Y/N, who covered her face with both hands.

“I’m going to walk into traffic,” she mumbled.

CJ’s eyes softened. He reached out and gently tugged one of her hands away, lacing his fingers through hers. “Nah. You’re coming home.”

Gabby made a swooning sound and stepped dramatically aside. “She’s all yours.”

Y/N stood slowly, letting CJ guide her bag over her shoulder. Gabby gave her a quick, tight hug—this time silent—and Y/N squeezed back, grateful, before turning to CJ.

“You look exhausted,” she said softly as they walked toward the door.

CJ gave a small, tired laugh. “Not anymore.”

And together, they stepped into the fading light of evening—hand in hand, their rhythm quiet, steady.

Healing.

Gabby lingered by the desk, arms crossed over her chest, a satisfied little smile tugging at her lips as she watched CJ and Y/N walk out the front doors, their hands linked, their silhouettes outlined in the soft amber glow of early evening.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

She just smiled—quietly, genuinely.

It was a good end to a hard day.

She turned back toward her desk, ready to pack up her things, when a sudden warm breath ghosted past her ear.

“Come over tonight.”

The words were low, rough, and unmistakably Miles.

Gabby jumped, her heart thudding, then spun around to find him standing just behind her, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark with something unmistakable.

“Miles,” she breathed, startled but not displeased. “Do not sneak up on me like that when I’m already emotionally volatile. I will combust.”

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t joke.

He just stepped a little closer, his voice a quiet rumble meant only for her. “I want you with me tonight.”

Gabby blinked, her mouth opening, then closing. “I still have a UTI,” she said, flustered, her hand waving between them. “Just for the record. Like, aggressively still. So if this is some kind of seduction attempt—”

“It’s not,” he cut in, voice softer now, but no less intense. “I don’t care about that.”

His gaze held hers, unwavering. “I just want you.”

Gabby’s sass caught somewhere in her throat, stuck behind a flicker of vulnerability she hadn’t expected. She looked at him—really looked—and saw something she hadn’t seen this clearly before.

Yearning. Steadiness. Maybe even love.

She swallowed hard, suddenly quiet.

“…Okay,” she said, breathless.

Miles nodded once, then reached out and brushed his fingers over hers, letting them linger just long enough to be a promise.

“See you in ten?” he murmured.

Gabby blinked. “I’ll bring my cranberry juice.”

He finally smiled.

Then he turned and walked off, leaving her flushed, dazed, and a little breathless in the middle of The Stand.

She grinned slowly to herself.

Then reached for her bag.

Some invitations didn’t need a second ask.

The apartment was bathed in soft amber light as CJ unlocked the door and stepped aside, letting Y/N walk in first. She toed off her shoes, quiet, and dropped her bag by the entry table while CJ moved into the kitchen with practiced ease—unpacking their lunch containers, setting things aside, folding his jacket over the back of a chair.

It was a rhythm. Familiar. Calming.

He opened the fridge to slide in a bottle of water when the sudden sound of something dropping behind him made him turn fast.

Y/N had frozen in the middle of the living room. Her coat was still hanging off one shoulder, her purse and keys scattered at her feet where they’d fallen.

CJ’s brows knit, eyes locking on hers instantly. “Hey,” he said gently. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak at first.

Then, slowly, she lifted her eyes to his, and her voice came quiet—steady, but unshaken in its clarity.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “I just… I don’t want to think right now. I don’t want to talk about the letter or my father or anything.”

He nodded slowly, still reading her.

“I want you,” she whispered. “Right now. Just you.”

CJ froze.

His breath caught just slightly. Not because the words shocked him—he knew the depth of their connection, knew how much they loved each other—but because she didn’t say things like that. Not often. Not so directly.

And never with that mix of vulnerability and certainty in her eyes.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he crossed the space to her—slowly, deliberately—and reached for her hand. His fingers slid around hers with reverence.

No teasing.

No witty reply.

Just a quiet, grounding presence as he looked at her and nodded once.

“Okay,” he murmured.

He turned and led her gently down the hallway, hand in hand, never once letting her go.

She didn’t need comfort.

She didn’t need distraction.

She needed him.

And he would give her everything.

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[maybefanficting]

... yes ...

brain is shut down for the rest of the day, thank you.

Ride 'Em, Cowgirl

A Supernatural Short and Smutty Ficlet

Featuring Dean Winchester x Reader

That is 918 Words

And NSFW recommended for 18+. Originally Published to Patreon 2021

Please find and enjoy my other work here - Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

If you enjoy something, please be kind and reblog it to share the joy with others. <3

Blue light flickered from the giant television, washing over Dean as he sipped his beer and stared blankly at the screen. First Thursday in a long while that he had nothing to do, so he used his time wisely- drowning himself in beer, corn chips, and Clint Eastwood.

He was stretched out on the couch, long legs crossed at the ankles, one arm slung behind his head. It felt good to relax, give himself a break, think about nothing but how Clint was about to kick some ass.

He sighed happily and drained the rest of his beer, setting the bottle down on the floor beside him. His arm dangled down and he let it, relaxing completely.

“Hey, Cowboy.”

Only slightly startled, Dean stretched his neck to see Y/N peeking in the doorway. Her painted nails curled around the wood frame, pearly white teeth dug into her bottom lip. She eyed him lustfully and Dean swallowed hard.

“Hey yourself.” He twisted on the sofa and sat up on an elbow, watching with interest as more of her appeared through the portal.

Once again, she’d stolen his old green and gray flannel, but this time, he couldn’t seem to care. It was held closed by two little buttons around her navel, and Dean could spy a peek of her breasts, free and unencumbered by the usual tight cotton and underwire. Her legs were bare and he dared to dream that she was sans panties as well. His eyes dropped to her thick thighs as they rubbed together while she sashayed over to him.

“Am I interrupting anything?” she asked, voice deep and tinged with desire. She stopped in the middle of the couch, looking down over him, blocking the television with her curvaceous silhouette.

Dean sat up slowly and swung his legs around, bending his bowed knees around her legs. “Not...at all…”

Relaxation gave way to arousal as he let his fingertips slowly reach up her naked thigh. When he reached the hem of the flannel, she swatted him playfully away and sank down, straddling his lap and pressing his head back against the sofa.

“Good.” She attacked, kissing him deeply, her tongue gliding over his juicy bottom lip before taking a taste, biting him gently as his eyes fluttered closed.

Dean’s breath fell away as she ran her hands slowly down his chest and back up, massaging his shoulders and grabbing his neck, pulling him up with her as she sat back. She left his lips with a wet pop and grinned as he stared up at her in a daze.

“I missed you,” she whispered, letting her fingers find and open the tiny buttons holding the flannel closed. “So fucking much.” The fabric fell to the side and Dean’s jaw dropped, mouth flooding as he saw her ruddy nipples, hard and calling to him.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” he replied absently, his head ducking down towards her left nipple. His tongue shot out to flick across the sensitive bud and Y/N arched her back into him.

“I know,” she moaned, hissing inwards as his mouth sealed around her tit. “I just thought I’d try and be romantic.”

He bit down gently with his teeth and she whimpered loudly. “Showin’ up lookin’ like this is all the romance I need.” Dean slid his hands up her sides, squeezing her bare flesh, touching every bit of her that he could reach. To his delight, he’d been right about the panties and he felt the heat from her naked pussy against his quickly growing erection.

Y/N moaned deeply and tossed her head back as Dean’s lips traveled up to her throat. “Noted.”

He nipped at her pulse, kneaded her tits with both big hands, ran his tongue across her ear. She was dripping already, rubbing herself over the hard bulge in his jeans.

“How about we lose these pants?” she suggested, hands already working on his zipper. She pushed up on her knees and gave him a little room to wiggle out of the denim, dropping the fabric just enough to pull his big cock free. She grabbed it immediately and stroked him tight, watching as his brain shut off and his head rolled back.

“See, this is what I missed,” she told him, flicking her tongue against his lips as he lay back in climbing bliss. “Missed watching you melt under me.”

His Adam’s Apple bobbed and his nails dug into her plump ass. “Anytime, baby,” he moaned, “seriously. Fuck.”

“Oh, you wanna fuck?” she teased, fist closing tight around the head of his cock.

He gasped. “Y-yes. Please. Jesus!”

She pushed her hand down his thick shaft; the circle tight and raw. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

Y/N pushed up on her knees again and settled over him, running the tip of his cock through her slick before sinking down. She moaned at the stretch and bit her lip. “Fuck.”

Dean reached a hand up around the nape of her neck and drew her down to him, kissing her breath away as his tongue invaded her hot mouth. “Ride me, Y/N,” he growled, fingers tensing on her neck. “Hard.”

Behind them, Eastwood drew his gun; the high noon sun shining down upon him like the hand of God. As he cocked the pistol, Y/N sank down onto Dean’s, bouncing hard in his lap as he held on tight.

“That’s it,” he grit, teeth scraping across her jaw. “Just… like… that.”

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RPF: Random Encounter - 16: Safe

The sixteenth chapter of my RPF fic "Random Encounter" featuring Jensen Ackles and Reader/OFC.

Summary:

You are safe. You are in the hospital.

Author's Notes:

This is a short, but intense chapter, and I am so sorry for putting Willow through this. There will be dialogue in a different language than English, which I am translating in the Author's Notes at the end of the chapter. The language reveals where she is from, originally. Can you guess it?

Characters: Jensen Ackles/Differently abled reader, Original un-named female characters Words in this chapter: 1215 Warnings: Angst and profanities. Mentions and descriptions of violence and abuse.

Masterlist: Tumblr Available on AO3

Chapter 15: Tumblr - AO3

Chapter 16: Safe

“Okay, good. See you then.” The officer hangs up her phone and looks over at you: “They will be here within 20 minutes, Ma’am.”

You nod, leaning back into the hospital bed, trying to will your lips into not trembling anymore. You fail, and she looks politely the other direction as you wipe another tear away. Jensen will be here soon.

A nurse enters and smiles at you reassuringly as she checks the monitor and taps on her tablet. “Are you still in pain?” she asks softly and looks at the IV line in your arm.

“No, just a bit dizzy,” is what you want to say, but all you can manage is a hoarse whisper and the word “dizzy.”

The nurse fishes out a small flashlight and checks your eyes. “Pupils are back to normal, at least,” she whispers. “Are you still nauseous?" You nod slightly. “Alright, I’ll add some more of the anti-emetics for you.” She proceeds to check the bandage around your head and you watch as her lips tighten to a thin line while frowning.

“Bad?” You try asking through a smile, but it comes out as a breathless whisper instead. Her eyes dart to yours and she forces a professional smile. “Not at all, Ma’am. I’m just concentrating.”

You know she’s lying, she knows you know she’s lying, but neither of you acknowledge it. You catch the officer watching with interest too, also frowning, before she straightens herself and looks the other way to pretend you did not just have eye contact. They’re all lying. That’s why they didn’t want to bring you a mirror.

The nurse finishes her checklist, taps her tablet, injects something into your IV and lets you know she will be back in 30 minutes before leaving you and the officer alone again.

Silence fills the room, only interrupted by the regular beeping from the equipment next to you and random sounds from outside the door. There’s an officer there too, making sure only staff enters. The policewoman currently sitting on a chair by the wall told you so earlier. You’ve already forgotten her name. Or did she actually tell you? It’s all a bit fuzzy...

Your chest is tight, breathing is hard. He’s here. How? Why? You want to run, you want to scream, but you can’t. He’s talking, and you can’t hear him. It’s like all the noises were muted into a distant echo. His smile. The same smile he had on top of the stairs.  No. No. Not here. Not now. He’s inside your room. YOUR room, not his. He shouldn’t be here, but he is. Why? How? Pain. Blinding pain. You’re sitting but moving. The chair. He’s pushing the chair. Where are you going? Car. The car smells of him, reeks of him. You’re dizzy. This isn’t right. Nothing is right. I don’t want to be here. This is wrong.

“Sir, you can’t see her right now. Let the nurse do her job first.”

“I just... I need to see her.”

“You will, sir. When the nurse says it’s okay.”

Hushed voices wake you up and you hear a door close. The nurse from before is watching the screen, frowning. She finally looks at you and her frown transforms into a smile. “There you are. You had us worried for a second.”

You try to say something, but your voice is not cooperating and you end up coughing instead.

“Easy, Ma’am. Easy.” She offers you lukewarm water through a straw, which you gratefully accept. It helps.

You feel heavy, exhausted. Like you’ve ran a mile. Your face is wet and just lifting your hand to wipe it is difficult. There’s a bandage on your arm; it helps to take away the wet.

“Your blood pressure dropped, but you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

Safe. Yes. You’re safe. In a hospital.

“You have a visitor, too. He’s been waiting outside for a while already.”

Is it him? Is he back? No... no... you were safe. It’s difficult to breathe again.

“Hey, hey: it’s alright. You’re safe, remember? The man attacking you is not here, he’s in custody. This is someone else. Someone safe. Someone you know.” The nurse is holding your hand, but you don’t remember when she grabbed it. Someone I know. Someone safe.

She’s helping you breathe now. In and out. In and out. Until you relax some more. “There you go, you’re okay.” You believe her. You nod but stop immediately because it makes your head hurt.

There’s a soft knock on the door and the nurse moves over to open it just enough to whisper to someone outside. She nods and looks at the policewoman in the chair, who also nods. The door opens and a large shadow fills it. The lights in the hallway are brighter than in here, and you can’t make out who it is.

“Oh, Sweetheart.” His voice is different, almost reverent and barely a whisper. Jensen reaches you with two long strides and gathers your hand in his. His hair is messy, like he has been running his fingers through it for hours. He looks tired, but happy. “Hi.”

“Hi,” your voice is a whisper too. He raises your hand and gently brushes his lips on it, as if worried you might break apart from the touch. He’s not wrong. Tears well up and start spilling down your face. It’s over.

“Du trodde du kunne gjemme deg for meg?” He is sneering at you, while you try to become as small as possible on the ground. It smells like mud and grass. It’s cold. It’s dark. It's wet. Must be night. More pain as his boot hits your back again. “Faens drittkjærring! Jævla hore!” Each insult punctuated by another kick. Your screams have been replaced by soft whimpering. You stopped begging hours ago. It didn’t help. Has it been hours? It feels like hours. “Se på meg!” he commands, but you can’t look at him. Hide your face. Be small. Survive. He’s sitting on you now, mumbling to himself as he’s slowly unravelling your arms. “Måtte faen meg fly over et helt jævla hav for å finne deg. Også sitter du og kliner med en faens skuespiller? Fy faen, du er så hore. Du er for jævla støgg til sånt. Skal faen ikke tro du er noe.” You can’t fight; there’s no more strength in you. Not after he used that stone. “Enten er du min eller så er du ingen sin. INGEN!” His knees are on your arms now, exposing your neck. He grabs it, squeezes so hard it makes your eyes hurt. This is it. This is how you die.

Someone is holding your arm. You’re trapped. Can’t move. No. No...

“NEI!” You sit up faster than you should. Head hurts. Throat hurts. Everything hurts. Dizzy.

“You’re okay, you’re okay. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe. I’m here.” Jensen’s voice is almost like a prayer, repeating over and over again until you slump back on the bed, exhausted.

Safe. Hospital. Here.

Safe.

A nurse is next to you, adding something cold into your IV. She’s not the same as before. A new one.

Your eyes feel heavy and the last thing you see before falling asleep is Jensen’s worried face. He’s still holding your hand.

Safe.

------------

Notes:

Translations: “Du trodde du kunne gjemme deg for meg" = "You thought you could hide from me?" “Faens drittkjærring! Jævla hore!” = "Fucking bitch! Fucking whore!" “Se på meg!” = "Look at me!" “Måtte faen meg fly over et helt jævla hav for å finne deg. Også sitter du og kliner med en faens skuespiller? Fy faen, du er så hore. Du er for jævla støgg til sånt. Skal faen ikke tro du er noe.” = "Had to fucking fly across a whole damn ocean to find you. And then you're smooching a damn actor? God damn, you're such a whore. You're too fucking ugly for that. Don't you fucking think you are anything." “Enten er du min eller så er du ingen sin. INGEN!” = "You're either mine or you are nobody's. NOBODY!" "NEI!" = "NO!"

------

Masterlist for this story: Tumblr

Masterlist for all my stories: Tumblr

[maybefanficting]

The urban fantasy show I actually want to see is a hospital drama with a dedicated wing for supernatural illnesses.

Vampirism. Lycanthropy. Cheap spells gone wrong. A woman brought in for her prenatal has to be told her baby is a lindworm. Someone is literally being followed by the anthropomorphic personification of the Black Death.

Someone somewhere out there is having their perception of the world irreparably shattered by the knowledge that magic is real, and at the other side is a team of doctors who have to roll their eyes and pull out Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales because some high school kid tried to go Carrie with a cheap spellbook and turn all the kids at prom into frogs, and the doctors have to wrangle a couple dozen teenagers into admitting if they have a true love who can break the spell.

[maybefanficting]

CJ, now fully leaning in the doorway, muttered under his breath, “I’m going to start handing out HR packets.” Gabby spun toward him. “Please. You let me yell at him while sitting on a hot water bottle. You love this.” CJ turned and disappeared back into his office without a word.

Gabby sighed dramatically and tossed her sunglasses back on. “Cranberry juice, heating pads, and if I don’t get at least three compliments today, I’m telling every caller I’m working through post-coital trauma.”

Accurate depiction of Gabby:

“I do,” Gabby said without missing a beat, eyes twinkling. “Even when you get snippy with the printer like it personally wronged you.”

Shit I saw a little post where printers are the descendent of I can't remember which appliance and yeah ... printers are maleficent.

CJ groaned. “That was subtle. This is—this is a soap opera.”

She turned back to CJ, eyes sparkling. “Are you saying you and Y/N feel eclipsed by us? Oh my God. Is this your villain origin story?”

CJ reached for the remote. “Tell her if she gives Miles a rash from wearing her hoodie too long, I’m not covering his sick days.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “They did it this morning.” CJ nodded, unbothered. “Probably in the car.” “In the car?!” CJ shrugged. “She drives a Subaru. Those back seats fold flat.”

Oh my god girl ... you're not timeless ... you're ... what do you mean you're surprised by *this morning* and *in the car* ??? Also, wow Snowflake, now I'm impressed.

Crossroads of the Heart - Part Thirty-Seven of ?

Pairings: CJ Braxton x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: Y/N is a psychology major assigned to shadow CJ at The Stand, unaware he's the one who basically saved her life four years before. CJ is unaware that she's the one who left a notable impact on him over the phone four years ago. As they navigate the work at The Stand, they develop a spark that demands revelation and connection.

Word Count: 9,134

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst, tease of smut, minor medical drama

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

NOTE: Please refer to THIS POST about the new posting schedule! Thank you!

Addendum: I have a tremendous favor to ask all my readers. Please read THIS POST for more.

Dividers: credit to @saradika-graphics

Chapter Thirty-Seven: UTI And Chaos

The next morning at The Stand was alive with its usual current—phones ringing steadily, staff exchanging greetings, and the hum of people doing the quiet work of holding others up.

Y/N was just settling in at her desk, setting down her bag and smoothing the hem of her cardigan when she sensed the sudden gust of movement behind her.

“Morning sunshine!”

Y/N barely had time to turn before Gabby dropped into the empty chair beside her, a coffee in one hand and a suspiciously cheerful smile in the other.

“Let me guess,” Y/N said dryly, “you’ve had too much caffeine and not enough supervision.”

Gabby gasped. “How dare you accuse me of being this energetic without cause. I am, as always, powered by purpose and vibes.”

Y/N gave her a look. “Gabby…”

Gabby’s smile softened. “Okay, okay,” she said, voice dipping into something more real. “I’m checking in on you.”

Y/N blinked. “Unprompted?” she teased lightly.

Gabby tilted her head, shrugging. “What can I say? I have a sixth sense for emotional unrest in my people.”

Y/N’s teasing faded, just a little, her eyes warming with something deeper. “I’m okay,” she said after a moment. “Better than yesterday.”

Gabby studied her for a second. “You look better. Still a little cloudy around the edges, but brighter.”

Y/N smirked. “Did you just read my aura?”

“I might be evolving,” Gabby said seriously. “Don’t limit me.”

She reached into her tote and placed a small muffin on Y/N’s desk. “Anyway. This is for you. It’s banana walnut. I figured your soul could use something cozy.”

Y/N looked at the muffin, then at Gabby. “You’re surprisingly gentle today.”

Gabby tapped her heart. “Chaos on the outside, softie on the inside. I contain multitudes.”

There was a pause—long enough for Y/N to hear what wasn’t being said. “You were there for me yesterday,” Y/N said softly. “You didn’t have to be. But you were. You and CJ both.”

Gabby’s voice softened. “That’s what we do. You hold space for everyone here. It’s our turn to hold it for you.”

Y/N smiled then, wide and warm. “Thank you.”

Gabby returned it, her hand reaching out to squeeze Y/N’s once before she stood.

“And if you need anything today—company, distraction, irrational amounts of sugar—you know where to find me.”

“I do.”

Gabby winked. “Good. I have glitter hidden in three locations and a playlist called ‘Soft Girl September’ if things go sideways.”

And with that, she sashayed away, her presence still loud—but her heart, as always, profoundly steady.

Y/N looked at the muffin, then out across the room where CJ was deep in conversation with a volunteer, and Gabby was already tossing a granola bar at Miles from across the room.

She exhaled slowly, then smiled to herself.

She was still healing.

But she was surrounded by love.

And that made all the difference.

Lunch hour crept up like it always did—quietly, subtly—until Y/N looked up from her notepad and realized most of the staff had already trickled out for their breaks. She glanced at the time, then toward CJ’s office.

Still closed.

Still in that emergency meeting with the board over budget forecasting and system grant compliance—one of those tedious, high-stakes things only CJ could navigate without flipping a desk.

He’d sent her a text earlier: [12:01 PM] CJ: Stuck. Go eat. I’ll make it up to you tonight.

So, with a quiet sigh and a determined tug of her sweater, Y/N grabbed her lunch from the break room fridge and carried it out to one of the smaller tables tucked near the windows. She didn’t mind solitude—usually even liked it—but today, with everything still quietly stirring inside her, she missed him.

She sat, opened her container, and began to eat.

And then—

“Minding if I sit?”

The voice wasn’t CJ’s.

Y/N looked up, blinking.

Miles stood there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, expression neutral in that typical Miles way—but there was something quieter in his eyes. Softer.

Y/N blinked again. “Uh… sure.”

He sat across from her, setting down his own lunch bag. Simple. Efficient. Of course.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They both began eating, the ambient sounds of The Stand wrapping around them.

Then, unexpectedly, Miles cleared his throat. “Gabby said you had a rough week.”

Y/N looked up, surprised. “She did?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t… give details. But when she’s quieter than usual around you, I notice.”

Y/N smiled a little at that. “She’s been amazing.”

Miles nodded. “She is.”

Another pause. Then: “I get it,” he said. “When stuff with parents sneaks up on you. It’s like it opens this trap door in your chest you didn’t know was still there.”

Y/N’s fork paused midair.

Miles didn’t look up from his food. He just kept talking, voice casual, steady. “I didn’t really grow up with mine. Just me and my mom. But even the absence of someone leaves marks, you know?”

“I do,” she said softly.

��I’m not the advice type,” Miles added quickly. “But… you’re not alone. Even when it feels like it.”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, warmth blooming slowly in her chest. “You know, you surprise me sometimes,” she said.

“I’m full of secrets,” he deadpanned.

She smiled. “Thank you. Really. For sitting with me.”

He gave a small shrug. “CJ’s stuck in a meeting. Didn’t seem right for you to eat alone.”

She softened. “You’re kind, Miles. Even if you try very hard not to look like it.”

His ears turned a little pink. “Don’t spread that around.”

“Your secret’s safe.”

And just like that, they sat in companionable quiet, sharing a simple meal by the window—two people who had both known silence, and now found peace in each other’s presence.

It wasn’t CJ. It wasn’t Gabby.

But it was exactly what she needed in that moment.

And for that, Y/N was grateful.

Gabby had bounced into the break room five minutes earlier, intending to track down Y/N with two cinnamon muffins, a highly questionable canned matcha, and a story about a volunteer who accidentally answered the phones with “Thank you for calling Gabby” instead of The Stand.

She was riding high on caffeine, sass, and well-meaning chaos.

But when she turned the corner and caught sight of the small table by the window—her usual table with Y/N—she stopped short.

There, in the soft glow of the midday light, sat Y/N and Miles.

Eating.

Quietly.

No sarcasm. No snide remarks. No visible eye-rolling.

Y/N leaned slightly forward as Miles spoke, her expression open, soft, listening with the kind of focus she usually reserved for clients on the line. And Miles—stoic, often allergic to small talk—was speaking. Not distracted. Not uncomfortable. Just… there. Present.

Gabby’s lips parted slightly, and her footstep faltered.

They weren’t talking with the ease of old friends or the flirtation of something romantic. No, this was something else.

Something sacred.

Two people who knew grief in different forms. Who knew silence. Who knew what it was to feel unseen and had, for a moment, found understanding in each other.

She could’ve burst in—made a joke, dropped off the muffins, kissed Miles on the head and plopped down like she always did.

But she didn’t.

She stood in the threshold for a second longer, clutching her cinnamon muffin bag, and slowly stepped back without a sound.

She didn’t need to be in that moment.

Not this time.

Instead, she turned and headed back toward the staff hallway, humming quietly to herself. She’d catch Y/N later. Maybe offer the muffins as tribute. Maybe poke fun at Miles for being a secret softie.

But for now… she let them have it.

Because Gabby Summers was many things.

And one of them—perhaps her best-kept secret—was knowing when not to take up space.

And in that moment, Y/N and Miles didn’t need glitter or muffins.

They just needed each other.

The post-lunch lull had settled over The Stand like a blanket—soft and slow. Volunteers returned to their desks, the phones resumed their steady rhythm, and the quiet buzz of work filled the space like a familiar hum.

Miles, ever the creature of habit, had retreated to his usual corner of the tech station. He was mid-keyboard calibration—headphones in, focus narrowed—when he sensed her.

He always did.

Gabby didn’t announce herself with fanfare this time. No glitter. No dramatic declarations. She simply walked up to him, leaned over the back of his chair, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—warm, unhurried, full of something so simple it felt sacred.

Miles froze. Not from discomfort—but because that kind of tenderness still startled him, even now.

He turned his head slightly, eyes searching hers. “Why?” he asked, voice low.

Gabby just smiled. No teasing in it. No deflection. “Just because,” she said softly.

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead before turning and walking away, her footsteps light as if she hadn’t just left his heart thrumming in his chest.

Miles sat there a moment longer, one hand resting on the desk, the other still frozen above his keyboard.

He blinked once.

Then again.

And then—almost imperceptibly—he smiled.

Just because.

The sun had dipped low by the time CJ finally emerged from his last meeting of the day. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, tie slightly loosened, and his hair looked like he’d run his hand through it at least a dozen times. The faint crease between his brows hadn’t faded, a telltale sign of a long day spent juggling decisions, data, and deadlines.

He scanned the bullpen, searching for one person—his person.

And there she was.

Y/N was just finishing up at her desk, tidying her notes and logging out of her computer, her movements slower than usual but steady. She looked like she’d settled some things—internally, emotionally—and CJ couldn’t help the rush of affection (and guilt) that flooded his chest at the sight of her.

He crossed the room in quick strides, dodging a volunteer with a phone tucked to one ear and a clipboard in the other, until he was finally standing beside her desk.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice rough.

Y/N turned, and the moment she saw him—tousled, slightly undone, and clearly rattled—her face softened.

“I’m so sorry,” CJ said immediately. “I got pulled into that board call, and then everything snowballed—budget talks, system outages, the grant rep called early and—God, I didn’t mean to leave you alone for lunch—”

Y/N reached up and placed her hand gently on his chest, just over his heart. “Hey,” she said softly. “I’m okay.”

He blinked, the apology still halfway out of him. “But I told you I’d be there.”

“And I know you meant it.” Her thumb brushed against his shirt. “CJ, it’s alright. It was just one lunch. And you’ve been doing your job—which, last I checked, is what makes this whole place run.”

CJ exhaled a little shakily, his hand covering hers, anchoring to her. “Still… I hated missing it.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But I wasn’t alone. Miles actually kept me company.”

That pulled his brows together, surprised. “Miles?”

Y/N smiled. “He was sweet. Quiet. Exactly what I needed.”

CJ chuckled, though his surprise lingered. “Maybe he’s been spending too much time around Gabby.”

Y/N grinned, finally standing to face him fully. “Gabby would probably call that a compliment.”

CJ cupped her face gently, his fingers brushing her jaw. “Can I still take you to dinner? Make up for it?”

“You don’t have to,” she said, voice quiet but affectionate.

“I want to,” he countered. “Let me take care of you today. Even if I fumbled the first half.”

She leaned into his touch. “Then yes. Dinner sounds perfect.”

CJ dipped forward and kissed her—slow, intentional, like he was reclaiming a moment that had almost slipped by. When they pulled apart, the exhaustion still lingered in his shoulders, but the look in his eyes had changed.

It wasn’t frazzled anymore.

It was home.

And for Y/N, that was more than enough.

The hallway lights glowed warm and low as CJ guided Y/N toward the exit, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back, the other carrying her bag as if it were second nature. Their voices were quiet—soft chuckles, murmured plans for dinner, the intimacy of people who had found their rhythm again.

Gabby watched from across the room, perched half-on, half-off a desk, a granola bar halfway to her mouth. Her smile stretched wide as she took them in—especially CJ, who just an hour ago had looked like the poster child for executive burnout.

“Look at them,” she whispered to no one in particular. “Domestic royalty.”

She started to turn, ready to pack her bag, when movement in her peripheral caught her attention. Miles.

Trying to make a clean getaway down the back hallway, hoodie pulled up, bag slung over one shoulder.

“Oh no you don’t,” she muttered.

She bolted after him with all the flair of a woman on a mission.

“Miles Jensen!”

He flinched slightly but didn’t stop walking.

She caught up easily, falling into step beside him with all the energy of someone who was absolutely not done talking.

“You were just gonna leave? No goodbye? No hug? Not even a sarcastic quip about my glitter collection? After all we’ve shared?”

Miles glanced at her, unimpressed. “You’re the one who said ‘see you tomorrow’ an hour ago.”

“Yeah, not emotionally,” she retorted. “I am a woman of farewell rituals, Jensen.”

“I wasn’t trying to leave without saying goodbye,” he said flatly, pushing the door open to the parking lot.

Gabby stopped short. “Wait, what?”

Miles turned to her, pausing just beside his car. The last rays of sun caught the edge of his profile, painting him in that deep orange light that always seemed to soften his edges.

“I was putting my stuff in the car,” he said, voice quieter now. “I was going to come back inside. To find you.”

Gabby blinked.

Miles reached into his pocket, pulling out his keys, fidgeting with them as he looked at her. “I was… gonna ask if you wanted to come over. For dinner. Nothing fancy. Just… me. You. Maybe food that didn’t come from a vending machine.”

Her breath caught—not because of the words themselves, but the way he said them. Like an offering. Like something that mattered.

“You were gonna come back and ask me out,” she said, stunned.

“I was gonna invite you over,” he said, ever the literalist. “But… yes.”

Gabby stood there for a second, for once quiet, processing.

Then a grin broke across her face, bright and uncontainable.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re awkward.”

Miles rolled his eyes, but the smallest smirk tugged at his lips.

She stepped closer, looped her arms around his neck, and kissed him—not rushed, not teasing. Just warm. Real.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “I’d love to.”

And in the fading light of evening, with the world finally quiet around them, they stood together.

Not loud.

Not chaotic.

Just right.

The next morning, as Y/N pulled her hair into a loose ponytail and double-checked her bag for her notes, something felt... off.

Gabby wasn’t there.

Not sprawled on the couch with a protein bar in her mouth, not blasting her chaotic playlist from the bathroom, not even half-dancing while applying mascara in the kitchen mirror.

Frowning, Y/N sent a quick text: Y/N: You good? Running late or kidnapped by glittery aliens?

A beat later, her phone buzzed.

Gabby: Doctor run. Thought I had food poisoning. Turns out it’s a UTI. Apparently, while Miles may have rocked my world, my bladder is not a fan.

Y/N choked on her tea, nearly dropping her phone.

Y/N: A UTI?? From MILES??

Gabby: Tell your man to tell his bro to cool it. I did not need to spend my morning explaining my bathroom schedule to a nurse.

Gabby (again): But also... worth it.

Y/N burst out laughing, the sound echoing through her empty apartment.

CJ, from the hallway, poked his head in, lifting an eyebrow. “You okay?”

Still giggling, Y/N grinned. “Gabby got a UTI.”

CJ blinked. “Should I be concerned or...?”

Y/N shook her head, smiling wickedly. “Let’s just say Miles owes her an ice pack. And maybe a fruit basket.”

CJ groaned, covering his face with a hand. “I don’t need to know this.”

Y/N just snorted, already texting Gabby back.

Y/N: Bringing cranberry juice to work. You animal.

By late morning, the front door to The Stand creaked open and in walked Gabby, oversized sunglasses covering half her face and a hot water bottle tucked under one arm like a designer purse. She moved slowly, dramatically, like a wounded heroine in a period drama.

Y/N spotted her first and couldn’t hide the grin. “Hey, look who survived.”

Gabby sighed, removing her sunglasses with flair. “Barely.”

Priya glanced up from her desk. “Rough morning?”

Gabby held up a hand. “Let the record show that I’m not mad. Just… slightly traumatized by my own choices.”

Miles, seated at his station with his headset half-on, turned just enough to catch her approach. “You didn’t have to come in. CJ said he could cover—”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Gabby cut in, dropping her bag with a theatrical thud. She marched right over to Miles and poked him in the shoulder. “You! Do you know what it’s like explaining to a nurse that you’re pretty sure your UTI is from playing Bedroom Rodeo with your emotionally-repressed tech boyfriend?”

Miles flushed crimson, eyes wide. “Gabby—”

“No,” she said, holding up a finger. “You don’t get to ‘Gabby’ me. I had to say ‘increased friction’ out loud. To a stranger. While wearing a paper gown.”

The room had gone still. Y/N was doubled over at her desk, shaking with silent laughter. Even CJ, from his office door, looked torn between mortification and awe.

“I mean,” Gabby continued, voice softening a bit, “I’m not saying it wasn’t worth it.”

Miles groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Gabby leaned in closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “But next time, Miles? Maybe we pace ourselves. Or invest in ice packs. Possibly a full pelvic recovery team.”

Miles peeked through his fingers, still red, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in spite of himself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Gabby said brightly, giving him a wink, “you still let me stay over.”

He exhaled, shoulders sagging as he shook his head. “Yeah. I really did.”

CJ, now fully leaning in the doorway, muttered under his breath, “I’m going to start handing out HR packets.”

Gabby spun toward him. “Please. You let me yell at him while sitting on a hot water bottle. You love this.”

CJ turned and disappeared back into his office without a word.

Y/N turned to Gabby, grinning. “So, cranberry juice at lunch?”

Gabby sighed dramatically and tossed her sunglasses back on. “Cranberry juice, heating pads, and if I don’t get at least three compliments today, I’m telling every caller I’m working through post-coital trauma.”

Miles let out a strangled cough.

Gabby just blew him a kiss.

Later that afternoon, things had quieted down at The Stand. The phone lines were mellow, and most of the team had drifted into their routines. Gabby was now curled sideways in her chair, typing lazily on her laptop.

Miles approached, carrying two drinks. He set a bottle of cranberry juice on her desk without a word.

Gabby blinked at it, then up at him. “Is this a peace offering?”

Miles shrugged, feigning indifference. “Figured I owed you something. Thought about flowers, but the last time I bought you anything with petals, you accused me of being manipulated by capitalism.”

She gasped. “That was Valentine’s Day, and the bouquet came from a gas station.”

“Still cost me $12.99,” he muttered.

Gabby grinned, unscrewing the juice cap. “Well, look at you. A man who listens. You’re learning.”

Miles gave her a dry look. “I’m being blackmailed by your kidneys, Gabriella. That’s not the same as learning.”

She took a sip and leaned back smugly. “Tomato, to-mah-to.”

He watched her for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “So… are we going to talk about how you basically announced our sex life to the entire office?”

Gabby snorted. “I did not! I implied it aggressively with dramatic flair.”

Miles shook his head. “You said bedroom rodeo in front of Priya. I may never recover.”

Gabby wiggled her brows. “She laughed, didn’t she?”

“She looked like she aged twenty years in five seconds.”

Gabby leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Miles rubbed the back of his neck, but a crooked smile tugged at his lips. “You think I’m cute all the time.”

“I do,” Gabby said without missing a beat, eyes twinkling. “Even when you get snippy with the printer like it personally wronged you.”

“It did personally wrong me,” Miles muttered. “It jammed on a blank sheet. That’s sabotage.”

Gabby chuckled, then reached over and looped her pinky around his. “You know you’re my favorite person to torment, right?”

Miles sighed dramatically. “Yeah. I’m painfully aware.”

But he didn’t pull away.

Gabby leaned closer, voice softening. “Thanks for taking care of me, Miles.”

He looked at her, a little surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Then he reached over, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with quiet precision. “Always.”

Gabby blinked, cheeks pinking just slightly—then she broke the moment with a smirk. “Now kiss me, you sentimental fool.”

Miles looked around. “Here? Right now? You already gave CJ an existential crisis this morning.”

Gabby whispered, “Live a little, tech boy.”

And to no one’s surprise, he did.

CJ was passing through the main room with a stack of updated intake forms when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He paused just outside the break room doorway and tilted his head.

Gabby was perched on the edge of her desk, leaning in close, her pinky looped around Miles’s. Whatever she said was low and sweet—clearly meant just for him. A second later, she tugged him in for a kiss, right there in the open.

CJ stopped walking. Just stopped. Like a program short-circuited mid-function.

“Is this... is this my life now?” he muttered, blinking.

Priya, seated nearby with a mug of chamomile and the perfect view of the scene, didn’t even look up from her notes. “You let them banter unsupervised. This is the natural consequence.”

CJ turned slightly to her, baffled. “They’re kissing in the middle of a mental health helpline.”

Priya raised an eyebrow. “You kissed Y/N in the hallway last Tuesday. I remember because Gabby said it gave her ‘hope for emotionally repressed men everywhere.’”

CJ groaned. “That was subtle. This is—this is a soap opera.”

Priya finally looked up at him, calm and composed. “You’re just mad because they’re cuter than you and Y/N now.”

CJ scoffed, scandalized. “Take that back.”

“Prove me wrong,” she said, sipping her tea like a woman with infinite time and receipts.

Inside the break room, Gabby let out a soft giggle as Miles tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, clearly smitten and trying very hard not to show it.

CJ turned away from the sight, shoulders slumped, muttering under his breath.

“I need a new job.”

Priya hummed. “No you don’t. You just need to accept that your workplace is now ninety percent emotional chaos, ten percent actual calls.”

He looked skyward like he was praying for strength.

Priya just smirked and went back to her tea.

Y/N rounded the corner into the main room with a freshly printed intake sheet in hand, her eyes scanning it absently—until she caught sight of CJ standing in the middle of the walkway, absolutely motionless, staring into space like he was calculating how much therapy he might need.

She stopped beside him, squinting. “Um... did the copier break again or are you just having an existential crisis?”

CJ didn’t look at her. Just pointed.

Y/N followed his gaze into the break room where Gabby and Miles were still tucked into their little bubble of fond, touchy affection—Miles looking like he was trying not to smile too hard, and Gabby clearly very pleased with herself.

Y/N blinked. “Oh.”

CJ finally turned to her, eyes wide in that calm-but-panicking way he’d perfected. “They’re kissing. In the break room. During business hours.”

Y/N nodded, pretending to be thoughtful. “Mm. So like... us on Monday?”

“That was different,” CJ said immediately. “That was a forehead kiss.”

“Okay,” she said sweetly. “And this is mouth.”

CJ gave her a withering look.

Y/N grinned, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re spiraling because they’re cuter than us, huh?”

“I am not spiraling,” CJ said, even though he very obviously was. “I am simply acknowledging that my workplace has become a rom-com and I’m apparently the supporting dad character now.”

From her desk nearby, Priya let out a low, unbothered hum. “He’s not wrong.”

Y/N turned to CJ, eyes twinkling. “Do you want me to make out with you in the break room so we can reclaim our title?”

CJ paused. Considered it.

Y/N watched the shift in his expression. “Oh my god, you’re actually thinking about it.”

“I have to protect our legacy,” he muttered.

Priya sighed, reaching for her notepad. “Should I start a bracket for this or just call it what it is—mutually assured flirtation?”

Y/N gave CJ a slow, amused smile. “Careful, Braxton. You go toe-to-toe with Gabby in a PDA-off, and you will lose.”

CJ exhaled through his nose. “God help me, I think I respect that.”

Y/N looped her arm through his and started guiding him away. “Come on. Let’s go act like responsible adults before someone brings in popcorn.”

CJ followed reluctantly. “Do you think if I file a formal break room ban they’ll respect it?”

“No.”

“Can I at least steal you for a forehead kiss behind the supply closet?”

Y/N smirked. “Now that’s the spirit.”

And with that, they disappeared down the hallway—leaving Priya smirking behind her tea, and Gabby and Miles still blissfully unaware that they had just triggered a romantic arms race.

It was nearing the end of the shift when Gabby strolled out of the break room, humming and visibly pleased with life. Miles followed a few paces behind her, doing his best to look casual, despite the lingering flush on his cheeks and the fact that his shirt was slightly rumpled at the collar.

CJ, passing by with a stack of newly printed call reports, slowed as he saw them. His jaw twitched. His eyes narrowed.

Gabby caught the look immediately.

She stopped. “Oh-ho. What’s this?”

CJ tried to play it cool. “What’s what?”

Gabby grinned, stepping directly into his path like a lion scenting weakness. “That face. That’s your I’m being replaced as the workplace’s favorite romantic subplot face.”

CJ blinked. “I do not have a face for that.”

“CJ, sweetheart,” Gabby said, absolutely delighted. “You are threatened.”

CJ huffed. “I am not threatened. I am... observant.”

“Uh-huh,” Gabby said, spinning dramatically to point at Miles. “You hear this? He thinks we’re competition.”

Miles raised both hands. “Leave me out of it.”

But Gabby was already full steam ahead.

She turned back to CJ, eyes sparkling. “Are you saying you and Y/N feel eclipsed by us? Oh my God. Is this your villain origin story?”

CJ opened his mouth to retort—and then Y/N walked in, sipping her tea with a raised eyebrow. “Why does it sound like someone’s trying to summon a deity of chaos?”

Gabby spun toward her. “CJ is jealous.”

Y/N blinked. “Of what?”

Gabby gestured between herself and Miles. “Of us. Apparently our PDA is too powerful. We’ve shifted the romantic hierarchy.”

Y/N blinked again… then slowly turned to CJ. “Oh my God. You are jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” CJ muttered, now visibly regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. “I just think there should be a basic level of decorum in the workplace.”

“You kissed me behind the file cabinets,” Y/N said, deadpan.

“That was discreet.”

“It was noon,” she reminded him. “And Miles dropped his coffee because you startled him.”

Gabby clapped her hands together. “Oh, this is better than I dreamed. CJ, darling—are you officially declaring a romance rivalry?”

CJ glared. “There is no rivalry.”

Gabby leaned in, voice low and devious. “Because you’d lose?”

CJ opened his mouth.

Y/N put a hand gently on his arm. “Don’t take the bait. That’s how she wins.”

But it was too late. Gabby was already circling them like a shark.

“Admit it,” she teased. “You saw Miles kissing me in the break room and said, ‘That should be us.’”

CJ gave her a tight smile. “I said, ‘This is a helpline, not an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.’”

“You love it,” Gabby beamed. “You love us.”

CJ groaned and walked off without another word.

Gabby called after him: “You better step it up, Braxton! Tomorrow I’m bringing a mixtape and coordinated outfits!”

Y/N covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “You’re going to break him.”

Miles rubbed his face. “She already has.”

Gabby turned to them both and whispered with mock-seriousness, “Tell him I accept his challenge.”

Y/N smirked. “There wasn’t a challenge.”

Gabby winked. “There is now.”

The sun had dipped low by the time CJ and Y/N stepped outside The Stand, the sidewalk washed in soft amber light and the distant murmur of campus life humming like background music. They walked in comfortable silence for a stretch, the buzz of the day slowly melting off their shoulders.

Then CJ exhaled, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other brushing against hers.

“She’s really going to bring matching outfits tomorrow,” he muttered.

Y/N laughed, leaning just enough to bump her shoulder against his. “You shouldn’t have looked so constipated while they were kissing. You fed her soul with that reaction.”

CJ rolled his eyes, but a wry smile tugged at his lips. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Y/N said, grinning. “You glared like someone had interrupted your monologue.”

He chuckled softly, the sound fading into a quieter breath. “You know... she’s not wrong. We used to be like that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Obsessively handsy,” CJ said, glancing sideways at her. “Remember? Sneaking off during lunch breaks, making out behind the supply closet, finding excuses to ‘check the back room’ even though we both knew exactly what we were doing.”

Y/N bit her lip, amused. “Mmm. We were a little shameless.”

CJ looked down at his shoes for a moment, then up at the dusky sky. “It just… feels like we cooled. Like maybe I let it slip. I didn’t mean to. But sometimes I wonder if I did.”

Y/N slowed to a stop, turning to face him fully. “CJ.”

He looked at her, eyes steady but uncertain.

She reached up, cupping his cheek gently with her gloved hand. “You didn’t let anything slip. We didn’t cool. We… settled.”

CJ’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s not exactly romantic.”

Y/N smiled, soft and sure. “Yes, it is. We’re not in the honeymoon phase anymore, where everything’s dizzy and new and filled with stolen glances and breathless kisses. We’re past that now. You and me? We’re cemented. We’re steady. And that doesn’t make us any less in love—it just means we’ve built something that lasts.”

He blinked, her words sinking in like warmth into tired bones. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t try to out-cute Gabby and Miles with a spontaneous ballad and fireworks display?”

She laughed, stepping closer, hands on his chest now. “Please don’t. You’d cry from embarrassment halfway through and blame it on smoke from the sparklers.”

CJ huffed. “One time.”

Y/N leaned in, brushing a kiss against his jaw, then his lips—slow, deliberate, full of all the quiet certainty they’d built together.

“I love you,” she said, forehead resting against his. “Even if we’re boring now.”

“We are not boring,” CJ said, smug again. “We are classic.”

She giggled. “Exactly. Timeless.”

They stood like that for a moment, the evening curling around them like a soft blanket. Then CJ finally smiled—really smiled—and slid his hand into hers as they kept walking.

“Still,” he murmured, squeezing her fingers. “Tomorrow I’m kissing you in the middle of the office. Just to remind everyone.”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly. “Fine. But if you dip me, you better not drop me.”

“I make no promises.”

The next morning at The Stand started with its usual rhythm—early shift log-ins, half-awake greetings, and the aroma of burnt coffee wafting through the lounge. CJ had already been in his office, going over call rotation updates, but the second he saw Y/N walk through the door, something shifted.

She hadn’t even taken off her coat when he crossed the room with purpose, zero hesitation, like a man on a mission.

Y/N blinked at the intensity in his eyes. “Good morning—”

Before she could say more, CJ stopped in front of her, slid one hand around her waist, the other gently cradling the back of her neck, and kissed her.

Right there. In full view of the break room, the front desk, and half the staff.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t subtle either.

It was the kind of kiss that said: I know who you are to me. I know what we’ve built. And I’m not shy about it anymore.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N blinked up at him, breathless but smiling. “Wow. You really meant it.”

CJ smirked. “Told you I would.”

A loud gasp shattered the silence.

Gabby.

Standing in the break room, halfway through peeling a banana, her eyes wide like she’d just witnessed a historical event. “HOLY. PUBLIC. DECLARATION.”

Miles looked up from the printer, visibly resigned.

Gabby stormed into the main room, banana completely forgotten. “Excuse me, was that an office-wide smackdown of romance supremacy?!”

CJ arched an eyebrow. “You did say we’d cooled.”

Gabby clutched her chest. “And you came back swinging. Y/N, girl, are you okay? Blink twice if you’re overwhelmed by his redemption arc.”

Y/N laughed, cheeks flushed. “I’m okay. Just... very publicly kissed.”

CJ, utterly pleased with himself, reached for her hand. “Worth it.”

Miles muttered from the corner, “You’ve created a monster, Gabby.”

Gabby twirled. “Reignited a monster. There’s a difference.”

Priya, sipping her morning tea at her desk, didn’t even look up. “Do I need to get the spray bottle again?”

“Nope!” Gabby chirped, pointing dramatically. “This is glorious and we should encourage it.”

CJ tugged Y/N closer, smug. “Let them talk.”

Y/N grinned, leaning in. “They will.”

They walked off hand in hand toward their desks as Gabby shouted after them, “Next week: synchronized love sonnets!”

CJ called back without missing a beat, “We’re saving those for the staff meeting.”

Priya sighed. “God help us all.”

Later that afternoon, after the whirlwind of calls, counseling, and Gabby declaring herself “Head of the Romance Appreciation Committee,” CJ retreated to his office. The door was half-closed, just enough to signal he wasn’t hiding, but not exactly inviting traffic either.

A soft knock tapped once before Y/N pushed it open.

“Hey,” she said gently, slipping inside and easing the door shut behind her. “You okay?”

CJ looked up from where he was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Just... needed a breather.”

Y/N crossed the room and perched on the edge of his desk, facing him. “So, was that whole kiss-in-the-middle-of-the-room thing your version of reclaiming the crown?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Honestly? I think I just missed kissing you without a clipboard in one hand and a deadline in the other.”

Y/N smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair gently. “You didn’t need to prove anything, you know.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I just... realized how easy it is to start going through the motions. Work, home, crash, repeat. And I didn’t want you to ever feel like I was taking you for granted. Or that we were fading.”

Y/N tilted her head, voice soft and sure. “We’re not fading, CJ. We’re just... settled. We’re steady. You don’t need to kiss me in front of everyone to remind me how you feel.”

He looked up at her, something tender behind his eyes. “But I wanted to.”

Y/N leaned in slowly, pressing a quiet kiss to his lips—less show, more soul. The kind of kiss you don’t need an audience for. The kind that says I’m here. Still.

When they pulled apart, CJ let out a long breath and reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers. “Do you think I’m ridiculous?”

“Absolutely,” she said, eyes dancing. “But in a really lovable way.”

He smiled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Good. Because I plan to keep being ridiculous about you for a very long time.”

Y/N leaned her forehead against his. “You’re allowed to be. But next time you try to one-up Gabby, just remember—she keeps glitter in her car and has no shame.”

CJ groaned. “I’m terrified.”

Y/N grinned. “Good. That means you’re learning.”

They stayed like that for a moment—quiet, steady, perfectly settled. And utterly in love.

Just as Y/N was about to slip out of CJ’s office, the door creaked open a few inches—without a knock.

“Not to interrupt the domestic bliss,” Gabby sing-songed from the crack, “but I am collecting votes for ‘Best Workplace Kiss of the Year,’ and so far you two are winning by sheer dramatic flair.”

CJ didn’t move. “There are no other nominees.”

Gabby gasped. “You don’t know that. Miles and I have at least one solid contender involving a granola bar and a swivel chair.”

Y/N groaned, hand over her face. “Gabby—”

“Don’t worry,” Gabby continued, pushing the door open fully now, grinning like she owned the place, “your prize is a small trophy, eternal bragging rights, and—drumroll—co-chair status in the newly formed PDA Elite Club.”

“I’m resigning,” CJ muttered, deadpan.

Gabby pointed at him triumphantly. “Too late. You kissed your way into office.”

Y/N laughed, tugging CJ up from his chair as Gabby dramatically bowed out of the doorway.

As they followed her back out into the main room, CJ leaned toward Y/N and murmured just loud enough for her to hear, “We’re never getting rid of her, are we?”

Y/N smiled, squeezing his hand. “Not a chance.”

Gabby, ten feet ahead, spun around. “I heard that! You’re welcome for keeping your relationship spicy!”

CJ sighed.

Y/N just grinned and said, “She’s not wrong.”

And with that, the day carried on—ridiculous, chaotic, and full of heart.

Just the way they liked it.

That evening, Y/N was curled up on the couch with CJ, her legs draped over his lap while he absentmindedly traced circles on her shin. They were half-watching some true crime docuseries—well, Y/N was. CJ was clearly more interested in her than the cold case currently unfolding on screen.

Her phone buzzed with a text.

Gabby: Kill me.

Y/N raised an eyebrow and typed back.

Y/N: What now? Did Miles say something actually sincere?

Gabby’s reply came fast.

Gabby: Antibiotics. Gabby: THE STRONG KIND. The kind that make your stomach hate you and your kidneys file a formal complaint. Gabby: I had to go pick them up wearing a hoodie I’m 90% sure belongs to Miles and pajama pants that say “Queen of Chaos.”

Y/N smirked, biting back a laugh.

Y/N: So what I’m hearing is: even your pharmacy trip was on brand.

Gabby: I’m suffering. Tell your man his bro is officially banned from “world-rocking” for a minimum of 7-10 days.

Y/N: Consider him notified.

Gabby: And yet... Gabby: He is absolutely worth it.

Y/N paused, her smile softening as she read that last line. Then:

Y/N: That bad, huh?

Gabby: Horrible pain. Constant bathroom trips. Two days of heating pads, cranberry pills, and the nurse saying “maybe... slow down?” ... But he makes me laugh even when I want to scream, and he looks at me like I invented the moon. So yeah. Worth it.

Y/N stared at the screen for a long moment, heart swelling with affection.

Then she sent:

Y/N: I’m so happy for you. For real. And also—you’re definitely keeping the hoodie.

Gabby: Oh I already “forgot” to give it back. That thing’s mine now.

Gabby (again): Also, Miles brought me soup today and tried to call it “nutrient optimization.”

Gabby (again): Marry him.

Y/N snorted, nearly choking on her tea.

CJ glanced down at her from where he was still lazily trailing his fingers across her knee. “Dare I ask?”

Y/N locked her phone and leaned back against him with a dreamy sigh. “Gabby’s on antibiotics, in pain, mildly feral, and 100% in love.”

CJ arched an eyebrow. “So... a normal Tuesday?”

Y/N grinned. “Basically.”

CJ reached for the remote. “Tell her if she gives Miles a rash from wearing her hoodie too long, I’m not covering his sick days.”

The next morning at The Stand started with its usual chorus of login chimes, printer groans, and the gurgling coffee pot that always sounded like it needed therapy.

CJ was leaning casually against the front desk, sipping from his mug while Y/N stood beside him, flipping through the day’s intake schedule. It was a quiet moment—until the front door swung open with a thud.

Miles walked in.

And he looked... off.

Not bad. Just rumpled. A little too rumpled.

His shirt was misbuttoned by one notch, his tie hung loose like it had been knotted in a rush, and his hair—usually tousled in an intentional, “I don’t care but I actually care a lot” way—was full-on disheveled. As if he’d either been through a wind tunnel… or an enthusiastic round two.

CJ blinked. “Huh.”

Y/N looked up from the clipboard. “What?”

CJ sipped his coffee. “Miles is wearing yesterday’s stress and this morning’s regret.”

Y/N tilted her head. “No… that’s not regret.” Her eyes narrowed, tracking the slight limp in his step and the faint scuff on the collar of his shirt. “That’s... triumph.”

Just then, Gabby breezed in through the door right behind Miles, sunglasses perched on her head, ponytail bouncing like she was fresh from an herbal commercial. She was glowing.

No, she was smirking.

Y/N’s jaw dropped slightly.

CJ glanced between the two of them, then at Y/N. “You’re doing the math, aren’t you?”

Y/N stared at Miles, who was now trying very hard to act like he wasn’t walking like his lower back hurt.

Then she looked at Gabby.

Who winked.

Y/N choked on air.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “They did it this morning.”

CJ nodded, unbothered. “Probably in the car.”

“In the car?!”

CJ shrugged. “She drives a Subaru. Those back seats fold flat.”

Y/N looked scandalized and impressed. “That’s... disturbingly specific.”

Gabby passed by them, giving CJ a casual pat on the shoulder. “Good morning, sunshine.”

CJ just sipped his coffee. “You’re late.”

Gabby smiled, unrepentant. “We took the scenic route.”

Miles, from across the room, dropped his phone.

Y/N buried her face in her clipboard to hide the laugh that was threatening to burst free. “This place is unhinged,” she muttered.

CJ leaned toward her with a crooked smile. “And yet, here we are. Steady amidst the chaos.”

Y/N grinned back, cheeks flushed. “Speak for yourself. I’ll never recover from this visual.”

Gabby called over her shoulder as she made her way to the break room, “Recover fast! Staff meeting in fifteen! Also—you’re welcome for the serotonin!”

Miles groaned audibly. CJ clapped him on the shoulder in passing.

“You need electrolytes and a chiropractor, man.”

Y/N followed with a grin, whispering, “And maybe a reminder that fogged-up windows are a dead giveaway.”

A little later, during the lull before the morning calls ramped up, Y/N caught Gabby alone in the break room, leaning casually against the counter while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

Y/N slipped in and closed the door behind her with a soft click.

Gabby looked over, entirely too pleased with herself. “If you’re here to give me a standing ovation, I’ll allow it.”

Y/N snorted. “You had morning sex, didn’t you?”

Gabby blinked. “I decline to confirm or deny—”

“—in a car, Gabby.”

Gabby shrugged one shoulder, utterly unapologetic. “It’s not a crime to carpe diem before clocking in.”

Y/N laughed, walking over to grab a mug. “You literally just started antibiotics yesterday.”

Gabby waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Doctor said take it easy, drink water, avoid trauma to the area—”

“Gabby.”

“But Miles made me tea. And he wore that one hoodie that makes him look like a soft boy with dangerous hands. I didn’t stand a chance.”

Y/N burst out laughing, setting her mug down and covering her face. “You are unbelievable. You texted me kill me last night.”

“Yeah, well, if I’m going to die, I want it to be in his arms after round two,” Gabby said without missing a beat.

Y/N groaned. “I can’t keep having this conversation in the workplace.”

Gabby smirked, sipping her coffee. “Fine, but I’ll have you know I was hydrated, took my meds, and stretched beforehand. I came prepared.”

“Prepared?” Y/N choked. “Gabby, this is a helpline, not a training montage.”

Gabby wiggled her eyebrows. “Every hero has their origin story.”

Y/N leaned against the counter beside her, shaking her head, laughter still bubbling up. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Gabby smiled softer now, setting her mug down. “Yeah, well… I’m lucky Miles does too.”

Y/N gave her a look—half affection, half amused exasperation. “Even if you give yourself a second UTI, huh?”

Gabby groaned dramatically. “Okay, that would be tragic.”

Y/N raised her mug in mock toast. “To questionable choices and the men who are weirdly worth them.”

Gabby clinked her cup against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

Meanwhile, outside the break room, CJ leaned against the edge of the front desk, flipping through the morning rotation sheets as Miles approached, coffee in hand and the quiet, lingering air of a man who had made choices.

CJ didn’t look up as Miles drew near. “You alright?”

Miles took a sip, winced a little—either from the heat or from something else entirely. “Define ‘alright.’”

CJ glanced over at him, eyebrow raised. “Well, you walked in looking like someone who lost a bet, then survived a passionate crime scene in a hatchback.”

Miles sighed. “It was her idea.”

CJ gave him a knowing look. “It’s always her idea.”

There was a beat of silence. Then CJ smirked, lowering his voice just enough. “But you didn’t say no.”

Miles rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… I could’ve. But then she smiled at me like I invented gravity and next thing I know, we’re fogging up the car windows and I’m trying to remember if my spine always makes that sound.”

CJ chuckled, the low kind that only came from experience. “You do know she’s still on antibiotics, right?”

“She brought them with her,” Miles muttered. “Took them in the car like a goddamn road trip snack.”

CJ blinked. “That’s... actually impressive.”

Miles blew out a breath. “It’s chaos. But I can’t lie… I like the chaos.”

CJ looked at him for a moment, something softer beneath the smirk. “Yeah. I get that.”

Miles gave him a sidelong glance. “You miss it?”

CJ shrugged. “Sometimes. But then I look at Y/N sitting in our living room, curled up with a mug of tea and a stack of her notes, humming off-key to some old playlist she refuses to update… and I think, I don’t need chaos.”

Miles nodded slowly, quiet for a beat. “You’ve got gravity.”

CJ smiled. “Exactly.”

Just then, Gabby’s laughter rang out from the break room—sharp, bright, and unmistakably Gabby. Miles flinched like it physically hit him.

CJ patted his shoulder. “Good luck surviving the debrief.”

Miles sighed. “I’d say wish me luck, but it’s not gonna help.”

CJ grinned. “Nope.”

The late-morning lull had settled in. The calls were steady but manageable, and most of the team was tucked into their usual rhythms. CJ was back at his desk in his office, reviewing schedules, making notes on shift gaps—typical end-of-week cleanup.

The door eased open without a knock, and Priya slipped in with a mug in one hand and her trademark neutral expression.

CJ glanced up. “Did Gabby send you to lecture me about workplace affection guidelines?”

Priya shut the door behind her with a soft click. “No. She asked if I could get you to sponsor themed Thursdays and fund a karaoke night.”

CJ blinked. “Absolutely not.”

“Thought you’d say that,” she said mildly, setting her tea on the edge of his desk. “This is just me checking in.”

CJ leaned back, stretching his shoulder. “I’m good.”

Priya tilted her head slightly, watching him. “You’re steady.”

He gave a dry smirk. “Was that a compliment or a warning?”

“A compliment,” she said simply. “You and Y/N—you’re exactly what I think most of these kids need to see. Proof that love doesn’t have to be messy to be real.”

CJ let out a slow breath, nodding. “It’s not as loud as it used to be. But it’s solid.”

Priya smiled faintly. “Loud burns out fast. Solid lasts.”

He looked at her for a moment. “You always do this—wander in with a cup of tea and casually drop something philosophical.”

Priya shrugged. “Comes with the therapist license. That and a bookshelf full of plants and trauma recovery workbooks.”

CJ chuckled. “And?”

She hesitated. “And... Miles and Gabby.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What about them?”

Priya sipped her tea, thoughtful. “You know I used to think they’d cancel each other out. Too much heat, too much stubbornness. But lately... I don’t know. It’s like they’re both settling in without losing their spark.”

CJ leaned forward, arms on the desk. “You think it’s real?”

Priya nodded slowly. “I think they’ve figured out how to make chaos feel safe. That’s not easy.”

CJ let that sit for a moment, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “You’re rooting for them.”

Priya sipped. “Of course. I’m not heartless.”

“You just hide it under steel and sarcasm.”

“I learned from the best,” she said, raising a brow at him before turning to leave. “Oh, and CJ?”

“Yeah?”

She looked over her shoulder, calm and even. “You still win the PDA award. But don’t get comfortable. Gabby’s already planning a choreographed duet for the staff talent night.”

The door shut behind her before CJ could respond.

He stared at it for a beat, then sighed.

Laughed once.

And texted Y/N:

Remind me to fake a scheduling conflict the week of the talent show.

The Stand had grown still as late afternoon rolled in, soft golden light casting long shadows across the floor. The hum of ringing phones had quieted, replaced by the low, comforting rhythm of a day winding down.

CJ found Y/N alone in the lounge, curled into the corner of the old loveseat. Her legs were tucked beneath her, her arms loose at her sides, and the letter—that letter—rested in her lap, unfolded with quiet care.

CJ said nothing at first. He just walked in slowly and sat beside her, his presence a gentle question.

Y/N leaned into him almost immediately, her head resting against his shoulder, the weight of the letter still fresh on her.

“I read it again,” she murmured, voice hoarse from emotion, not fatigue.

CJ’s hand settled against her back, slow and steady. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “It still hurts. But it’s… different now. Softer.”

She didn’t need to explain. CJ had been there when she read it the first time—had sat beside her, grounding her as her fingers unfolded the aged paper. He’d held her while the words unraveled everything she’d buried so tightly inside herself.

Her father’s letter hadn’t been performative. It hadn’t been neat. It was raw and apologetic. Unflinching in its recognition of the damage he’d done—and of the man he hadn’t been.

And most of all, it had named what she had survived.

It hadn’t erased anything. But it had acknowledged everything.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” she admitted now, fingers brushing the edge of the page. “I’m still angry. Still aching. But I believe him. For the first time... I believe he sees me.”

CJ said nothing, just kissed the side of her head.

“I’m not ready to talk to him,” she continued. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I’m not holding my breath anymore, waiting for words that might never come. Because they did come. And I still get to choose what happens next.”

CJ pulled her closer. “That’s all that matters.”

She closed her eyes. “It cracked something open. That’s the only way I can describe it. Like the pain shifted into something else. Not gone… but finally moving.”

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he said quietly. “We take this one breath at a time. Together.”

Y/N was silent for a while. Then, she spoke—soft, certain. “I don’t know what kind of relationship I’ll have with my dad, if any. But I know what kind of life I have now.”

CJ glanced at her, his expression gentle.

She met his eyes. “This. You. The Stand. Gabby. Priya. Even Miles and his chaos. This is my life. My family.”

CJ’s gaze softened further, fingers brushing hers. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“I know,” she said, leaning back into him. “And that’s what’s saving me. Not the apology. Not the letter. You. All of you. This place. It’s what caught me when I didn’t even know I was still falling.”

CJ rested his chin on her head. “And it always will.”

They sat like that, the letter still resting quietly in her lap, its weight now a little easier to carry.

And for the first time, Y/N didn’t feel like she was bracing herself for impact.

She felt like she was breathing again.

Maybe not healed.

But beginning.

Tag List: @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick, @star-yawnznn, @hobby27, @hellsbratonthet

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here! And check out the other story I’m writing!

[maybefanficting]

Too bad the prophet Cassandra never met Odysseus

[maybefanficting]

Be prepared to get comments like "Your hair is so pretty. You wrote her hair so pretty. Why is she so pretty?" And "Your writing is so good. I can really tell what he's saying and oh he smells so nice. That's a cool looking bag. Your beta has awesome shoes I bet. What's her name?"

Let the endless compliment cycle begin.

[maybefanficting]

hi, 1 qastion for Jensen pliz, hi, yas, who DA FUCK IS RUNNING HERE sir pliz? Is that Jensen? Is that Mark? 'cause Dean would never ( up y'all for your "Mark-Is-Dean-3.0" - he ain't ) so. WHO DAT? Mark-rat-desert-sent-to-military-by-beat-up-dad? Pliz, sir, explain this character for me.

[maybefanficting]

When they seemed happy.

( didn’t fill a full episode )

5x16 Dark Side of the Moon

Happy Dark Side of the Moon Day! SupernaturalArchive.com.

[maybefanficting]

Buwahaha ! So many references in there. Of course, we all want Don Johnson confidence from Miami Vice (also, the swag of wearing a suit jacket with rolled up sleeves)

Dean totally taking advantage of the good old photos developed twice ;)

SPN snapshot fic: "The new camera"

A part of @ambiguous-avery's Summer Snapshot Challenge. 1000 words or less.

Word count: 946 Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Original Female Character. Warnings: None Summary: Dean makes sure Sam has a happy sixteenth birthday.

Source: Soaphub.com

The new camera

The impala’s taillights disappeared down the road in a cloud of California dust. “Stupid son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled to himself while kicking a rock across the parking lot, angry that he never had the courage to say that to his father’s face. Leaving them high and dry at a rundown motel, and right before Sam’s birthday? This sucked.

He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration and turned around to see Sam looking at him from the motel window. Even from here, he could see Sam’s tears glinting in the light from a passing car. No, this won’t do. Not this year. Not when his brother is turning 16. If John didn’t get Sam something nice, Dean had to make sure he did something. Anything. An idea formed in his head and he signalled to Sam that he’d be back in 10 minutes. Sam nodded and disappeared; shoulders slumped.

The next morning, Sam woke up to a grey package on his bedside table.

“Happy Birthday, Sammy!” Dean emerged from the bathroom, already showered and sporting a red shirt he had never worn before, along with a black pair of shorts.

“Thanks, D…” Sam answered before looking up and spotting Dean’s attire. “Okay, Magnum, what’s up with the shirt?” he laughed.

The elder brother frowned and held his hands out. “What? A guy can’t wear a comfy shirt to the beach now?”

“One: You’ve never worn anything but leather jacket, plaid and t-shirts, dude. Two: What do you mean beach? And three: What’s this?” He held up the grey lump of badly taped something.

Dean huffed and sat down on the bed next to Sam, slapping his brother’s head. “Your birthday gift, stupid. Open it.”

The paper almost fell off on its own to reveal a camera. Not a new, fancy one, but it was grey, with steel details and a lens you could turn around to focus.

“Aw, Dean. Thanks!” Sam bumped his shoulder against Dean in gratitude and immediately started trying to figure out how to wind the film and adjust the focus, before snapping a few pics of Dean’s nose and the motel door.

“Alright, loser. Get out your shorts and pack some towels. We’re off to the beach.” Dean got to his feet and started counting the cash John left them: Should be enough for a bus ride to the beach, some food and back again before nightfall.

45 minutes later and the Santa Monica beach was laid out before them – just like they’d seen on Baywatch: Sand, pier, waves and scantily clad women all over the place. Dean grinned and Sam gaped.

They found themselves a little spot to put their towels on and Sam was quick to run into the waves like he was Mitch Buchanan himself. Dean could almost hear the theme music in the background as he watched his younger brother jump over the smallest waves and dive headfirst into the water when he couldn’t run any more. He emerged, grinning from ear to ear and waving his wet, ridiculously long hair all over the place like a puppy, making Dean laugh at his antics.

Somehow, Sam ended up throwing ball with some random teenagers while Dean was still on his towel with his sunglasses on and trying not to be too obvious with where he was staring. A blonde woman with short hair and a red bikini was sitting a few feet to their right, on her own blue towel, looking like she too belonged in a Baywatch episode: Long legs, hardly any tan lines, but already with bronze coloured skin, spreading sun lotion on her arms. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off her.

As she finished putting on her lotion, she had already spotted him and lowered her own sunglasses. “Hey, why don’t you just take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Dean almost jumped out of his skin, spluttering “I… I’m not… I didn’t…” Searching for words and feeling less cool by the minute, looking everywhere but at her now.

“I’m kidding,” she laughs, obviously amused by his blushing face. “What’s your name?”

“Dean. I’m Dean.”

“Hi Dean, I’m Carrie.” She held her hand out and Dean jumped up to greet her, taking care to bring the camera he had gotten Sam. Wouldn’t want someone to steal it already. She eyed the camera. “You know: I was kidding about the picture thing.”

“Oh,” Dean laughed. “Yeah, no… It’s my brother’s camera, he got it for his birthday today so I figured I would keep it safe.”

“Your brother, huh?” She glanced at Sam, still throwing ball with the other kids. “That him? How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Figured he earned a day on the beach.”

“Sixteen, huh?” She pressed her lips together, still looking at the younger brother. “So you’re just here making sure he’s having a good day?”

Dean nodded at that, trying desperately to keep looking at her eyes and not her… bikini covered areas. Finding his courage, he cleared his throat and imagined himself having the confidence of Don Johnson from Miami Vice. “So you, uh, you wanna help me make his day even better? Happy sixteen and all that?”

She turned to him again, curious, those damn lips still pursed. “What did you have in mind?”

Dean merely held up the camera and grinned. She nodded and leaned back on her towel already posing and he wasted no time snapping a few shots of her. Sam would flip out when they developed the film later! Dean would make sure to grab a few copies for his personal collection too, but he didn’t plan on telling Sam that.

------------

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Let me know what you think of this one in a comment or reblog. Any and all input is greatly appreciated <3

[maybefanficting]

5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?

It could get good, even.

[maybefanficting]

Apple would not use it for promotional purposes. And they would be wrong.

Ghostfacers would be the best ad for "filmed on iPhone" movement.

3x13 Ghostfacers

This would all be shot on an iPhone today. SupernaturalArchive.com.

[maybefanficting]

Soooo, this happened. These are real photos. But I couldn't decide on one joke. I'm not even sure I'll have the courage to publish to instagram. So of course, I wasted 3 hours on mockup. Like a normal person. This country can't bully, so it decided to make a statement, it's the only explanation I will accept.

[maybefanficting]

I remember crying reading that thing. (Because it was good.)

Be My Mistake

A Short Story

~ When Rebekah is asked to write with Jensen on his first solo album, the chemistry extends past the page and bleeds into real life. Both happily married, they tried to fight the spark between them, but some things aren’t so easy to ignore… ~

Jensen Ackles x Rebekah Jordan

6,211 Words

Romance, Angst, Infidelity, Sex and Love and Heartache

Inspired by the song of the same name by The 1975. Written for @jacklesversebingo “Bad Decisions Were Made” was my prompt. I was also challenged to put myself into a fic, so here we are!

JacklesBingo Masterlist

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

He kept a guitar pick in his pocket. 

It wasn’t just any pick. It was the blue one with her teeth marks dented into the top. She’d stolen it from him that night on the beach when the wind was gently lifting her long hair and the fire lit the gold in her eyes. Bare toes dug into the warm sand, they spent the evening writing songs and drinking too much wine. The wine was cheap but the lyrics were good. Her voice was soft and blended almost too perfectly with his. It was magical the way she matched his harmonies, beautiful the way her soft lips danced around his words. The flames transfixed them both and he fell deep into her that night. 

He never left home without that pick in his pocket, never let it out of his sight. It was a secret bit of her that he’d stolen, a tangible memory of the feelings she’d sparked within him. 

Maybe it kept him grounded, maybe it kept him from making the same mistakes again. He didn’t really know why, but the reasons didn’t matter. Whenever he felt the prickling hand of anxiety curl around the back of his neck, a touch of that pick was all he needed to push it away. If the stress of home was growing too strong or another woman turned his head, he’d run his thumb across the pick, feel her phantom marks, and remember the beauty and pain of loving her. 

It was hard to keep it a secret, but happy was easy to fake. He smiled for the cameras; laughed when he needed to. He turned up the charm so those around him couldn’t tell he was shattered inside. 

There was sand on the sheets and salt on their skin. 

Jensen pushed up on his strong arms and hovered over her, staring into her eyes and making her blush for the thousandth time. 

Rebekah bit her lip and shied away, unable to stand the way he looked into her heart so deeply, so contentedly.  

“Don’t do that,” she whispered, turning her head. 

Jensen chased her gaze. “Why not?” 

“Because you’re freaking me out.” 

He grinned and drew his pink tongue across his plump bottom lip. “Why’s that?” 

Beka’s throat tightened and her eyes burned. Emotions were too high, she was too drunk, and he was too beautiful. “You’re like… digging into my soul. It’s strange. No one looks at me like that.” 

He sighed gently and sat back on his ankles between her knees. “They should,” he answered. “They’re missing out.” 

Embarrassed, she tried to hide her face in her hands, but he wouldn’t let her. Tender fingers wrapped around each wrist as he lowered her hands and set them down on her hips. 

“Don’t…” 

Jensen dipped his chin and let his gaze sweep over her nakedness. It was dark in the room but the moon sent streaks of pale silver through the sheer curtains, highlighting every soft curve. “You’re beautiful.” 

Her body tensed. She tried to squirm from his grip and grab the sheet, bury her face, and hide herself away. “Stop it.” 

“No.” He released her wrists but held on, slowly sliding his big hands up her arms. “You are. I’m sorry no one tells you that.” 

His hands went higher and her chest grew tighter. She blinked a tear away but he never closed his eyes, watching every flinch, every breath. 

“You should hear it every fucking day.” 

“Jensen-” 

When his palms settled on her cheeks, her protests fell aside. Transfixed by his gaze and the song of his voice, Beka melted into his touch and invited his kiss with a shy smile that drove him wild. 

“We really shouldn’t be here,” she whispered before his lips found their target. 

“I know, but…” He closed his eyes and his lashes brushed across the apple of her cheeks. His hands pushed through her black hair, holding her close. “Just one night. Please.” 

She always turned off the light. 

It felt safer in the dark. She pretended to believe that if she couldn’t see him then it wasn’t really happening and if it wasn’t really happening, no one would get hurt. No vows were being broken, no hearts would shatter. 

She wished she’d kept the lights on. 

Wished she had kept her eyes open, memorized every line on his face, every hair out of place, every tiny smile. She should have studied him closely, tucked away his image in her mind, and savored his taste on her tongue. She should have stayed focused and pushed away the mind-numbing pleasure and the time blindness that adrenaline brings. She should have tried harder to remember every second with him. 

“This just isn’t fucking working!” 

Jensen ripped the headphones from his head and tossed them across the room. They hit the wall with a crackling thud and Beka watched the black plastic pop off the band and shatter. 

He spun away from the microphone and raked a hand through his hair, aggravated at himself and the time they were wasting. His face was red, his jaw tense, eyes wild. 

Beka leaned on her guitar and watched him pace. He could spend hours like this, running his mind through every tiny mistake, desperate to perfect each note. She sighed. 

“It’s not as bad as you think,” she told him. 

Jensen laughed bitterly as he kicked at the broken headphones. “Yeah. Right. Did you go deaf in the last ten minutes?”

She could tell they wouldn’t get anywhere with him throwing a fit. She huffed her cheeks up and let the air out in a half whistle. “Jack?” She waved at the sound engineer watching them through the big glass window. “Wanna take five?” 

A thumbs up appeared and Jack left them alone.

Carefully, she set her guitar on the stand and hopped down from the stool. Barefoot, she padded over the worn Oriental rug to the door and turned the big dial next to it. The overhead lights dimmed and Jensen froze in place. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m giving you a break.” 

He balled his fists and rolled his shoulders. His body was tense; his blood pressure was high. “I don’t need a break,” he growled. “I need this fucking song to be done!” 

Rebekah wet her lips and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting. 

“It sounds like shit! Everything I fucking do sounds like shit!” 

She kicked her right foot back and leaned against the door, watching. 

“Fifteen fucking takes and it’s still wrong! The whole fucking thing is wrong!” He threw a punch at nothing, expending a surge of rageful energy that had collected in his bicep. “This is pointless!” 

“I don’t think it’s pointless.” She kicked off the door and took a step into the room. “I think it sounds great so far.” 

Jensen looked up at the dark ceiling and sighed. He waved her away, annoyed. “You don’t get it.”    

“I don’t get what? That you’re a perfectionist and it’s giving you an ulcer?” 

His jaw twitched. Green eyes pierced through her like daggers. “You don’t understand what kind of pressure I’m under all the fucking time! It has to be perfect! I have to be perfect!” 

His voice echoed through the studio but did not escape the expertly crafted walls. It simply bounced back and slapped him in the face. 

Beka sucked her teeth and took another step closer. “You’re right.” 

He balked; eyes narrowing at her. 

“I don’t understand what it’s like,” she went on. “I don't know what it’s like to spend every day working my ass off and every weekend being talked at, screamed at, and touched by strangers.” 

Jensen sighed heavily and shook his head, annoyed. “That’s not-” 

She kept going. “I don’t know what it’s like to absorb a million camera flashes or hear my name said over and over.”

“I don’t mean it like that-” 

“I don’t understand what you go through, Jensen.”

He softened. His shoulders dropped, his hands unclenched, his breath slowed. He closed his eyes.

“But I do understand what I hear in your voice.” She finished closing the space between them, standing only inches away. “I understand what I feel when I read your words.” 

He shook his head, still unbelieving and frustrated. 

Her voice dropped low. “I know what I know when I’m with you.” 

Jensen opened his eyes and met her gaze.

“And what I know is that you are… amazing and talented and truly… incredible.” She smiled and he dropped his head, too tired to fight and needing every word. “You awe me every day, Jensen. Every part of you is simply incredible.” She lifted her hand to his chin and drew his face up to hers. “And if you want to spend the next… forty years getting these songs out of your beautiful mind… Spend a decade recording them over and over again until they’re painfully perfect, I’ll be here at your side until you’re satisfied.” 

A peaceful warmth washed over him and she could see it in his eyes. He grinned. “Until I’m satisfied?” 

She rolled her eyes at his teasing joke. “I should really choose my words better.” 

Jensen reached for her. “I think you chose them perfectly…” His big hand wrapped around the nape of her neck and he pulled her close. 

His lips were cracked and dry but his tongue was hot, wet; hungry. She sighed into him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, digging her fingers into the soft black cotton. 

“You’re fucking amazing,” she whispered as he walked her backward; his long strides forcing her to keep up until her back was flush against the wall. “So fucking amazing.” 

He licked into her mouth, dragged his hand down her body; rocked his hips against hers. She tugged at his hair and gasped as his teeth scraped over her pulse. 

“We shouldn’t do this here…” 

“I know…” Jensen sucked a mark behind her ear. 

She shivered at the hard pull of his lips. “Maybe… just a quick break…” 

He never slept much. 

The hours just before dawn were the worst. He’d lay awake staring at the clock on his phone, begging the minutes to pass or the kiss of sleep to return. Too early to move, too anxious to rest. He still craved those midnight masses in her arms, those nights when nothing mattered but her breath on his skin and her lips at his ear. Her sacred whispers too blasphemous to repeat but too beautiful to forget. 

Some nights he would wash his face in the blue light of his screen, scroll until he saw her face, and then hug the phone to his chest. Could she feel him across the miles? Did she know she was on his mind? 

A gentle buzz woke her, the vibration of her nightstand made her move. 

Blinking into two a.m. darkness, Rebekah grabbed her cell and swiped quickly to shut off the alert. Her husband snored beside her, halfway across the world in their king-sized bed. 

The light burned her eyes but the message soothed them instantly. 

‘You up?’

Jensen. She smiled and rolled onto her side with the phone clutched tight. 

‘Kinda. why are you? Can’t sleep?’

‘My head’s too busy. Can I call?’

She closed her eyes and took a breath. Hubby shifted in his sleep. 

‘Yeah. lemme go outside’

‘Meet you there.’

Carefully, Jensen slipped out of bed and crept down the hall. He avoided the creaky spots on the floor and held his breath when he passed the twins’ bedroom. 

The night air was warm and he sat on the patio, staring at the moon’s reflection on the surface of the swimming pool, wondering how cold the water was. He thought to stick his toes in, but before he could move, his phone vibrated. 

“Hey.” 

Beka exhaled a sweet breath into the phone. All nerves and worry faded when she heard his voice. It was always like a blanket around her, warm and safe. “Hey, Jen.” She sat on the back deck under the stars, a bit chilly but it felt good. “What’s got your brain running around?” 

 “Oh, you know. Work. Life. Wife.” 

She laughed softly. “Yeah, I get that.” 

The quiet between them was never hard, the distance never awkward. Just hearing her breathing was enough for him. His gentle hums made her smile. 

“Wrote a new song this morning,” he told her. “One of those ‘in the shower’ moments.”

“I don’t think you can put out a song about jerking off in the shower, sir.” 

He laughed. She could see it in her head: that brilliant smile, his head tipping back, his shoulders quaking. 

“Not like that!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Dirty old man…” 

“So what, you never jerk off in the shower?” 

Her cheeks burned. “I’ve been known to rub one… or two… out in the shower, yeah.” 

He licked his lips, intrigued. “And what do you think about when you do?” 

“You.” 

Jensen shifted, unconsciously spreading his bowed legs. “Oh yeah?”

“Generally, yeah.” 

“What are you wearing right now?” 

She chewed her lip and slid down in her chair. “PJs.” 

He laughed. “Tell me.” 

“Um… burgundy tank top…” 

“Nice… and? Shorts?”

“Nope.”

“Those cute lacy panties I like?” 

She clenched her thighs. “Perhaps…” 

He hummed in lustful approval. 

Beka ran a hand slowly down her body. “And you?” 

“Boxers. Blue stripes.”

“Nothing else?” 

He laughed quietly. “It’s warm here.” 

She moaned. “I wish it was warm here.” Her fingertips grazed her nipple. “I wish you were here.”

Jensen sighed. “Me too, Bek…” 

They watched the sky slowly lighten. He caught the rays first and then a few moments later they hit her face. The hour had come to tear them apart, but neither wanted to move. It was too easy to keep talking, too perfect to give up. 

“The man will be up soon,” Beka said finally. She let out a heavy exhale and sat up, pushing her bare feet onto the old wooden planks. “I should go.” 

“Not yet…” 

Jensen closed his eyes against the light and pictured himself next to her. The pink sunrise glowing on her pale skin, the June breeze lifting her long hair. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to sweep the hair off her shoulder and kiss her there, to pull her close and spend the morning in her arms.

“Jen- you gotta go, too. She’ll be up any minute.” 

He swallowed down the fantasy and huffed. “Yeah… I know.” 

“I’ll see you soon.” 

He smiled sadly. “Not soon enough…” 

His wife was still out cold when he laid back down. Jensen closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand down his face. Calls weren’t enough. Texts were pointless. He needed to see her, needed to feel that rush again. 

Beka rolled toward the middle of the bed and tucked her phone beneath the pillow. None-the-wiser, her husband breathed deeply and woke, stretching his left arm out to catch a hug. She curled into him and won a kiss atop her head. 

“Morning, Princess.” 

She breathed back a tear. “Morning.” 

She always loved the little bottles of alcohol they hand out on airplanes. A few sips of vodka did wonders on a flight from coast to coast. A mini bottle of Jameson masked turbulence enough for the clouds to rattle through the plane without invoking any fear. A nip of Bacardi helped lull her to sleep when the cabin was freezing and her neighbor sat too close. 

Tiny bottles of magic. Magic that made long journeys seem a little shorter, a little easier. They helped lessen the guilt that struggled to hold her back, the pain of wanting, and the fear of the eternal end.

The carpet was thin but her ass was numb. She sat on the floor, leaning against his hotel room door, lamenting her choices and hating her circumstances.  

There hadn’t been nearly enough booze on the flight to Chicago to erase the sins graffitied on her heart, but there had been a liquor store. 

She took a long drink straight from the bottle and hummed as the sweet honey glaze of the whiskey coated her tongue. The sting was long gone. She swallowed hard as the elevator door opened and looked up. 

Through the drunken blur, she saw him. Boots first. The brown ones with two-inch heels, muted gold rivets, and tan laces. The cuffs of his dark jeans were turned up at the ankle and she followed them up his bowed legs. She’d know those legs anywhere. He was so perfectly imperfect that it made her want to cry. Everything about him was wrong in some little way, but it all came together in a heavenly masterpiece. Crooked nose, rocket-fin ears, bowed legs- he was beautiful. 

Tears welled at the thought and Beka wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. 

Jensen stopped a few feet away, eclipsing the light above and casting a shadowy figure over her face. “Waiting for someone?” 

She laughed despite the tears and cleared her throat, trying to hide the emotions running rampant. “Well, I was supposed to meet this guy for dinner but apparently his photo ops ran long and he didn’t feel the need to call and tell me…”

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” He hung his head and sucked at his bottom lip. “Things were crazy today; everything was off schedule. A light popped during solos and the rig almost fell over and crushed Chris and-” 

Beka was staring up at him with disappointment written on her face. He sighed. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She took another drink and shrugged. “Shit happens.” The bottle, half empty, found a nest in the carpet fibers as she dropped it beside her thigh. “What can ya do?” 

“You drink all that yourself?” he asked, crouching down to catch it before it tipped over. 

“Well… yeah.” She sat forward and leaned close. “Ain’t nobody else here, is there?”

He grabbed the neck and she grabbed his wrist, wrapping her fingers around tight. Her bottom lip trembled and a dimple in the center of her chin appeared. She pulled in a deep breath. 

“I really wanted to see you tonight,” she whispered. 

“I’m right here.” 

“You know what I mean!” 

He closed his eyes for a moment as her anger dissipated. She was never mad at him for too long but she needed to let him know she felt slighted. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She nodded. “I know. I am too.” 

Carefully, he took her other hand. He rocked back on his heels and stood up, dragging her with him. She stumbled on a sleeping left foot and fell against him. 

“Oops.” She laughed and wrapped her hand around his neck; nuzzled her lips against his ear. “You caught me… my hero.” 

His laugh tickled her cheek. “You’re very drunk.” 

“No shit.” 

Jensen stepped toward the door and shifted her in his arms while trying to dig the key from his back pocket. Beka held on as if the floor would open up and swallow her whole if she let go. 

“Oh! I got you a present,” she said, remembering the tiny plastic bottle in her pocket. “Lady on the plane gave me gin.” 

“You hate gin.” 

The lock clicked and he opened the door. 

“I know. That’s why I saved it for you and your stupid negronis.” She let him lead her into the dark room and stood still while he flipped on the light. “I know you like those things. I don’t know why. They taste like shit and-”

His hands were on her in an instant, knocking the words from her mind as he spun her around. 

“Please shut up and kiss me,” he begged. “I miss you.” 

“But I’m drunk,” she reminded him, smiling in his arms as his fingertips brushed the bangs out of her eyes. 

Green eyes lured her in, plump lips sealed the deal. 

“I don’t care.”

Sometimes he had trouble remembering. 

One moment, he would be flooded with memory- the taste of cold coffee and stale cigarettes in the diner that first week; the feel of the old, ratty air conditioner blasting down on the back of his neck. The accidental touch of her knuckles as he reached across the table to steal her pen. He’d smile, breathe deep, and linger in the phantom feelings. Then it would all fade. He’d struggle to bring back the taste of her skin, the sound of her humming harmony to his melody. She was slowly fading and he hated it. 

He kept her words in his wallet: a worn slip of paper from the register covered in her handwriting. The first song they’d written together seemed to come so easily in that little diner in the middle of the night. Words and a feeling. Rhymes and a shy smile. 

He missed every part of it. 

The brewery was buzzing with excitement. The crowd was grooving; the band was on fire. 

Jensen clung to the mic stand as if it were the only thing keeping him standing. His knuckles were pale, his cheeks burned bright red.

Rebekah kept her eyes glued to him, ignoring the crowd and the friendly faces that stood out. She watched his stage fright slowly subside as the audience accepted his new songs; saw his shoulders relax and his smile soften. His voice grew stronger and his confidence soared. 

When he looked over his shoulder, she was there just like she had promised. He smiled when their gaze met, so ready to sink into the rich brown of her eyes, the warmth of her body, the taste and smell of her. She blushed and hit a wrong note, her fingers sliding off the strings, distracted by his freckled beauty. 

He had his brewery ballcap on backward and she wanted to reach out and whack the bill, flip it off his head, and let his long hair cascade into his face. She wanted to grab him by the collar and tug his lips down to hers. To crush her guitar between their bodies and lick deep into his mouth, suck gently on his plump lips, take his breath away. 

Applause broke her fantasy and she ended the song with a dramatic sweep over the strings. 

Jensen gave the crowd a little wave and a humble nod. “Thanks so much, guys. Thank you!” He paused and took in the room. The energy was high and so was he, drunk on beer and the moment. He sighed heavily and happily. “Thank you so much for coming out tonight and helping me launch this album. I’m really proud of it and I hope you like it.” 

A pop filled the room and he bit his lip at the adulation. 

Beka was close to tears as she watched him. Incredibly proud. Perfectly amazed. 

“So, uh, I want to just take a second to thank my writing partner…” He turned and waved at Beka who winked in return. “Rebekah Jordan, everybody! Doing everything behind the scenes- writing, singing harmonies, playing drums… badly.” 

“Hey! I told you I wasn’t a drummer!” she shouted back. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me you were so bad!”

She shot up two middle fingers and Jensen smirked. A spark of clear arousal struck them both and he quickly looked away, back to the crowd. 

He cleared his throat. “And- my beautiful wife! Thank you for all the support and inspiration.” He gestured to the back of the room where she stood behind the bar. Arms crossed in obvious displeasure, she simply nodded at her husband. 

“Anyway- this is another new one. Hope you like it…” 

Four simple chords rippled through the air and Jensen closed his eyes. He held the mic in both hands and let his voice float like honey, covering every person there until the audience was swaying in time with the band. 

“So long gone, too far away, 

Spent my life on the road.

Whipping wind and freezin’ rain,

Crossing the river as it overflowed…”

Jensen looked back at her, singing their words and missing her touch. 

She lifted her head to find the microphone, ready to sing behind him, but she caught his eye and gasped. He was too beautiful. He was staring too hard. 

“But ever since I met you I’ve been home.

Doesn’t matter where on earth I roam.

All I have to do is reach out for your hand and I’m

Right back where I’m meant to be…” 

She kept his bandana. Even though she couldn’t look at it, couldn’t touch it without breaking down, it held too much of their time together to get rid of.

The black fabric was soft from years of use, the white design dingy and nearly see-through. It had collected his sweat and wiped away her tears, even staunched the blood when she’d scraped her knee outside of that bar in Pittsburgh. He kept it tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, ready to dab barbeque sauce from his lip or dry a spot for her to sit after a rainstorm. 

It lived forever in a box hidden in the back of her closet somewhere between her winter boots and pants that fit two sizes ago. 

She never took it out, but she knew it was there. 

Ten shows under their belts. Ten small stages knew their chemistry; heard their voices mixing like cream and sugar. Perfectly blended, perfectly in sync, perfectly unable to keep their smiles casual or their eyes from lingering. 

When they sang together it was like there was no one else in the room. Jensen would lose himself in the melody, letting her voice wrap around his mind and heart. She’d be stuck staring at his hands so tightly wound around the mic stand, or the way he leaned back to hit a high note. They were too comfortable with each other, too obviously connected. 

For an hour and a half each night, they were in their own little world. 

For hours after they’d lay in each other’s arms, watch the sun come up over a different city, and share their dreams. 

One Saturday night after a show Rebekah was lingering around backstage, feeling a little out of place around the actors there for the convention. She knew them all from afar but never dared to mingle. It felt strange to insert herself into his life in that way. She was only there for the music, only there for Jensen. 

He was off talking to a short blonde, laughing and enjoying the buzz from being on stage all night. Now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of Beka on the sidelines and smile that secret smile he saved only for her. Every time, it made her heart swell and her cheeks burn. She’d wink back and look away, embarrassed by her girly reaction. 

“Great job out there.” 

She turned to find a shirtless Matt Cohen redressing in front of her as if to impress her. She clicked her tongue and looked around him back at the group. 

“You too.” 

He grinned and followed her line of sight back to Jensen. A knowing smirk turned his lips. 

“You and Ackles are really getting along, huh?” He moved to stand beside her, his back to the wall, mirroring her stance. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s a great guy.”

“The album is really good,” he went on. “That one song- what is it? Something about the beach?”

“‘The Salt on Your Skin’?” 

He nodded and kicked a foot back against the cement wall. “Yeah. That one. Really nice.”

“Thanks.” 

“Very romantic.” 

He looked over at her. His green eyes were pale but intrusive. She shivered. 

“I suppose,” she replied, trying to hide the nerves growing in her gut. “It is a love song, so…” 

Matt tongued his cheek. “Very… personal, I think…” His eyes flew to Jensen and back again. 

Rebekah tensed up and took a step away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You do. We all do.” He shrugged and pushed off the wall. “But whatever. Have fun just- be careful.” 

Her stomach dropped as he walked away. His warning wasn’t a surprise; she’d been getting looks for weeks, but hearing it out loud, knowing that people knew- she couldn’t stop the dark shadow of guilt from creeping over her face. 

When Jensen finally broke free of the conversation, she was gone. 

The back of the building was quiet and empty. Fans spilled out around the front, milling about and filling the bright walkways with laughter and excitement. 

Rebekah stood in the dark. 

She closed her ears to the distant noise, replaying Matt’s condemning words and hating herself. If he knew, then everyone knew. 

Everyone. 

Since they’d debuted the album, fans had been whispering online, sharing theories and conspiracies, pointing to lyrics and photographs, spinning a web of fantasy around her and Jensen. Mostly, they’d been wild, elaborate stories about a house at the beach, messy divorces, and a secret love child. 

She barely paid attention, but there was a hint of truth in every speculation, and she knew what had to be done before things got out of hand. 

Lifting her face to the pale half-moon, Rebekah let a tear slip and she closed her eyes. She saw her husband’s face in her mind, heard his voice, and felt his touch. She saw his wife’s hateful stare, her accusing gestures, her utter avoidance. 

Things had gone too far. 

“Bek?” 

She sighed. “Yeah?” 

The security door shut behind him. “You OK?”

She shrugged. 

He moved to her side. “What happened? You just left.” 

“I don’t know. I just… needed some air.” 

Jensen reached for her hand and she flinched away. 

“Did something happen? Cohen say something to you?” The worry in his voice made her turn to face him. His brow was creased, his lips tight. 

“He did,” she confessed, “but it doesn’t matter. It’s…” Her throat grew tight, her eyes stung. 

“Tell me.” 

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to do this right now. Not here.” 

Jensen leaned in. Worry warped his face, thickened his voice. “Do what? Beka- what happened?” 

Her heart ached. “We happened.” 

The meaning struck him in the chest but he refused to give it attention. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Rebekah spun away and hid her face. 

“Hey, come on-” 

“Us! Jensen. Us. We happened.” She dropped her hands and took a shaky breath. “We happened and everyone fucking knows.” 

Stunned into silence, Jensen dropped his hands to his sides and stared at the light post across the alley. 

“We have to stop,” she whispered, praying the wind would carry the words away and he wouldn’t hear it. 

He heard it. He felt it.

“No.” 

She turned back, brown eyes flooded with tears, pale skin glowing under the moon. “We have to. It’s gone too far and if… if some random soap actor who doesn’t even know me can tell… then everyone can. Everyone.”

Jensen refused her logic. “No. No one knows. No one’s said anything-” 

“Matt did. And who would say something to you? ‘Hey, Jensen, long time no see! I hear you’re fucking your writing partner. How’s that going?’”

He sighed. His shoulders dropping as reality crushed down on him. “OK, so… maybe some people know but that doesn’t mean we have to stop. I don’t want to.” 

A deep breath calmed her tears. “Jensen…” She stepped up to him and stared into the green eyes she dreamt of every night. “If this continues, there will be consequences. Real fucking problems. Your career, our families… it will all fall apart.”

He shook his head. Silent. Unyielding. 

“If we keep going… if we…” She knew what she had to do even though it would rip her in half. “Everyone is gonna get hurt if we fall in love.” 

He winced. 

She swallowed hard. 

He opened his eyes. “If?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “If.” 

His jaw clenched and he held back a tear. “And if… I’m already in love?” 

It felt as if her heart would stop right there and she’d fall dead at his feet. She cleared her throat, pushing all the pain aside. It had to be done and he wasn’t going to do it. 

“Then this will hurt even more.” 

His tears fell and she held her breath. Everything inside told her to shut up, to take it back, to ignore everything and hold on to him. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “Don’t do this.” 

She dug her nails into her right palm, a bit of pain to keep her on track. She shook herself and put on a mask of indifference. 

“Come on, Jensen. This was never going to be anything more than a dalliance.” 

He stiffened. “A dalliance?” 

“A mistake.”

“You are not a mistake.” Anger lifted his voice. “This was not a mistake.” He pointed at her and then clutched his chest. “Not you and me. Never.” 

Unable to think of anything else, any way to get him to understand, she turned away and wave him off. 

“Go home to your wife.” 

Desperate, Jensen rushed at her, grabbed her upper arm, and swung her around. Her long hair whipped around them both and she nearly lost her grip. 

“Tell me that you don’t love me,” he said. 

“Jensen, stop it.” 

“No!” His fingers tightened. “Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll walk away right now.”

Her jaw dropped but the words refused to come.

“See? You can’t say it because it’s not true! You love me. You do.” He was insistent and breaking, so close to losing it all. 

“Jensen…” 

He grit his teeth, refusing to let her go. “You do. Say it. Tell me you’re in love with me, Beka.”

Shaking, she held his gaze and exhaled a deep breath. 

“I don’t love you.” 

It crackled through the air like lightning and she thought for sure they’d both be struck down.

His hand fell from her arm. He could see the lie written on her face, feel the pain pulsing off of her skin. “I don’t believe you.” 

Slowly, Rebekah pushed up on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. She held them there for longer than she should have, breathing in one last breath, savoring one last taste of him.

Without another word, she turned to leave, ready to step into the darkness and leave him alone to pick himself up off of the ground. 

Jensen dragged his hands through his hair as he spun around, confused, hurt, and on the edge of insanity. After everything they’d been through, all the love they shared, all the promises they whispered in the night, he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t watch her leave without a fight.  

“Fuck you.” 

The words cut right through her and she froze on the spot. 

“Fuck you for doing this!” His shout rang out and shook her to the core. “You’re breaking us. You’re breaking me!”

She tried to stay strong, appeal to his logical brain. “You’ll be fine,” she said calmly. “Your wife loves you. Your family loves you. You’ll be fine.” 

He took a step forward but held himself back from rushing at her and demanding she stay. His voice softened. The tears fell heavy down his face. 

“Please don’t do this.” 

She turned back and her heart shattered. “Jensen, please-”

“Don’t end this,” he begged. “You bring something out of me. Something I haven’t felt in so long. Maybe ever. You can’t tell me that you don’t feel the same. I know you do. We’re better together.”

It took everything in her to stay standing. She wanted to run into his arms and scream her apology, take every word back and shove them into the depths of their forgotten memory, never to resurface.  

“I do,” she said softly. “But it’s… It can’t go on. I’m sorry.” 

His weight shifted. He started to go to her. 

“What am I going to do without you?” 

She met him halfway. 

“Write me a song.” She smiled sadly. “Write me a song, just for me. And whenever you play it, I’ll know you’re thinking about me.” Her shoulders shook. “And… that will have to be enough. For both of us.” 

The distance between them faded and Jensen lifted her chin with two tender fingers; kissed her lips with undying passion. She lay her hand on the nape of his neck and held on, saying ‘I love you’, saying goodbye. 

He pressed his forehead against hers and clutched her hand between them, locking it to his heart. 

“Every word I ever write will be for you,” he whispered. “Every song I sing… will be yours.”

It was never a mistake, not to him. 

It never felt wrong when he was with her. 

When the days were long and he felt like crumbling he’d pull out that old guitar pick and run his fingers over the dents her teeth had made. When the work was hard and his mind was a mess, he’d read her words and remember the way they were then. 

So lost in love. 

So wrapped up in the melody. 

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@alwaystiredandconfused @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @impalaspixie @jackles010378 @kazsrm67 @k-slla @leigh70 @lunaroserites @lyarr24 @nancymcl @nix-rose @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @rosecentury @sexyvixen7 @suckitands33 @the-wounded-healer05 

[maybefanficting]

Palm Tree Magnet

pairing: no pairing

summery: There's a polaroid on the Winchester's fridge. No one's ask about it.

word count: 406

characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

A/N: Unfortunately for y'all, I can't resist the mention of polaroid. Again, I am sorry to inflict this onto the internet.

challenge: Summer Snapshot Challenge 2025 by @ambiguous-avery

There’s a palm tree magnet on the fridge in the bunker. It has one job, and one job only: holding a single polaroid. It’s not decorative, not sentimental. Not officially. But touch it, and watch the mood shift. Ask about it, and you’ll get nothing but vague grunts and quick deflections.

If you’re quiet enough, though, if you happen to be in the kitchen at just the right time, you might catch it ... Dean’s smile, quiet and crooked when he opens the fridge. Sam’s silent chuckle, half an exhale, when his eyes land on it by accident.

The photo isn’t special. Just one overexposed square with white borders. No date, no writing. You know... just a polaroid. Like any other.

Dean is mid-motion — caught between catching or missing a hot pink frisbee. His floral swim trunks are blinding, his grin wide, wild. He looks ridiculous. He looks happy. Sam’s already lost it, flat on his back in the sand, laughing like he means it. Their legs are dusted with dry sand. The sky is a blue so sharp it hums. The sun burns loud in the top corner.

It’s nothing when you look at it. It’s everything when they look at it.

If you stand there long enough, you might swear you hear Sam’s laugh. Might feel sand under your nails. Get a sunburn. The swim trunks are nowhere in the bunker. The frisbee’s long gone.

And if you stand there just a little longer, the questions start creeping in. Who took the photo? When was it? Did they take a day off, a week? Were they between cases, or chasing something with salt and iron? Was that one of those strange, rare days where they were just… people?

It doesn’t matter. Not really. What matters is that the photo exists. That they kept it. That it made it back.

You wouldn’t guess the story behind it. Nothing dramatic. Nothing special. A woman took that photo, she snapped it without them noticing, caught in their own laughter. She saw something in the frame. Not just the colors, but the feeling. She offered them the photo later. Said it looked like it belonged to them, not her. Dean didn’t flirt. Didn’t crack a joke. Just… took it. Touched by the existence of it.

And now it’s here, held up by a ridiculous palm tree magnet. Sam bought it. A small, defiant proof that joy happened.

[maybefanficting]

It was bugging me to not have his full military service record and I was *sure* there was a better shot of his file somewhere in the episode.

Bonus: we get the awards and commendations.

EXHIBITS “COWBOY” BEHAVIOR

[maybefanficting]

Hoedance

pairing: no pairing summery: Let's dance. word count: 366 characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, unnamed female OC (POV character), mention of Jessica A/N: Unfortunately for y'all, I can't resist the mention of polaroid. Again, I am sorry to inflict this onto the internet. Also: hoedance is totally a real word now. Don’t fact-check me. challenge: Summer Snapshot Challenge 2025 by @ambiguous-avery

Summer doesn’t stop the hunt. Monsters don’t take a break. But for one night, they pretend they do.

Somewhere down in Florida, the beach party’s already going strong, fairy lights between palm trees, music crackling through tiki bar speakers. The coastal equivalent of what she calls hoedance—half hoedown, half flirt-fueled summer fair.

The shorts weren’t suppose to leave her bag. Mid-thigh, cuffed, olive green. Deep pockets. She loves them. Her skin's sun-warmed, and her shoulders glow. Sand between her toes. Confidence smells like sunscreen, saltwater, and monoi.

Dean’s half-lounging against a driftwood bench, eyeing the crowd. She strolls up with a grin, her hair damp and curling from the sea breeze. “Come on. I wanna dance.” He gives her a once-over. “Shorts?” She shoves her hands in the pockets, shows a leg. “Nice, right?”

It hits him then, the tan lines, the shimmer of sun on skin, the fact that she’s not in bunker-worn jeans. She’s free. “Cute,” he shrugs, playing it off. “Not afraid I’ll step on your foot?” “Sand’s soft,” she counters. “No excuses.”

He stands, and the music pulls them in like the tide. They stumble into rhythm on the warm sand, laugh at the DJ’s bad transitions, let the sticky heat and beer-glow fill their heads.

When he drifts off in his flowered shirt toward a girl sipping from a hollowed-out pineapple, she keeps dancing. I’m dancing with myself croons Billy Idol over steel drums and static.

Later, Sam joins her at the edge of the floor, brushing sand off his calves. Dean is twirling someone with sun-bleached hair on something older, bouncier, trumpets blaring. The waves behind them whisper against the shore.

“What?” she asks, catching the look on Sam’s face. “Jess and I took swing lessons once,” he says, watching the dancers. She raises an eyebrow. “You’re full of surprises.” He chuckles. “Come on, then,” she says, pulling him by the wrist. “Let’s do her proud.”

They trip through a swing rhythm under the string lights, beer in their breath and joy in their bones. His hand still holds hers when the lights above flicker like lazy fireflies.

One night. No monsters. No blood. Summer, for a moment, is kind.